Originally published in Kalahari Review, February 2016.
“Food is ready.” Your wife, Hannah, announces as she sets the plates of steaming Amala and gbegiri soup in front of you. There are lots of thoughts jostling for attention in your head. Food is not one of them. You simply are in no mood to perceive the delicious aroma oozing from the gbegiri. On other days when you were in the right frame of mind, you would be all over the food, sweating and grunting like an animal caught in a trap. But today, food is not the last thing on your mind; it is simply not on your mind at all.
You watch her place a cup of water in front of you and watch her bottoms roll as she walks away. You push the food aside, place your two legs on the table and throw your head backwards. You allow your mind to wander back to the events of the last nine hours.
You wonder who you saw first this morning. Your people have always believed that the first person you see in the morning has the ability to determine the course your day takes. If you see someone with ill-luck first, you must go back to bed and sleep, else your day will be filled with too many ill-lucks. But for you, how can you even make that work when you must be at work by seven thirty AM? If you see someone you think has ill-luck at six forty-five AM and you go back to bed and wake up at nine AM, how long will it take before you amass enough queries to lose five jobs?
Still, you try to remember who you saw first in the morning. Was it the S.U. woman who rumour has it that she goes to sleep over at a Deacon’s house overnight and to avoid raising eyebrows when she enters very early in the morning, takes a megaphone with her and does “morning cry”? Or was it Rasaki, the okada rider that carries robbers for their operations overnight, returns very early and sleeps throughout the day when real okada riders with no other side jobs are busy hustling? You simply cannot remember who you saw first. But you know you must have seen someone with an overdose of ill-luck for your day to have turned out the way it did.
You remember getting to work at seven twenty-seven AM to meet the boss waiting for you in front of your office. “Lanre, step into my office, please.” The tone of voice and the serious way the boss walked away gave you instant goose bumps. You had dropped your bag and hurriedly joined the boss in his office.
The boss was pacing the office when you walked in. “Close the door and sit down.” The boss said sharply without looking up and without stopping the pacing.
You had closed the door and replied, “Oga, please let me stand up.”
He had looked at you for the first time, like a doctor looks at a deranged patient whose case he knows is hopeless. “You want to stand up while I talk? Are you ok? My friend, sit down!” He commanded.
You had sat down hurriedly, with the tip of your bottom barely touching the chair and your legs extending forward. You had folded your hands inbetween your laps as you awaited the verdict. You don’t get called into the boss’ office by the boss himself very early in the morning unless you had committed a mortal sin that cannot receive forgiveness.
“Lanre,” he began finally, still pacing. You had answered, your voice shaking, “Ssss-sah, sah!”
“How long have you been in this company?”
You had thought very quickly and counted on your fingers. “Thirteen years sah!”
“Ta-tin yias.” The boss repeated, his Ibadan accent coming to the fore. You had become more scared. They say a man’s accent only comes out when he is angry, or when he wants to do something bad.
You started as a cleaner, finished school and became a clerk. You continued rising until you got to where you are now: an assistant sales manager. Thirteen years to climb four ladders is his definition of fast. The three ladies that came five years after you had all climbed on and left you and had been transferred to head new branches in other states even though they had no clearly-defined roles other than making the boss laugh raucously in his office every minute of the day.
“It was because of your diligence, punctuality and loyalty.” He bellowed and finally stopped pacing. He stood there smiling down at you, his eyes glinting the way you imagined Newton’s eyes must have glinted when that fruit fell on his head. You looked up at him, waiting. In your head, you wanted to hiss and tell him: “Oga, did you win lottery this morning? Abeg conclude this sermon.” Instead, you had looked down at your hands and said, “Thank you sir.”
“Not to take too much of your time,” his voice floated back. “I have decided that I want you to be the new boss of our branch at Egbeda. The person I put in charge there has proved to be grossly incompetent. Yes, the place is a mess but I know that with you…”
You were no longer listening to him. He could be chanting incantations for all you cared. Only two words kept ringing in your ears: “you”, “boss.” Finally, you had been recognized. You wanted to jump up, hug the boss and sing three tracks of Ayefele’s music to him. And to think that when he called you in, you thought he was going to fire you.
