I Do Not Come to You by Chance - By Adaobi Tricia Nwaubani Page 0,98

available for use as far as it was free. Andrew’s third suitcase arrived along with his fourth. He gestured to let me know that those were the last. Together, we headed out of the airport with the lackeys pushing along behind us.

Andrew screamed.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

He was feverishly shoving his hands in and out of his trouser pockets like someone having a convulsion.

‘My passport! My US passport! I’m certain it was in this pocket!’

‘When last did you see it?’

‘I had it stamped right there at immigration, then I put it back in my pocket. I remember vividly. It was right here with my boarding pass.’

He convulsed through his pockets again. Still, no passport.

‘It’s gone!’ he announced three times. ‘I had it in this pocket,’ he cried two times. ‘I’m quite certain of that.’

‘You’d better go and report it immediately,’ I advised. If not, a desperate immigrant could be out of the country with that passport on the next flight to the US.

Suddenly, his patriotism changed colour.

‘This country is unbelievable! I haven’t even come in yet and they’ve already stolen my passport!’

His American accent had also vamoosed.

‘Someone probably saw you putting it back in your pocket,’ I said.

‘I just don’t believe this! I’ve been looking forward to coming back home after all these years. I haven’t even been here up to an hour already, and now this!’

How could I abscond when he was in such dire straits? Besides, the petty enmities that exist between one man and another suddenly disintegrate when they are linked with the bond of affliction. Now that Andrew had been initiated into the brotherhood of motherland mishaps, I found myself hating him less. I accompanied him to the security office to make a preliminary report.

‘Ha!’ a potbellied security officer laughed. ‘How could you have done such a thing?’

‘Done what?’

‘Are you stupid? How can you put your passport inside your pocket? American passport for that matter. Why didn’t you put it inside your trousers? Don’t you wear underwear?’

‘Fuck you!’ Andrew exploded.

‘Hey!’ A more gaunt security man threatened him with a raised baton. ‘Do you know who you’re talking to?’

‘Andrew, cool down, cool down,’ I said, hiding my Schadenfreude away.

‘I know my rights! He can’t do anything to me.’

I almost laughed.

Quickly, I stepped in and apologised on his behalf. He was from America; he did not understand. Twenty minutes later, the security officer kindly agreed to forgive.

‘Talk to them politely so that you can get it sorted out soon,’ I said to Andrew. ‘You’ll need a report from them to take to the police.’

Despite all his Masters degrees and PhDs, Andrew took my advice and explained his predicament in meeker tones. The potbellied man assigned a female officer to attend to him. She brought out a form, which Andrew was supposed to fill in.

‘Oga, what did you bring for us from America?’ the female officer tweeted, her fingers still super-glued to the form.

Andrew turned to me with bulging eyeballs and soaring eyebrows. My father never gave bribes, no matter for how long the police detained us at their checkpoints, but what did my father know about survival?

‘Just give her a small tip so that they can treat your matter as urgent,’ I whispered.

‘I can’t believe this . . . I just can’t. Man, this country is seriously fucked up.’

No, this country was not fucked up. It was also not a place for idealising and Auld Lang Syne. Once you faced the harsh facts and learnt to adapt, Nigeria became the most beautiful place in the world.

Thirty-three

If there was a world record for brevity of time spent on grooming, I had just broken it. I sped a comb through my hair while racing downstairs. I was panting when I reached my BMW. Before jumping into the car, I paused and inspected my appearance in the window. I straightened my jacket and adjusted my shirt collar, but all that did not matter. Any outfit that cost an arm and two legs could speak for itself, whether neatened or not.

My cellular phone rang while I was reversing out of the gate. It was Charity.

‘Charity, I’m on my way. I’m on my way. I’m just leaving the house.’

She was relieved.

My sister had rung several times the previous day. She wanted to make sure I would be there early. She wanted to remind me to bring my camcorder along. She wanted me to know where we should all meet up afterwards, just in case we did not get to see her before she