I Do Not Come to You by Chance - By Adaobi Tricia Nwaubani Page 0,94
calculated how many leaps and bounds would get me to the door.
‘Kunta Kinte’s been through a lot,’ he said in a much softer voice. ‘He gets very agitated when I’m not at home. My new wife is really mean to him. She never lets him sleep in our bed.’
I was still clutching my heart between my teeth. My mind was already halfway down the valley of the shadow of death. I recalled all those stories about Americans who suddenly whipped out guns from grocery bags and started shooting everyone in sight. And from what I had seen on television, every American had at least one firearm. What if Mr Hooverson had come along with his gun? Would he shoot me if he happened to find out right here that all this was a scam? Would he shoot himself afterwards or live to tell the story? Would the shooting event make it to CNN or BBC? Would it be on the NTA 9 o’clock news?
What would my mother say when she saw it? I started losing weight right there in my seat.
Mr Hooverson went on to narrate several stories about the dog, describing Kunta Kinte’s good qualities, remembering with tears in his eyes the day he lost him and later found him in the garden shed. I listened on with sweet patience, but in my mind I had started throwing huge boulders at him. At long last, I could take it no more. I had never been one to shine at small talk, but I decided to try.
‘Do you have any children?’ I asked, hoping that this would lead to a more tolerable topic.
‘Kunta Kinte is my only child,’ he replied tenderly. ‘One of the reasons why I’m looking forward to this money coming in is so I can leave him something to live comfortably on even if something was to happen to me. I’m thinking of a trust fund in his name.’
God being so kind, right then, Dr Wazobia rang my cellular phone.
He informed me that the person at the anti-terrorist office was insisting on the complete $15,000 before he could issue the certificate. I threw a tantrum over the phone.
‘What sort of rubbish is this? Mr Hooverson has come all the way from America to help us and now this! Can’t you explain to them that we’ll give it from the one in the trunk?’
I continued the heated talk while Mr Hooverson looked increasingly worried.
‘Let me see what I can do,’ he finally said.
He rang someone in the USA and asked them to wire money, quick. The person appeared reluctant. Mr Hooverson insisted that it was an emergency. After a brief argument, the savage in him burst through the Caucasian coating.
‘Just do it!’ Mr Hooverson howled, punching the arm of his chair until it groaned.
That was one thing I loved about these Yankee Doodles. They had a way of getting things done.
The next few hours were a rush of dramatics. I accompanied the mugu to a nearby cash machine and stood respectfully aside while he punched in his pin. When would this sort of technology reach my dearly beloved Nigeria? These cash machines were like gods standing right there in the streets, answering the cries of the needy at the press of a button.
Dr Wazobia met us up at the hotel lobby. He collected the cash, dashed out again, and returned shortly after with the anti-terrorist certificate. Now we could officially pick up our trunk of millions. We hailed a taxi to the security company. Mr Hooverson knew the address by heart.
The security company office was complete with signboard, reception, and inner office. There was even a Caucasian man and woman in charge of things. Cash Daddy had exhumed this setup from where-I-do-not-know, but it looked perfectly authentic.
Shortly after we arrived, the receptionist ushered us into the inner office.
‘Which one of you is the beneficiary?’ the white man asked.
‘I am,’ the mugu replied.
Mr Hooverson whipped out his navy blue American passport. The white man examined the photo and stared up into Mr Hooverson’s face. He did this at least three more times before he was finally satisfied. Then he unfolded some documents that had been tightly clamped inside his armpit.
‘Could you please sign here,’ he said.
The mugu signed - after perusing carefully - and handed back the documents. The white woman collected the documents, took them away, and returned.
‘Everything seems alright,’ she said. ‘I’ve just spoken to the courier. He’ll be here very soon.’