‘Daddy, please hurry up and-’

A nurse walked in.

‘I saw your mother leaving,’ she said.

‘She’s just gone out briefly. Is there anything?’

‘The doctor wants to see you in his office.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s best if you speak with the doctor directly.’

I hurried out.

When I entered the consulting room and saw the well-dressed, middle-aged physician, my heart started pounding like a locomotive. This particular doctor only made cameo appearances on the ward. Doctors like him had little time to spare on Government Hospital patients who were not paying even a fraction of the fees that the patients in their private practices were. Usually, it was the lesser, hungry-looking, shabbily dressed doctors who attended to us.

‘I’m sorry I don’t have very exciting news for you,’ he began as soon as my behind touched the seat in front of his desk. ‘Your father has been here for a while now and we’re starting to have some challenges with keeping him here.’

‘Doctor, we pay our money and buy all the things you-’ I began.

‘Oh, certainly, certainly,’ he reassured me, nodding his head rapidly. ‘I’m glad to say that we haven’t had that kind of problem with you people at all.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

He proceeded to enlighten me. It was a long, sad tale of under-staffing, low government funding, and insufficient facilities. By the time he finished, I felt guilty about us dragging our minor troubles all the way here to compound the hospital management’s own.

‘I’m sorry, but we can no longer manage your father’s care,’ he concluded. ‘I would suggest we transfer him to the Abia State Teaching Hospital, Aba. That’s the only way I can assure you that your father will get the best care he needs at this time. They have better equipment than we do.’

Instinctively, I perceived that this transfer entailed much more than moving my father from one bed to the other.

‘How much is it going to cost?’ I asked.

‘Well, there’s quite an expense involved,’ he sighed. ‘Fuelling the ambulance to transport him to Aba, hiring the specialised personnel to accompany him on the trip, renting whatever equipment they might require on the journey… To cut a long story short, the transfer would cost lot of money.’

He gave me a tentative estimate. The amount nearly shattered my eardrums. I made it clear to the doctor that we could not afford it. He sympathised profusely. Then he assured me that there was no remote possibility of receiving any one of those services on credit.

‘I’ll give you some time to think about it,’ he said. ‘Then let me know what you want us to do. I’ve given you my professional opinion, but at the end of the day, he is your father. It’s your call.’

I sat in front of him for a while, staring at the opposite wall without seeing anything, silently marvelling at the gravity of life in general. Then I thanked him for this update and for his sensitivity in choosing to break the bad news to me – first – without my mother present.

This time around, I paid meticulous attention to my appearance. I slipped my feet into my new pair of Russell & Bromley shoes and rummaged through my shirts. Most of them were dead, had been for a very long time. They only came alive when Ola wore them. She used to look so good in my clothes. Back in school, Ola would take my dirty clothes away on Friday evenings and return them washed and ironed on Sunday evenings. One day, while putting away the freshly laundered clothes, I noticed that a shirt was missing. Assuming that Ola had mistakenly packed it up with her own clothes, I made a mental note to ask her to check. Next day at the faculty, she was wearing the missing item. Seeing my shirt on her gave me such a thrill. Since then, she borrowed my shirts from time to time. In fact, she still had one or two with her.

Finally, I made my choice. It would have to be the shirt I wore for my university graduation ceremony. The blue fabric had been personally selected by my mother. She had sewn the shirt herself.

There were nine men and five women waiting at the office gates. Cash Daddy’s security man recognised me from my previous visit.

‘Cash Daddy has not reached office this morning,’ he said.

He advised me to go and seek him at home.

‘Please, where is his house?’ I asked.

‘There’s nobody who doesn’t know Cash Daddy’s house,’ he replied with scorn.

‘Please, what’s the address?’

He snorted with more scorn. He did not know the house number, but he knew the name of the street.

‘Once you enter Iweka Street, you will just see the house. You can’t miss it.’

I looked doubtful.

‘You can’t miss it,’ he repeated.

I flagged down an okada and took off.

Indeed, I knew it as soon as I saw it.

Two gigantic lion sculptures kept guard by the solid, iron entrance. The gate had strips of electric barbed wire rolled all around the top, which extended throughout the length of the equally high walls. Altitude of gate and walls notwithstanding, the mammoth mansion was visible, complete with three satellite dishes on top.

I pressed the buzzer on the wall. The gateman peeped through a spy-slide in the gate. Before he had a chance to question me, a voice boomed from an invisible mechanical device.

‘Allow that man to come inside my house! Right now!’

I was jolted. The gateman was unperturbed. He unlocked the gates and showed me inside.

The vast living room was a combination of parlour and dining section. There was a winding staircase that escalated from behind the dining table to unknown upper regions of the house. Everything – from the leather sofas, to the humongous television set, to the lush, white rug, to the vases on the bronze mantelpiece, to the ivory centre table, to the electric fireplace, to the high crystal chandeliers, to the dining set – was a tribute to too much wealth. I almost bowed my hands and knees in reverence.

A well-fed man standing by the door asked me to sit. Then he opened a huge refrigerator. Like the one in the office, this one was stacked with all manner of drinks.

‘What would you like to drink?’ he asked.

‘Nothing. I’m fine, thank you.’

There were two framed photographs of Cash Daddy hanging on the wall above the television screen. One was taken, apparently, while he was playing golf. In the other, he was sitting on a magnificent black horse. How on earth had my uncle managed to manoeuvre his super-size onto the narrow saddle?

There were five young, equally well fed men sitting around the dining table. They ate silently, but eagerly, making sloppy, kissing sounds as they licked their fingers.

Shortly after I sat down, Protocol Officer – the very same one of the other day – descended the stairs.

‘Cash Daddy is ready to see you,’ he said, and waited.

I stood up quickly and joined him at the foot of the staircase.

‘Good morning,’ I said to the feeding men as I walked past.

The tantalising aroma of edikainkong and onugbu soups whispered to me from the huge tureens before them. The men grunted nonchalantly.

Protocol Officer led the way. At the third-floor landing, he opened one of the doors and entered a large bedroom. He continued to where two men were standing beside another open door within the room. The men shifted to create space for me in the narrow doorway.

Inside, Cash Daddy was crouched on the toilet seat. Apart from the boxer shorts rolled around his ankles, he was as naked as a skinned banana. Imagining that I had barged in on a most private moment, I muttered an apology and was turning to leave, when his voice flashed like lightning and stopped me in my tracks.

‘Kings, Kings! How are you? How is your daddy doing?’

I ducked my eyes and replied that my father was still in hospital.

‘What of your mummy?’ he continued. ‘I hope you told her that I greeted her.’