Bobbie's Fortune

Okon could not help but feel like a stranger as he sat in a room full of familiar people. He was glad that the burial ceremony of Chief Idris Opara has finally come to an end.
A week of walking around with pursed lips and lowered head is over.
In the past week he had denied himself of the pleasure and convenience. Not a slightest hint of the workings of his mind could be seen on is face.          As soon as he heard of the death of the chief, his mind went to octogenarian’s will.
  Chief Opara was a reputable businessman with a fortune of about a hundred and sixty million dollars. He was well respected by the government of Nigeria because of his investment profile, philanthropic acts and contributions to the nation’s economy.
He had investments in the agricultural sector, telecommunications sector, as well as the oil and gas sector. He was sometimes called the ‘god of business decisions’ by the Guardian editorial; this is in reference to his unequalled wisdom in making business decisions and surviving harsh economic climates.
Oparanet, one of his investments, employs twelve thousand people; while the output of his farm makes food products cheaper in the South Eastern States.
  Ngozi, Chief Opara’s wife, died of cancer three years ago, while his only son, Eric, was a successful movie director in Hollywood.
Eric Opara has never hidden his disinterest in his father’s fortune.
‘My father built his empire through his blood and sweat. I’ll build mine too.’ He would say.
The chief was not aggrieved by his son’s attitude. ‘He is my son,’ he would say, ‘He has to be like me. Sometimes in the past I showed no interest in my father’s wealth. That is the only way for a young man to make his talent significant.’
  Okon was the son of the chief’s younger sister. He dropped out of school at the age of fifteen, a year after his mother’s death in a car crash, hoping to pursue a career as a football player.
He would spend several hours gazing at the poster of George Weah on the wall of his room, willing the player’s good fortune for himself.
However, his dream of stardom and its attraction was aborted because he could not make the local team of the town, let alone play in the professional league.
  ‘That boy is lazy,’ Chief Opara would say. ‘He should go back to school. I cannot help someone with nothing in the head.’
At twenty five, Okon had concluded that he was too old to go back to school since that would require sitting in the same class with teenagers to prepare for the University Matriculation Examination.
His failed attempts to make it to the local team forced him to replace his dream of earning as a professional soccer player with the dream of the fortune his uncle’s death would bring. Sometimes he would be filled with shame for longing for the man’s death.
Chief Opara had reluctantly given him a job as an assistant clerk at Oparanet when his nephew’s economic state was giving the chief a bad name. ‘That man is extremely rich. Why can’t he help his nephew?’ some had asked in reference to Okon’s state and chief Opara’s initial attitude to him.
The donations to orphanages, scholarships for indigent students and the contributions to community development projects made it difficult for ‘stingy’ or ‘selfish’ to be associated with the chief’s name.

  Eric journeyed from the United States for his father’s burial and left as soon as the casket was lowered in the tomb. He had already signed a contract with a production company to shoot a new movie which is about to enter its production stage. The three days spent with his kinsmen was the longest of his stay with men and women with little or no formal education, men and women who would speak of his American accent as if it was some sort of stigma.
As the family members gathered in the large sitting room of the Opara mansion, they maintained the grave expression that had been on their faces since the chief’s death became public knowledge.
Okon sat with is elbow on his knees and his face covered with his palms. The white leather sofas were occupied while some people stood with their arms folded. Men and women with varying expectations, each flaunting their relationship with the deceased octogenarian as one would flaunt a meal ticket in a crowded refugee camp: ‘I am his wife’s brother’ ‘I am his cousin’ ‘I am the son of is wife’s brother’  ‘I am his cousin’s brother.’
The white marble floor was filled with reflections from the chandelier lights, and with shadows.
  Okon made several mental estimates of the possibilities of his fortune and was sure that he would be a millionaire in dollars as soon as the man in black suit, white shirt and red tie reads the contents of the documents in his burgundy brief case. The picture of a red Audi Q7 flashed in his mind.
The man with the important life-changing document introduced himself as Timpre Jonas. The man cleared his throat and eyes were focused on him like vultures eyeing a bleeding animal.
  ‘I will be as brief as possible. The honourable chief has made his last testament very simple. The document before me contains less than fifty lines of words.’

  Okon held his breath and said a quick prayer. The lawyer’s eyes scanned the room and he was sure the men and women would wish he spoke faster. He opened a manila file and placed his glasses on the tip of his nose. A drop of a pin would have been heard on the marble floor.
  ‘This is the last testament of Chief Idris Ibe Opara. Fifty percent of Oparanet shares is to be transferred to the National Orphanage Foundation.’ The words were well received. The chief’s passion for the well being of the less privileged is synonymous with his name.
In his lifetime, five hundred orphans enjoyed free education from primary school to University level. He had sometimes offered to finance Okon to study at Harvard, it was at the time when the young man had his heart unrepentantly focused on his dream of playing professional football at Manchester United.
  ‘Fifty percent of Oparanet shares is to be transferred to Eric Opara.’ The words were also well received. ‘Opara Farms is to be financially responsible for the sponsorship of any member of the Opara nuclear and extended family to any level of education to which they aspire.’ The listening men and women gave nods of approval. They were encouraged. The fortune seems to be flowing from the community, to the chief’s son, and then to the family. Not a few were sure that the coming pronouncements would require an effort to keep from breaking into sonorous songs and a few dance steps.
  ‘The sum of twelve million dollars is to be set aside for Bobbie’s welfare.’
The men and women exchanged glances and there were loud whispers. The last part of the lawyer’s reading was drowned in murmurs and whispers. He placed is glasses in a spectacle case. ‘This is the last testament of Chief Idris Ibe Opara.’
Okon’s hands were on his head, his mouth wide open as he stared at the lawyer as if he was in a trance.
  ‘Who the hell is Bobbie?’ a tall and thin man asked with a mixture of surprise and disgust.
The lawyer glanced at the man and observed the glassy sheen in his eyes. Then he placed the manila file in his briefcase and was ready to leave.
  ‘Who is Bobbie?’ a woman asked with tears in her voice. The words echoed round the room.
The lawyer’s eyes scanned the room once again and he observed that the question was meant for him. ‘Bobbie?’ he snorted. ‘How am I supposed to know who Bobbie is? I’m a lawyer; I’m just doing my job. Do have a nice day.’ He said.
It seemed like a joke, but the deceased chief is not known for humour. A dog was soon heard whimpering somewhere behind the glass window of the room. A stunned countenance was the shared expression.
Chief Idris Opara has just willed twelve million dollars to a Chihuahua!



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