He had brought out some documents that he said reflected your new status and asked that you put your signature on all of them. He handed you each document himself so fast that you couldn’t stop to read what was written on them. You kept on signing, smiling to yourself about how your signature had gone from being just another signature to being “the” signature.
As you signed the last document, he said, “Oh! By the way, let’s still keep this talk about the promotion under wraps. Let it stay between me and you until maybe next week when we will make the announcement at an elaborate ceremony.” You had nodded and said thanks.
Back in your office, you missed your two-hour power nap for the first time in seven years that day. No matter how much you tried, sleep eluded you. You imagined yourself sitting behind a large table at the Egbeda office. You imagined a hush falling on the office each time you stepped in. You imagined all the staff of your company greeting you, “Good morning sir!” How could sleep come with that line of thought.
That afternoon, as you stepped into the staff canteen during lunch, you heard the usual culprits debating what crime the boss committed that pissed off his parents so much that they didn’t stop at two, four, or even eight, but went all the way and carved eighteen tribal marks on a human face.
He looked so handsome to you now. You couldn't believe you ever saw the eighteen tribal marks that adorned his face as anything but beautiful. He looked handsome; may goodness and mercy follow the person who carved those marks on his face.
They waved you over and repeated the joke. But you simply shook your head and replied, “His parents must have had reasons for that. He still looks handsome to me though.”
Your co-workers had stared at you, open-mouthed. One of them reached over and felt your temperature.
“Are you ill?” Another asked. You shook your head.
“Then what is wrong with you?”
You had sighed. “I just don’t think it is alright to insult people before we get to know them.”
You watched as one by one, your co-workers stood up and wordlessly moved to another table. You had shrugged. Some will say failure has no friends, but for you, success too has no friends. The higher you climb, the more weight you have to shed.
It wasn’t until you got back to your office after lunch that certain realities began to jump out at you. First it was the picture of the boss in a newspaper, with the headline: “BUSINESS MOGUL BEING INVESTIGATED FOR FRAUD.” You read the story and realized that there was no Egbeda branch. Or at least, there had been no Egbeda branch for about four months now. The only statement the boss gave about the investigation yesterday was that he was innocent but had found the person responsible for perpetrating the fraud and would make his identity and other documents as proof known to security operatives the next day.
And then it all came rushing back to you. You had been surprised when you were told two months ago that the boss had placed a temporary ban on reading newspapers in the office. He knew you all well enough to know that none of you would use your money to buy newspapers and none of you really had time to read the news from your phones. You had the newspaper only because of the sports segment — Arsenal had yesterday beaten Manchester United blue-black and you wanted to revel in the moment.
Again it hit you: maybe that was why the boss was handing you the documents so quickly, not giving you any chance to read what was written there. You had picked up the newspaper and headed for his office to demand an explanation. You got there to discover it was locked. He and his secretary were nowhere to be found.
It happened an hour later. You heard whispers first and then heard someone ask roughly, “Where is Lanre Gbadamosi’s office?” The door to your office had flown open and three tall men in uniform with AK-47 guns hanging from their shoulders had barged in. “Are you Mr Lanre Gbadamosi?” You nodded. Before you could ask how they could help you, they had produced a handcuff and were attempting to place your hands in it.
You had stepped back and said, with the last shred of dignity you had left, “You can’t just barge into my office and attempt to cuff me without knowing what I have done. I am a citizen of this country, I have rights and I know them.”
“You still dey speak oyinbo abi?” One of the uniformed men replied. “No worry, when you reach Area D for Eleweran, you go forget oyinbo begin dey yarn for your dialect.”
You remembered what your father once told you: “Only two sets of people can survive in this country: people who have money and people who have mouth. Try to have money, but if you don’t have money, please have mouth.” You glared at the men and picked up your phone. “See, let me warn you about the line of action you are about to embark on. I have connections. Whoever put you up to this will not be powerful enough to stop you from getting fired and spending the rest of your life in debt after I sue your asses off.”
