I Do Not Come to You by Chance by Adaobi Tricia Nwaubani Read Free Book Online

the middle of her legs, her feet were clad in rugged bathroom slippers. She poked her thin face into my window and informed us that her husband was in very poor health.
    ‘My brothers and sisters,’ she pleaded, ‘I have nine children and hunger is threatening to kill us. My husband has been very sick for over a year and we have no money for the operation.’
    She said that we - those of us in that vehicle - were their only hope of survival. If we would only chip in some funds.
    ‘My brothers and sisters,’ she begged, ‘please nothing is too small.’
    Around her neck hung a cloth rope attached to a photograph of her husband. In it, the sick man was lying on a raffia mat on the cement floor. He was stark naked and his ribs were gleaming through his skin. There was a growth the size of two adult heads, shooting out from between his bony legs. The faded photograph dangled on her flat chest as she stretched a metal container into the car and jangled the coins that were inside.
    As soon as I saw the photograph, it hit me.
    I realised what had been missing from Ola’s room, what it was that had been nagging at me all the while I was there. All my photographs - all three of them - had vanished from her room.

Four
    The local 7 o’clock news was usually a harmless serving of our state governor’s daily activities - where he had gone, what he had said, whom he had said it to. The national 9 o’clock news was different. It always reported something that infuriated my father.
    ‘They’re all illiterates!’ he ranted. ‘That’s the problem we have in this country. How can we have people ruling us who didn’t see inside the four walls of a university?’
    Two days ago, it was the allegation that one of the prominent senators had falsified his educational qualifications. He had lived in Canada for many years, quite all right, but the University of Toronto had no record of his attendance. Yesterday, it was the news that the Nigerian government had begun a global campaign to recover part of the three billion pounds embezzled by the late General Sani Abacha administration. About $700 million discovered in Swiss bank accounts had already been frozen. Today, it was the news that one of the state governor’s convoys had been involved in a motor accident. This was the fourth time this same governor’s convoy had been involved in a fatal car crash.
    ‘And the most annoying thing,’ my mother added, ‘is that he’s going to go scot-free.’
    ‘Did anyone die?’ Charity asked.
    ‘Were you not listening?’ Eugene replied.
    ‘One woman died,’ Godfrey answered. ‘The other one is in hospital.’
    The governor’s press secretary was careful to add that the injured woman’s medical bill was being catered for at the governor’s expense.
    ‘It’s taxpayer’s money!’ My father exploded from his chair.
    ‘But why can’t they investigate what the problem is?’ my mother asked. ‘Why can’t they ask why this same man has had four accidents in this period?’
    ‘Illiterates . . . all of them . . . that’s the problem.’
    Had I been less preoccupied with other matters, I would have supplied the answer to that question for free. After the third accident, I had read an interview in which this same governor’s press secretary had blamed the governor’s enemies, insinuating that they had used a powerful juju to engineer these mishaps in order to embarrass the governor.
    Before the news ended, my father had had enough. He stood up and hissed.
    ‘I’m going in,’ he said.
    My mother followed.
    Shortly after, Godfrey dived towards the television and tuned to a channel that was just starting to show a Nollywood movie. I was not a fan of these locally produced Nigerian movies, so I also stood and went into the children’s room.
    Sleep refused to happen. Three days after my visit to Ola, my mind was still bustling with worry. What was it that her mother was unhappy with me about? Perhaps she and Ola were having a