Adaobi Nwaubani - I Do Not Come to You by Chance

All of a sudden, as if one driver were controlling all five cars, the convoy stopped just outside the gates. The tinted window of the middle jeep slid down. Uncle Boniface’s head popped out. He looked back towards the gate, pointed at me, and shouted.

‘Security! Allow that boy to go and wait for me inside my office! Right now!’

‘Yes, sir! OK, sir!’ the gateman replied.

The others waiting by the gate rushed towards the car. Cash Daddy’s convoy zoomed on.

Inside the main building, the receptionist was chomping gum with wild movements of her mouth, as if she had three tongues.

‘Please have a seat,’ she said, and opened a gigantic refrigerator. ‘Would you like something to drink?’

I looked at the assortment of drinks stacked into every single compartment.

‘No, thank you,’ I replied. I did not want to give the impression that I was from a home where we did not have access to such goodies.

There were four girls and three men waiting inside, some variety of drink or the other on a stool beside each of them. One man was gulping down a can of Heineken while his eyes were fixed on the wide television screen that covered almost half of the opposite wall. The television was set to MTV. Some men, whom the screen caption described as Outkast, were making a lot of noise. Despite the boulder of gum in her mouth, the receptionist was noising along. Incredibly, she seemed to know all the words.

Soon, a fresh bout of commotion heralded The Return of Cash Daddy. As soon as he stepped into the office, one of the dark-suited men produced a piece of cloth from somewhere and started wiping Cash Daddy’s shoes. Uncle Boniface used the brief pause to look round at those waiting for him. He saw the man drinking the beer and glared.

‘What are you doing here? Haven’t I finished with you?’

The man stood up and approached him. Uncle Boniface turned away and pointed at one of the girls.

‘Come,’ he said.

She rose smugly and stiletto-ed along behind him. My uncle zoomed through a set of doors which led further inside the office. His jacket had ‘Field Marshal’ emblazoned in bold, gold-coloured letters on the back. Without looking back or addressing anybody in particular, he shouted: ‘Get that man out of here. Right now!’

Three of the dark-suited escorts immediately went into action. On his way out, the man remembered to grab his Heineken and bring it along.

Fortunately, it was not a ‘first come, first served’ affair. The receptionist announced that Cash Daddy was ready to see me right after the girl came out grinning. One of the dark-suited men escorted me to the same doors through which my uncle had disappeared. We walked down a narrow corridor and stopped at the last door on the right. Inside, the man who had sat in the Land Cruiser with my uncle stood up from behind a computer screen, tapped lightly on an inner door and pushed me inside.

The office was vast and uncluttered. There was a refrigerator in a corner, a large mahogany shelf filled with books that looked like they had never been read, a wide mahogany cabinet that housed several exotic vases, various awards that extolled my uncle’s financial contributions to different organisations, and a bronze clock. Stealing most of the attention in the room, a large, framed photograph of Uncle Boniface hung centred on the wall. In it, he was wearing a long-sleeved isi-agu traditional outfit and a george wrapper. He had a beaded crown on his head, a horsetail in his right hand, and a leather fan in his left. Most likely, the photograph was taken during the conferment of a chieftaincy title by some traditional ruler or other who wanted to show appreciation for Uncle Boniface’s contributions to his community. Cash Daddy was seated behind the mahogany desk in the centre of the room, which held three telephone sets, a computer, and a Bible.

‘Good afternoon, Uncle Boniface,’ I said.

‘Kings, Kings,’ he beamed. ‘You’re still the same… you haven’t changed at all. I had to rush out like that because a girlfriend of mine is being chased by a student.’

He swivelled his grand leather chair from one 180-degree angle to the other.

‘I heard that he was in her house so I wanted to go and make some noise. Let him know who he’s dealing with. Any child who claims that he knows as many proverbs as his father should be prepared to pay as much tax as his father does. Is that not so?’

He swivelled to the left.

‘Is that not so?’

‘Yes.’

He swivelled to the right.

‘Me, I don’t play games. I went there with my convoy so that the small boy will be afraid and think twice. Me, I don’t believe in film tricks; I believe in real, live action. If he knows what’s good for him, he had better clear off. How are you?’

Before I could answer, he stopped swivelling and screamed.

‘Aaaaargh!’

I was jolted.

‘What is that on your legs?’

Involuntarily, I hopped from one foot to the other and looked downwards. I did not notice anything strange.

‘What’s that you’re wearing on your legs?’

Again, I looked at my feet.

‘Are those shoes?’ He frowned and looked worried. ‘I hope you didn’t tell any of the people outside that you’re my brother? I just hope you didn’t.’

I stared back at him and down at my feet again. The shoes were a gift from Ola for my twenty-second birthday – one of the few items that had come into my possession in a brand new state. As yet, I had never questioned their respectability.

‘Protocol Officer!’ he yelled.

I was jolted again. It sounded as if he were summoning someone from the next street. The man in the outer office appeared.

‘Get this man out of here!’

‘Yes, sir,’ Protocol Officer replied.

My important mission was about to be botched!

‘Uncle Boniface, please,’ I begged. ‘I just came to talk to you about-

‘Get out of my office! Protocol Officer, take this man away.

Make sure he’s wearing new shoes before bringing him back. Go!’

The man led me out and handed me to one of the dark-suited men, who accompanied me into a bright yellow Mercedes-Benz SLK with number plate ‘Cash Daddy 17’. We drove swiftly to a nearby shop that had a diverse stock of men’s shoe brands. After politely declining several of my escort’s recommendations, I finally made my pick. They had one of the lowest price tags of all the shoes in the shop, but they were probably the most civilised. Unostentatious, respectable, gentlemanly. I slipped my feet into the pair of black Russell & Bromley shoes. Honestly, there are shoes and there are shoes. As I tried them on, it felt as if dainty female fingers were massaging my feet. A revolution had taken place.

My dark-suited escort paid for the goods while I cast my old pair into the sleek box from whence the new ones had come. Back at the office, my uncle inspected my latest appearance and nodded his approval.

‘Didn’t you see how your shoes were pointing up as if they were singing the national anthem? Don’t ever come to my office again looking like that. A fart becomes a stench only when there are people around. You can afford to be wearing those types of shoes in other places but you can’t wear them around me. Do you know who I am?’

I apologised profusely and promised that I would never try it again.

‘Have you had something to drink?’

‘No, I’m OK, thank you.’

Suddenly, a strange tune pierced the air. My uncle pulled out a metallic handset from his jacket pocket and looked at the screen before answering.

‘Speak to me!’ he bellowed.

I admired the cellular phone shamelessly. Mere men could not afford any of these satellite devices; they were the exclusive possession of Nigeria ’s rich and prosperous.