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

the way out the front door and round the back of the building. If only my parents would stop being conservative and transfer their accounts to one of the more efficient New Generation banks. Thereafter, I went straight to Ola’s house. Apart from all the questions I was eager to ask her, she needed to know that my father was ill. Plus, Ola’s hugs were like medicine, and every muscle in my body was sore.
    As usual, Ezinne was pleased to see me. She unlocked the glass door and hugged me warmly. I waited in the living room while she went inside to inform her sister about my presence. Seconds later, she returned.
    ‘Brother Kings, Ola is not at home.’
    I peered at her.
    She stood there, pulling at her neatly woven cornrows and twisting her foot from side to side with her eyes fixed on the floor.
    ‘Ezinne, go back inside and tell Ola that I want to see her.’
    She obeyed.
    Ten minutes later, Ola came out dressed in an adire boubou and with an expression on her face like an irritated queen’s. She was accompanied by one of her friends from school. The girl bore some coquettish-sounding name which I had forgotten. Either Thelma . . . or Sandra . . . or one of those sorts of names. They greeted me and sat in the chairs opposite.
    ‘My father was admitted into hospital last night,’ I said. ‘He had a stroke.’
    ‘Stroke? How come? How is he?’
    ‘I’m on my way back to the hospital. I just wanted to see you first. How are you?’
    I thought she might offer to come along with me. Suddenly, she became icy.
    ‘I’m fine,’ she replied in a voice that was well below zero.
    ‘I was surprised when I went to your school yesterday and they told me that you were in Umuahia.’
    ‘Yes, I am.’
    Her answer sounded a bit off point. Nevertheless, I accepted it. She was wearing the same Dolce & Gabbana wristwatch of the other day. The former red strap had been swapped for a brown one that matched her Fendi slippers. Ola looked glum and rigid, like a pillar of salt.
    ‘Ola, are you OK?’
    Her companion flicked some dirt - noisily - from one of her red acrylic talons. Ola took a deep breath.
    ‘Kingsley, I think we should both go our separate ways,’ she said. ‘As far as I’m concerned, there’s no future in this relationship.’
    She spoke so fast, with her words bumping into each other. Yes, I heard the individual words, but I genuinely could not make out any meaning from what she had said.
    ‘Ola, what are you saying?’ I asked.
    The other girl hijacked the conversation.
    ‘What essatly do you not understand? She has told you her mind and it’s your business whether you assept it or not.’
    This tattling termagant, like many of her compatriots from Edo in the Mid-West region of Nigeria, had a mother tongue induced speech deficiency that prevented her from putting the required velar emphasis on her X sounds. They always came out sounding like an S. I ignored the idiot.
    ‘Ola, please let’s go somewhere private and talk . . . please.’
    Ola tilted slightly forward as if she were about to stand.
    ‘Abeg no follow am go anywhere, jare,’ the termagant restrained her in her more typical Pidgin English. ‘Abi him hol’ your life?’
    Ola sat ramrod straight again.
    The termagant appeared to be the commandant of this mission. Abruptly, she stood up and nudged Ola. Their task was complete. They had dropped the atomic bomb. Ola stood. I wondered why she was allowing this Neanderthal to control her like this.
    ‘Kingsley, I need to go out now.’
    I bent my knees towards the floor and reached out for her hand. ‘Ola, please . . . at least let’s go into the room and talk . . .’
    I thought I saw a twinge of pain in her eyes, but it passed by so quickly that I may have been mistaken. She turned and walked quickly from the living room. Shortly after, she came out dressed in a brown dress, with the termagant following behind her. The scent of their combined perfumes invaded the atmosphere. Each molecule stank of