Adaobi Nwaubani - I Do Not Come to You by Chance

The combined stench of the beggar’s rags and the woman’s egg almost made my intestines jump past my teeth and onto the floor. I was eager for take-off, and hoped that as the car increased velocity, the pressure would force fresh breeze to diffuse the gas chamber at the back.

‘Bring your money!’ the driver hollered, stretching a cracked palm into the car.

I brought out my wallet from my trouser pocket. I shifted the naira notes aside and gazed at the photograph that I carried wherever I went. It was one of Ola and me with our arms completely wrapped around each other at Mr Bigg’s on Valentine’s Day two years ago. The photograph had been shot by one of those pesky, hawker photographers who hung around restaurants and occasions. At first, I was adamant about not paying, even after the photographer had stood begging for about ten minutes. But when I noticed how much Ola appeared to like the picture, I dipped into what I had reserved for cake and ice cream, and paid for the photographs instead.

Another of Ola’s favourites was one that my father had taken when I was three. Ola had asked my mother for the photo during one of her visits.

‘I love the way you look in it,’ she had said. ‘Like a miniature Albert Einstein. Anybody seeing this photograph can tell that you were destined to be a nerd.’

Ola was funny sometimes.

Her third favourite was the one of me holding my rolled up university certificate, wearing my convocation gown and grinning as if I were about to conquer the world. All three photographs were displayed in pretty frames on top of the wooden cupboard beside her bed.

We handed our fares to the driver, who then waited for the little boy to finish unwrapping the diminutive notes and coins which the blind man had extracted from somewhere within the inner regions of his trousers. The boy counted aloud.

‘Five naira… ten naira… ten naira fifty kobo… eleven naira… sixteen naira… twenty naira… twenty naira fifty kobo…’

More than a minute later, he was still several kilometres away from the expected amount. The chomping woman lost her patience.

‘Take this and add to it,’ she said, handing the driver some of her own money to complete their fare.

‘Thank you,’ the boy said.

‘God bless you,’ the beggar added. ‘Your husband and children are blessed.’

‘Amen,’ the woman replied.

‘You people will never lack anything.’

‘Amen,’ the woman replied.

‘You will never find yourself in this same condition I find myself.’

‘Amen.’ This time, it was louder.

‘All the enemies who come against you and your children will come in one way and scatter in seven different directions.’

‘Amen!’ several passengers chanted in an attempt to usurp this most essential blessing for these perilous times.

I wondered why the beggar’s magic words had not yet worked for the beggar himself.

Whenever she knew that I was coming, Ola would dress up and wait on one of the concrete benches in front of her hostel. As soon as she sighted me, she would run to give me a bear hug. If I had surprised her by my visit, as I would today, her face would light up in delight. Then she would yelp and leap and almost overthrow my lean frame with her embrace. Then she would place her face against my cheeks and hold onto me for several seconds. At that moment, I could turn back and go home fully satisfied. The whole trip would have been worth it.

An hour and a half later, the vehicle arrived at the motor park in Owerri. I stopped a little girl who was carrying a tray of imported red apples on her head and bought five of the fattest. Then, I boarded a shuttle bus straight to the university gates and joined the long queue waiting for okada. These commercial motorbikes were the most convenient way to get around, flying at suicidal speed on roads where buses and cars feared to tread, depositing passengers at their very doorsteps. The okada driver that rode me to Ola’s hostel had certainly not been engaged in any form of personal hygiene recently. I held my breath and bore the ride stoically.

Inside Ola’s hostel, I knocked four times, rapidly, like a rent collector. Three female voices chirped in unison.

‘Come in.’

Ola was sitting with some girls in her corner of the room. The girls greeted me, got up, and left. I stood at the door for a while before going to sit beside Ola on the bed. She did not get up. Where were my yelps and my hugs? With bottomless anxiety, I placed the back of my hand on her forehead. Her temperature felt normal.

‘Sweetheart, are you OK?’

She wriggled away from my touch.

‘I’m fine,’ she replied stiffly.

Something must be wrong.

‘Are you sure you’re all right? You look a bit dull.’

‘Kingsley, I said I’m fine.’

I hesitated. Her eyes were blank beneath long, pretty lashes that fluttered like butterfly wings. Her rich cleavage was visible from the top of her camisole, and her bare neck was covered with small beads of perspiration. Suddenly, I wanted to lick her skin. I put my lips to her ear and tickled her lobe with my tongue.

‘Sweetheart, what is bothering you?’ I murmured.

She gave me a light smack in the face and shifted away. With exasperation, she flung her hand in my direction as if swatting a fly.

‘Kingsley, you’re getting on my nerves with all these questions. Can’t you understand simple English? I’m just tired.’

Her words whizzed past my ears like bullets. My eyes were transfixed by her hand. The red-strapped wristwatch was brand new. Dolce & Gabbana. She noticed me staring and dragged her feet under the bed in one swift movement. The action drew my attention to an equally new pair of slippers. Despite my blurred appreciation of the things of this world, I recognised the huge metal design across each foot. Gucci.

Head up, eyes open, I asked, ‘Ola, who gave you these things?’

She turned her eyes to the floor.

‘They were a gift from one of my friends who travelled abroad,’ she replied in a wobbly voice.

I felt strange. Something was different. It was not just her bizarre attitude. Something else was amiss.

‘Who’s the friend?’ I asked.

‘I’ve told you to please stop asking me questions. I’m really not in the mood.’

We remained sitting like that for a while. I wanted to tell her about the letter from Shell Petroleum and about how heartbroken I was. I wanted to tell her how much I was dreading applying for other engineering jobs. But she maintained such a hard look that my voice evaporated. Then I remembered the apples.

‘Here,’ I said. ‘I got this for you.’

From the corners of her eyes, she inspected my outstretched hand.

‘Leave it there,’ she replied.

‘On the floor?’

‘Yes.’

I dropped the polythene bag.

‘Actually I need to rest,’ she said, still without looking at me. ‘I’ve had a very busy week and the week ahead is going to be even busier. You know I’m working on my project.’

I nodded slowly and stood. She accompanied me outside, maintaining a pace or two behind me. When I slowed down for her to catch up, she slowed down. When I stopped and looked back, she stopped and looked askance. Outside the hostel, she halted. I stood with arms akimbo like an angry school headmaster and walked back to where she was standing. The girl needed a severe talking-to.

‘Now listen to me,’ I began. ‘I can tell everything is not all right. If there’s something you need to get off your chest, why not just let it out? There’s never been anything we couldn’t talk about with-’

‘Kingsley, I really don’t think you should come and see me again.’

My mouth fell wide open. I completely forgot that I had been in the middle of a speech that was designed to bring about world peace.