A. Barrett - Blackass

He picked the nearest person in front of him, a young lady in a tank top and tight jeans, and slowing his steps as he drew up to her, he said, ‘Excuse me.’ The lady glanced around without stopping, her expression puzzled, but as Furo raised his hand in greeting, she halted and turned to face him. ‘Sorry to bother you,’ he said to her, and when she gave a smile of accommodation, he asked: ‘Can you please tell me the time?’

She glanced at her wrist. ‘It’s twelve past ten.’

‘Ah,’ Furo said, blowing out his cheeks. ‘Thank you very much.’

The lady waited as he mopped his neck with his handkerchief. She seemed oblivious to the attention they attracted from passersby. After he folded the handkerchief and put it away, she said, ‘How come you speak like a Nigerian? Have you lived here long?’

‘Yes,’ Furo answered.

She made no move to continue on her way, and as Furo tried to step backwards so he could go around her, she reached out and grabbed his elbow. His muscles tensed at her touch, and he resisted at first as she tugged his arm, but then he realised she was only guiding him out of the path of a motorcycle that was bearing down the sidewalk from behind. ‘That’s interesting, that your accent is so Nigerian,’ she said when the danger was past. She released his arm. ‘Where are you from?’ she asked.

‘I’m Nigerian.’

She squawked with laughter. Astonished faces turned to gawk, and seeing Furo’s embarrassment, she caught herself. ‘Sorry for laughing. But how is it possible that you’re Nigerian?’

Furo’s eyes lingered on her face. Her smile showed small white teeth and health-shined gums, and the dimples in her cheeks were signifiers of a merry disposition. Any other day, in a less pressing position, in his old skin, he would have asked her name. But there was no need for that, as she now offered, ‘My name is Ekemini,’ to which he responded, ‘I’m Furo.’

Her face pulled a look of doubt. ‘As in, Furo ? Isn’t that a Niger Delta name?’

‘Yes.’ Furo cast an impatient glance past her. ‘Actually, I’m in a—’ He fell silent, distracted by the idea forming in his head.

‘Yes?’ Ekemini prompted.

‘Hurry,’ Furo said. ‘I’m in a hurry.’ He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. ‘I’m going for a job interview that starts at eleven, but I just realised there’s no way I can make it in time.’

‘Oh no, that’s bad,’ Ekemini said, and checked her wristwatch. ‘Where’s the interview?’

‘It’s here in Ikeja, near Ogba side. Kudirat Abiola Way.’

‘What!’ Ekemini cried, and grasped Furo’s arm again, this time in excitement. ‘But that’s not far from here. If you take a bike you’ll get there in twenty, twenty-five minutes max. But you have to go now.’ Dragging him along, she crossed to the sidewalk’s edge. As she raised her hand to flag down a motorcycle, Furo spoke.

‘That’s the problem. I don’t have money on me.’

‘No money?’ Her tone was startled. ‘I see.’ She freed his arm and drew away from him. Her eyes glinted with suspicion, and it seemed clear to Furo that any moment she would mutter something rude and whirl away, convinced he was some sort of confidence trickster. To forestall this, Furo took the offensive. ‘Yes, no money, that’s why I’m walking.’ His confidence mounted along with her curiosity. ‘It’s not like I chose to trek to my interview, you know,’ he said, and held her gaze. Settling deeper into character, he softened his tone: ‘I was attacked by robbers this morning. They took my car, my wallet … and my phone. I was lucky to get away with my documents.’ He tapped the folder under his arm.

In the silence that followed, Furo and Ekemini were jostled together by a flash wave of pedestrians. With her chest pressed against him and her breath in his face, Furo almost regretted lying to her. But he had no choice, he told himself, no choice at all. ‘I’m sorry,’ Ekemini now said to him, and after pulling back from his body, she continued, ‘So what will you do? Do you need to call someone?’ She reached into her handbag. ‘Here, you can use my phone.’

‘I’ve called already. My people will meet me at the interview venue.’

‘Oh yes, of course — your interview. You really must get going.’ She waited a beat, and then spoke in a rush, her tone embarrassed. ‘Can I give you some money for the bike fare?’

Furo’s grin was truthful. ‘That would be nice of you. It’s just a loan, of course.’

Ekemini pulled a thousand naira note out of her handbag, and her face was pleased as she handed it over. ‘Thank you, thank you,’ Furo said, tucking the note in his breast pocket. He opened his folder, took out a pen, passed it to her and said, ‘Can I have your number? I’ll call you tomorrow so we can meet. To return the money.’ He watched with growing impatience as she wrote down three sets of numbers on the back of a business card. After she passed the card to him, he swivelled to face the curb, held his arm aloft, and a swarm of motorcycles shrieked towards him. He climbed aboard the first to arrive and, blocking out the shouted banter from the disappointed riders, gave the man directions. After the okada jumped forwards and weaved into the rush of traffic, Furo turned sideways in his seat to wave goodbye to Ekemini. He got a shock when he saw her running along the sidewalk after him with a raised arm and her face twisted with effort. ‘Your pen! You forgot your pen!’ she shouted against the wind, and the rider heard her and slowed, but Furo leaned forwards, said in his ear: ‘Abeg keep going.’

Arriving at the interview venue, Furo realised with a sinking feeling that even if he had walked over he would still have got there on time. Through the grilled gate — from which hung a white signboard announcing in green block letters: HABA! NIGERIA LTD — he could see a mass of people standing in single file in the bright sunlight, all dressed in formal clothes, all clutching folders, briefcases, shoulder bags. It was obvious who they were, why they were there, what they were dressed up for. He had heard of them. He had seen their faces under newspaper banners that screamed ‘50 % Youth Unemployment in Nigeria!’ He was one of them. And yet, despite his own desperation for a job, despite the worst scenarios he had conjured up in the days since he got his interview invitation, he had never imagined that so many people would turn up for the same job he wanted. As far as he knew there was only one position on offer. And for that at least forty people were standing in line.

After he paid the okada rider and collected eight hundred naira in change, Furo hurried to the gate to find it unlocked. Inside the compound stood a whitewashed, gable-roofed, two-storey vintage building with a residential aura. The expansive compound was unpaved, the red clay soil spotted with clumps of weed, and several cars were parked close to the building. By the back fence, a Mikano generator squatted on concrete pilings. The only other structure in the compound was the yellow-painted gatehouse, which Furo approached. News in Hausa blasted at full volume from a small radio perched in a rocking chair facing the doorway, and even before Furo stuck his head in, his nose was greeted by the smell of incense. He saw a wooden table on which was balanced the incense stick, smoke spiralling from its tip, the floor beneath it sprinkled with ash. Prominent in the room was a longbow and quiver of arrows, and there were clothes hanging from nails in the walls, as well as a kerosene stove, cooking utensils, and other domestic trappings. The gatehouse looked lived-in, but there was no one there.

Rather than wait for the guard’s return to enquire about a process that seemed apparent, Furo decided to join the queue. Stares he expected, and got as he approached the waiting group, and when he stopped behind the last person in line, the long row of heads began all at once to chatter. Furo dropped his eyes to his shoes, powdered with dust from his trek, and shut his ears to the grumblings. He had as much right as anyone to be here. He had probably suffered the most to get to this place, and all for a chance to be treated the same as everyone. He, too, needed a job, and come anything, despite everything, he would stand his ground. He ignored the rising voices.