You watched them back off and converse among themselves. You almost smiled. Your father was right after all. The highest ranking phone number you had on your phone was that of your aboki friend that sold suya two streets from your house.
They asked you questions about fraud and money-laundering. They asked to see your handwriting and asked if they could take samples. You said, of course. Finally, they asked you where you lived. They said they had to watch you to be sure you don’t skip town. One of the officers who was Yoruba like you tried to explain: “Wo, omo iya, we speak the same language. Let me not deceive you, this is the best deal you will get for now. The other alternative is for us to take you to our office and detain you till Monday.” You had thought furiously. What would Hannah think if she saw policemen at her doorstep? You gave them your house address and directions and went back to your office as they went outside to wait.
Now, sitting inside your house with your head thrown backwards, you think of the policemen. They have been true to their words. You can’t see them but you know they are there. Most importantly, Hannah is oblivious of their presence.
Hannah comes back into the living room and meets your food untouched. She’s worried instantly. “Lanre, kilode? Are you okay?” You simply stare at her, your brain too tired to form a reply. Finally, your brain, head and lips unite to give her a reply: “I’m okay. I’m just not hungry.”
Very quickly, rage takes the place of concern in her face. “‘I’m just not hungry.’ When you knew you were ‘just not hungry’, why did you let me go through the stress of cooking your favorite meal, ehn?”
“Not today, Hannah, not today,” you reply as you stand up and head to the bedroom.
That night as you lie on the bed, thinking, hoping against hope that sleep will agree to take you, you keep on twisting. Hannah is fast asleep after she had tried in vain to get you to make love to her. Whoever said the penis had a mind of its own should be arrested for misleading the world.
Suddenly, you have a burst of inspiration. Like a vision, you begin to see the events of the day taking shape right before your eyes. You see the boss handing you the documents. He is not looking at you. He is concerned with handing you the next document. You see yourself, you peer over what you are signing. You see the stroke of your hand as you sign. That is not how you append your signature. You look closely. That is not your signature!
You sit up as reality hits you. You begin to remember. You remember it all. You have been practicing the boss’ handwriting and signature for about three weeks now. You had approached him about approving two months’ vacation for you in the United States. He had turned you down flat even when you knew that anyone who had worked in the company for five years was entitled to a two-month paid vacation. You had started learning his handwriting and signature in the hope of disappearing before he came back from his planned six-month trip abroad.
Hannah had been against the plan, but you had convinced her. What did you have to lose? You were in a job that only gave big titles that don’t reflect the pay grade. Thirteen years working and your salary had not yet crossed the one hundred thousand naira mark. People that started working after you had started earning in the range of two hundred thousand naira, but there you were, celebrating big title without the accompanying big pay.
You had figured you had nothing to lose. Everything you wrote since then had been in his handwriting. You had practiced his signature so many times that you could sign it without looking.
You are grinning now. To think that in an amazing turn of circumstances, you had signed his own signature on documents he hoped would carry your own signature.
The gods of your land must be awake and working overtime on your behalf. When this is all over, you must go back home, plait your hair and join your people in worshipping Sango, the fiery god that uses fire to shield his children from harm.
Suddenly you jump up and shout out for joy. Hannah jerks awake and screams, “Jesus!” You disarm her with your trademark smile. You see bright headlights come on outside. You know the policemen are awake and active.
“Where is that my food?” You ask a bewildered Hannah.
“What food? You want to eat cold amala in the middle of the night? Lanre, have you started smoking weed?”
Again you smile. “Hannah, I will eat it like that.”
She shakes her head. “Whoever is at the root of your matter, I hope he repents. You know the way to the kitchen, your amala is covered there.”
As you eat, you wish Monday would come already. You want to get to the office and sit with your co-workers again, trading gists and sharing jokes. This is success. Your staying out of jail is success.
You look ahead to Monday, to resuming your two-hour power nap right after the police whisk away your soon-to-be ex-boss, to when you would announce, mimicking the boss: “Do you know how I got here? I worked my ass off,” and replace it with: “Do you know how I got here? I robbed my country blind.”
You look ahead to Monday. Monday looks like a nice day. Why do people hate Mondays? People should learn to look forward to Mondays too.