Adaobi Nwaubani - I Do Not Come to You by Chance

‘Welcome, sir!’ he shouted.

Poverty had a way of sharpening the sense of smell. These sorts of people could sniff out a prospective heavy tipper. I smiled and gave him my passport.

‘Is there anything you’d like us to do for you, sir?’ he asked.

‘No, thank you,’ I replied.

The last time I travelled with Cash Daddy, he had required the immigration officer’s assistance to adjust their stamp so that his passport could read as if he had entered Nigeria on a previous date. These minor peccadilloes were necessary to keep the people at the embassies happy.

The immigration officer finished and held my passport towards me. I took the dark green booklet and sneaked him some Euro notes. Hopefully, the tip was heavy enough to ensure that my face was stamped in his memory for eternity, just in case I needed his help someday.

On my way to baggage collection, I dialled Camille.

‘Kings, Kings! You’re back! I really missed you!’

Camille and I had spent several more nights together since our first meeting. I would ring when I needed her, we would meet at the hotel, and she would leave the following morning. The girl had special ways of helping me forget my sorrows. Come to think of it, I did not even know her surname. But what was the point getting to know everything about a girl, only for her to dump you in the end? With Camille, I was free – free to extract as much pleasure as I wanted from our relationship whenever I wanted. That was the most important thing.

‘Can you meet me later tonight?’ I asked.

‘Sure. What time?’

‘I’m still at the airport. I’ll ring you when I get to Aba and let you know.’

‘I’m really looking forward to seeing you, Kings. I hope you brought back something from Amsterdam for me.’

Even her voice had something mesmerising about it. Was there a certain school where these types of girls went to master their art or was it an inborn talent? No wonder she charged so much. I rammed into someone who had been walking too slowly. He turned. I was about to apologise.

‘Kingsley Ibe!’ he exclaimed.

‘Andrew Onyeije!’

We shook hands.

Andrew and I had competed in a science quiz back in form five. After a tough battle, I had won. Fresh complexion, robust cheeks… he looked very well.

‘So what are you up to these days?’ he asked.

‘I’m based in Aba.’

‘Oh, really? Where do you work?’

‘I’m sort of doing my own thing. I’m into business. Importing and exporting.’

He laughed.

‘What happened? Didn’t you always say you wanted to read Engineering?’

‘Actually, I read Chemical Engineering.’

He laughed again.

‘And now you’re importing and exporting. What was the point of going into sciences if you weren’t intending to use it in the end?’

I tried to smile, but I was not doing it very well.

‘And you?’ I asked. ‘What do you do?’ Perhaps he had developed a contraceptive pill for men.

‘I’m into IT,’ he replied contentedly. ‘I’m based in the States.’

That explained his fresh complexion. The wicked Nigerian sun had not smiled on him for a long time.

‘You know IBM, don’t you?’ he continued. ‘I’m with the head office in New York. I just flew in for my sister’s wedding. I’ll be in Nigeria for just about a week. Then I’ve gotta be back in the States for an important meeting.’

No wonder he could afford to open his mouth and make all sorts of stupid comments. He was so busy munching frankfurters in America, he had probably not yet seen any of the engineers and lawyers and medical doctors who were wearing hunger from head to sole.

‘I’m soooo glad to be back home,’ he went on. ‘The last time I was in Nigeria was ages ago. There’s nothing like being back in your own country, amongst your own brothers and sisters. It’s such a wonderful feeling.’

Together, we stood by the sluggish conveyor belt and waited. Some lackeys promptly arrived beside us with trolleys.

‘I’ve missed Nigeria so much,’ Andrew said.

I pointed out my first suitcase. The lackey rushed to grab it.

‘What and what did you do your Masters in?’ he asked.

‘I haven’t yet done a Masters.’

He gasped.

‘Kingsley Ibe! You don’t have a Masters? I don’t believe it! These days, you can’t move forward in this world without one. I have a Masters in Cyber Informatics from Rutgers, a Masters in Tetrachoric Correlations from Cornell, a Masters in Data Transmogrification from Yale, and next fall, I’ll be starting my PhD with Harvard.’

‘That’s wonderful,’ I said, still struggling to smile.

‘Wonderful?’ He laughed. ‘You’re really cracking me up. My brother at Princeton has seven postgraduate degrees. My cousin at Brown is starting her third PhD soon. Honestly, there are so many great minds in this country. Yet once you mention you’re from Nigeria, all they think about in the States is 419. It’s sad.’

His voice had turned burgundy with nationalistic fervour. I felt like tipping him over a cliff. Were the minds of the 419ers any less great than the minds of the Masters degree and PhD holders? It would have been interesting to see what would have become of his great IBM mind if he had remained here in Nigeria.

Andrew reached for his suitcase. The lackey leapt forward and did the rest.

‘I love Nigeria soooooo much,’ he belched on. ‘Whatever happens, I’m gonna come back here and settle someday. With my family.’

I pointed out my second suitcase. Held hostage by his effusion of nationalism, I could not immediately take my leave. His second suitcase arrived. The hot air merchant was still talking. He talked and talked and talked and talked. With each new word, my dislike for him increased. My guardian angel flapped a wing and caused my cellular to ring. It was Camille.

‘Kings, I’m sorry but something urgent just came up. I won’t be able to see you tonight.’

No way. I really needed her tonight.

‘OK, how about tomorrow? How early can you come over?’

‘I’m sorry, I’m not available tomorrow. I’m not going to be available for the rest of the week.’

I was about to ask where she was going.

‘But I can send you someone else,’ she said.

What? I felt as if I was being rudely awakened from a long and pleasant dream.

‘Kings, would you like me to send someone else?’

Gradually, I came out of my swoon. I hung up. The smoke screen cleared from my mind. Unlike my cellular phone, which belonged to me and me alone, Camille was like a public telephone – 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!’