A. Barrett - Blackass

‘See this man o — you shameless impostor! What do you know about Haba!? You just joined only which day and already you’re growing wings. I don’t blame you sha. It’s oga I blame for employing a common fraudster.’

Furo’s smile was a poster image of cordiality. ‘Are you done?’ he asked Obata.

‘So you find me funny?’

‘Just tell me when you’re finished.’

Obata raised his arm and jabbed Furo in the chest with a stiffened finger. ‘Idiot oyibo, I’ve just started with you! By the time I’m finished you won’t have a job.’

‘Thank you,’ Furo said. He turned to Mallam Ahmed. ‘Go and call the MD. Tell him I said he should come now-now.’

‘ Yowa ,’ said Mallam Ahmed and headed off, his rubber slippers slapping the ground.

Obata was stunned into silence. He licked his lips to wet them. He cast up his arms and let them drop to his sides. He exhaled in loud spurts. Swinging his gaze between Furo and the departing man, he reached a decision. His voice sounded trapped when he called out, ‘Ahmed, wait first.’ Mallam Ahmed marched on, and when Obata spoke again, a note of panic sounded in his throat. ‘Ahmed, can’t you hear me? You’re under my department, you take instructions from me. I’m giving you a direct order. Stop there!’

Mallam Ahmed halted, turned around, and retraced his steps. Throwing a regretful glance at Furo’s feet, he said, ‘Nah true e talk. I no fit disobey order.’

‘No problem,’ Furo said brusquely. He looked at Solo. ‘Wait here for me.’

‘Frank,’ said Obata.

‘No go anywhere,’ Furo continued as Solo nodded assent.

‘Frank, listen to me,’ Obata said with urgency, and placed a gentle hand on Furo’s arm.

‘I dey come,’ Furo finished, and as he made to move forwards, Obata’s grip tightened on his flesh. ‘Get your hand off me!’ Furo snapped at him.

‘Please, just listen to me,’ Obata said and dropped his hand. ‘I was out of line.’

‘That’s not good enough,’ Furo said. But he waited.

Obata coughed to clear his throat. ‘I lost my temper. That’s not an excuse. It won’t happen again.’ And then he muttered, ‘I’m sorry.’

Furo raised his gaze to meet Obata’s hate-moistened eyes. ‘I’ll be frank with you,’ he said. ‘I’m still unhappy about the way you treated me the other day, on the day of my interview. But I won’t take your insults any more. The way you spoke to me today is totally unacceptable.’ At Furo’s stern tone Obata’s eyes had fallen, and so Furo now finished in a softer voice. ‘I won’t report you this time, but the next time you insult me, or refer to me by that name, I will tell Abu that either you leave this company or I do. I hope we’re clear?’

Obata nodded before saying in a gruff, unsteady voice, ‘We’re clear. I wash my hands. You can deal with this,’ and he waved his arm at Solo. ‘It’s your department anyway.’ He spun around and walked with long, quick steps towards the office building. Furo looked away from the retreating form when Solo said with a low chuckle, ‘Power pass power. See as that one been dey shine eye for me. Now whitey don tell am word, e no fit talk again. Oyibo, you be correct guy.’

‘My name nah Frank, no call me oyibo,’ Furo said in a curt voice. After again asking Solo to wait, he stepped away. As he approached the parked First Lady, Headstrong, who had been watching all this time from his perch on the car’s bonnet, stared at him in a manner that seemed to grow less unfriendly with closing distance, until his gaze dropped when Furo reached him, and he held out the car key in silence, then pushed off the car and trod in the direction of the gatehouse. Furo locked up the car after collecting his laptop bag and the dog-eared copy of The Five Dysfunctions. He strode into the office building, glanced at the unoccupied reception desk, then sprinted upstairs and headed for Arinze’s office. He tapped once before opening the door to find Arinze talking to Tosin; but, as he made to withdraw, Arinze said, ‘No, Frank, we’re done here, come on in. I have some exciting news. Have you just arrived? I’ve been looking for you.’

