I Do Not Come to You by Chance - By Adaobi Tricia Nwaubani Page 0,84
to eyeball. Not only was Abuja the Federal Capital Territory and the new seat of government, it was probably the most expensive city in Nigeria. Whenever the masses complained about the astronomical costs of living, the government reminded them that Abuja was not for everyone. The journalists and opinion-eds were still debating who the ‘everyone’ was. Meanwhile, it was probably time for me to speak to an estate agent about buying some nice property here.
The meeting took place in the Ministry of Aviation complex. The real complex. World Bank’s wife number two’s cousin had risen to the level of having a somewhat fancy office in the building, and for a fee, he had agreed to lend it to us.
Cash Daddy was sitting in the executive chair when we entered. He was in a hurry to attend a meeting with the president, he said, but granted us a brief chat before handing over the necessary documents.
‘We’re still expecting the National Assembly to OK the budget,’ the minister said. ‘So, we can’t give any mobilisation fees to any contractors right now.’
Mr Winterbottom assured him that we were loaded enough to go ahead, and he was happy to wait and collect all the outstanding payments later.
‘That might even mean waiting till the completion of the project,’ the minister warned. ‘We might just end up paying the $187 million in full at the same time.’
The sound of $187 million arriving in full does a certain something to the human brain. Mr Winterbottom giggled and hopped about in his seat.
Back at the hotel, I brought out Ozu High Seas letterheaded documents and handed Mr Winterbottom his copies. I guess the Englishman from Uganda and Argentina was not such a mugu after all. He perused each piece of paper intensely, asking me questions from time to time before he was satisfied and finally willing to sign. Then he brought out a sleek pen from his jacket pocket and inserted a signature that looked as if it was in the habit of endorsing billions.
Afterwards, Mr Winterbottom said he wanted to go sightseeing. He had travelled along with his camera. The hired driver said he knew the best places we could see. I agreed to accompany Mr Winterbottom on the tour.
The driver showed us the modern mansions of Asokoro and the scenic streets of Maitama. He pointed out former Head of State General Ibrahim Babangida’s mansion, former head of state General Yakubu Gowon’s mansion, former head of state General Abdulsallam Abubakar’s mansion. He even showed us a house that was built in the shape of an aeroplane. But Mr Winterbottom was not impressed.
‘Where can I get some real good shots?’ he asked. ‘I want some real photos of real Africans.’
I apologised that Abuja was not the right place. There were no bare-bottomed children running around with flies in their nostrils. The driver of the hired car overheard our conversation and chipped in.
‘Oga, e get plenty villages wey dey for around Abuja, If you want, make I take you. Them no dey far at all.’
He took us just fifteen minutes away, to Kikaokuchi village. What I saw was beyond belief. The slum was teeming with real Africans living in real African houses. How could such sordidness be juxtaposed with so much affluence? The villagers gathered and stared at the white visitor in their midst. Mr Winterbottom went around patting shoulders.
‘Bature, bature,’ they whispered excitedly amongst themselves.
After about three hours of babbling with awestruck natives, listening to a bare-bottomed lad playing a bamboo flute, and taking photographs of men drinking fura da nono on raffia mats in front of their shacks, Mr Winterbottom was thirsty for new wine. The driver suggested yet another village that was just twenty minutes away.
‘No, I think we should go back to the hotel,’ I said. I had seen more than enough of Africa for one day.
‘I don’t mind visiting a few more places,’ Mr Winterbottom said. ‘This is really very exciting.’
‘I think we should go back to the hotel,’ I insisted. ‘You know Nigeria is a dangerous place.’ I paused. ‘Especially for a white man.’
That did the trick. He entered the car without another word of protest.
Back at the hotel, the driver nearly zonked out when Mr Winterbottom recompensed him with $100 - a likely approximate of his monthly income in just one day. The man genuflected at least a gazillion times, chanting ‘thank you, Master, thank you, Master’ each time his head arched towards the floor.