Free I Do Not Come to You by Chance by Adaobi Tricia Nwaubani Page A

private conversation I had in mind was in here.
    My mother looked up from the buttons she was sewing onto a blue check fabric.
    ‘Ah, Kings!’
    Surprise made her dig the needle into her thumb. She locked the tip of the thumb into her mouth and sucked.
    ‘Mummy, good afternoon.’
    I sat on her customers’ bench.
    ‘How has your day been?’
    ‘Oh, it’s been fine,’ she replied. ‘It’s been quite fine.’
    She resumed her work with a degree of concentration that showed she was aware that I had something important I wanted to talk about.
    ‘Mummy, there’s something I want to ask your opinion about,’ I began.
    She stopped pretending to concentrate on her work and transferred her full attention to my face.
    ‘I’ve been thinking,’ I continued.
    Yes, I had. Since the solutions to my problems were clearly not going to be divine, I had racked my brain until I struck upon a man-made idea.
    ‘I’ve been thinking of moving away from home. I’ll stand a better chance of getting a job if I went away from Umuahia.’
    ‘Ah, ah? But is it not the same newspapers that you’ll have to apply through to get a job whether you’re in Umuahia or not? All the oil companies put their vacancies in the national newspapers.’
    ‘That’s what I’ve been thinking. Maybe I should start applying elsewhere apart from the oil companies.’
    ‘Elsewhere like where?’
    I understood her apprehension. Her first son was a chemical engineer, and that was what she wanted him to remain. But now I was ready to lower my standards. Most of the New Generation banks were willing to hire anybody who could pass their aptitude tests. They did not seem to mind whether your degree was in Carpentry or Fisheries or Hairdressing. All they wanted was someone who could speak English, who could add, subtract, and multiply.
    ‘I’m thinking of maybe a bank.’
    ‘Are there not banks here?’
    ‘There are more opportunities outside here,’ I replied.
    After all was said and done, Umuahia was still one of the Third World towns in Nigeria. The same bank that would have just one branch in Umuahia, for example, could have thirty in bustling cities like Lagos. Plus, larger cities presented more diverse opportunities for work even if it meant that I would have to trudge the streets and seek employment in any other field.
    My mother considered this.
    ‘But where are you planning to stay? You can’t afford a place of your own and you can’t be sure how long you’ll be looking for work.’ She paused. ‘The only person I can think of is Dimma. Which is good because then you’ll be closer to the oil companies when they invite you for interviews.’
    I knew that Aunty Dimma would be very pleased to have me at her place in Port Harcourt for however long I chose to stay, but I had other ideas.
    ‘How about Uncle Boniface?’ I asked.
    My mother laughed and looked at me as if I was trying to convince her that G is for Jesus.
    ‘Mummy, seriously. I think Lagos is the best option. I’m sure I’ll get a job quickly. I hear people like Arthur Andersen will give you an interview once they see that you made an exceptional result.’
    Uncle Boniface lived not too far away from us, in Aba, but he owned a house in faraway FESTAC Town, Lagos, where his wife and children lived. He probably would not mind my lodging with them, especially since he owed my family a social debt. The youngest of my mother’s siblings, Uncle Boniface was the illegitimate son that my late grandfather had fathered by some non-Igbo floozy from Rivers State. Out of anger, my mother’s family had refused to acknowledge Uncle Boniface as part of them. And with his failing health, my grandfather had found it difficult to cope. The family made a communal decision. Uncle Boniface moved in with us. Over the years, we had several of these relatives coming and going, but Uncle Boniface’s stay was particularly memorable.
    A few weeks after he moved in and started attending a nearby secondary