‘I was downstairs,’ Furo responded. He smiled at Tosin as they passed each other, and then took the seat she had vacated. ‘I just met Solo.’

Arinze looked perplexed. ‘Who is Solo?’

‘He’s one of the special vendors.’

Delight deposed confusion in Arinze’s features. ‘Where is he? Is he still around?’

‘He’s waiting downstairs.’

‘Perfect! I’ll see him after our meeting,’ Arinze said. He hunched forwards and began rolling a pen along the desktop, and after he grew tired of this dissemblance, he settled back in his seat and spoke in an eager voice. ‘You’ve heard about my little project — the special vendors?’

At Furo’s yes, he pressed on: ‘So, what do you think?’

‘It’s a brilliant idea,’ Furo said.

And he meant it.

Going by what Furo had gathered from Solo’s story: exactly a week ago, Arinze had sent Mallam Ahmed to the National Stadium in Surulere to scout for unemployed, wheelchair-bound men who were willing to earn some money by selling books, and after Mallam Ahmed returned with Solo and three others, Arinze met with them and determined he would try them out with ten titles each, after which, based on their success at selling the books, he was ready to hire them on commission and also brand their wheelchairs with promotional stickers and then arrange for the delivery van drop them off every morning at the busiest spots in Lagos. Haba! Special Vendors , Solo said he had called them.

Arinze spoke. ‘I’m really glad you like the idea. It wasn’t easy convincing Zainab to support me on this one, and as for Obata, he was dead set against the project. But I mean, just imagine the potential! The branding benefits, of course, not the money. We’ll never make money selling books to individuals, not in this country.’ He paused, wrinking his brow. ‘You say there’s only one of the special vendors downstairs? That’s strange. I hope he brought good news. I gave them some books last Friday, and they were supposed to report back on Tuesday, but we didn’t hear from them. And now only one shows up?’ He pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘Tell you what, Frank. I’m sorry, but can we postpone our meeting to eleven? I have to see this man now.’

‘Eleven’s fine,’ Furo stated, and rising with a rush of pity, he trailed Arinze to the door, walked behind him down the hallway, and stopped at his office as Arinze continued towards the stairs. He couldn’t bring himself to tell him what had happened. That early this morning, before the start of work, Obata had dispatched Mallam Ahmed to the National Stadium to search for the missing men among the sunrise crowd of sportspeople and fitness freaks. For nearly two hours, everybody the maiguard questioned had denied knowledge of the men’s existence, and when Mallam Ahmed finally found Solo — in a huddle of wheelchairs under the shade of a fake almond tree, some of the men bench-pressing, others puffing spliffs — the first thing Solo said was: ‘Police don seize de books o.’

Eleven sharp, Furo returned to Arinze’s office to find it empty. He stopped in the doorway, wedged from front and back by his surprise at the absence — an absence which to Furo was out of character for Arinze, who was the type that always kept his word. Furo was mistaken in this instance, as he discovered when a disembodied voice floated in through the French windows, making him flinch in shock. ‘I’m over here.’ It was Arinze.

Furo stepped out through the French windows. It was his first time on the balcony, his first sighting of the backyard scenery, and his umpteenth experience of the particular disorder that attended everyman solutions to everyone’s problems. As he took in the skyline, his gaze was captured by the battalions of plastic tanks mounted on towers of rusted rigging, each tank a sole source of water in the compound where it was stationed. And the rears of the fortressed houses, their concrete fences crowned by glass shards and metal spikes and razor wire. Also vying for attention was the sound and the smoky fury of countless generators. The nerve-grinding roar of individual power generation was as much a consequence of every-man-for-himself government as the lynch mobs that meted out injustice in public spaces. Private provision of public services had turned everyone into judge and executioner and turned everyone’s backyards into industrial wastelands. Every man the king of his house, every house a sovereign nation, and every nation its own provider of security, electricity, water. Lagos was a city of millions of warring nations.