A. Barrett - Blackass

‘That’s impossible!’ Obata burst out, and dropped into his seat. ‘I saw that CV with my own eyes, I have it here.’ He swept his hands through the papers on his desk, plucked up two stapled sheets, held them close to his face and ran his finger along the script. ‘See here, it says that Wariboko is Nigerian! And … and … attended Ambrose Alli University!’ He flung down the résumé and glared at Furo. ‘Come on, you — a white Nigerian? That is just not possible!’

‘But it’s my CV—’

Obata cut him off with a shout. ‘I say that is not possible!’

Despite the chill in the room, Furo felt his palms grow moist with heat, and he resisted the urge to wipe them against his trousers. His eyes roamed the walls, the ceiling … on the ceiling above Obata’s head, a tiny green moth was flinging itself against the glow of the fluorescent tube, over and over again. Obata’s breathing sounded like beating wings.

‘I say that is not possible!’ Obata repeated.

In a cowed voice, Furo started, ‘Excuse me, sir,’ but Obata interposed with a raised arm and flattened hand. ‘Hold on,’ he said, and took his own advice. Arranging his features into a parody of calmness, he inhaled deeply and exhaled through his mouth. ‘Listen carefully before you say anything,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what your mission is, but I advise you to give it up. We’re a respectable company. You can’t just walk in here and tell me some cock-and-bull story. I will investigate everything to the very last! Secondary school, university, even youth service, all those places have records. I will personally contact the registrar at Ekpoma—’ He picked up the résumé and waved it at Furo. ‘So just think very well before you talk.’

As Obata spoke, Furo began to see that he had no past as he was and no future as he had been. His folder of documents now felt useful only as fuel for Obata’s anger. He had no hope of getting this job, any job at all, not as long as his own credentials proved him a liar. He felt bone-tired, hope-weary. He had wasted his efforts chasing after the same thing he was running from. There was nothing left to do but turn back home. It was time to face his family with the truth.

And yet he said, his voice shaking with conviction, ‘I am Furo Wariboko.’

Fury contorted Obata’s face. ‘Look here,’ he said in a voice as deep as a shout in a well, ‘do I look like a fool?’ He stood up and strode around the desk towards Furo. The résumé, folded in his hand, was raised above his head as if to swat an insect. ‘Do I look stupid?’

The squeak of hinges stopped Obata in his tracks, and after he lowered his arm, Furo looked around. Standing in the doorway was a man of average height. His frail shoulders, slim arms, and small feet — which were laced up in blue canvas sneakers — gave him the look of a bully’s punching bag. But his forceful features put the lie to first impressions: bushy eyebrows set in a straight line over big-balled eyes, his forehead broad and high-domed. Between wide nose and pointed chin, a thin-lipped, stubborn mouth. And an aura of power that he wore as lightly as his stonewashed jeans and green-striped batakari.

Obata found his tongue. ‘Good morning, Arinze,’ he said in a civil tone. The man nodded acknowledgement, and striding into the office, he held out his hand to Furo. His grip was strong. ‘I’m Ayo Abu Arinze,’ he said.

‘Good morning, sir,’ Furo dipped his head in respect.

‘Please, call me Abu,’ Arinze said with a quick smile. Breaking the handshake, he turned to Obata. ‘I thought I heard shouting.’

Unease flickered in Obata’s face. ‘It’s just a small matter, a misunderstanding,’ he said, and cleared his throat. ‘I’m handling it.’

Arinze nibbled on his bottom lip, and stared steadily at Obata, a speculative light in his eyes. ‘What happened to your shirt?’

Obata glanced down, and began brushing off his shirt with his left hand. ‘I spilled some food,’ he muttered without looking up.

Arinze turned back to Furo. ‘If you don’t mind my asking, why are you here?’

‘I came for the job interview.’

With a lift of his eyebrows, Arinze asked, ‘The salesperson job?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘So what’s the problem?’ Arinze’s gaze was directed at Obata.

‘This man is lying. He’s an impersonator. He claims his name is Wariboko!’ Obata’s tone was affronted. He drew closer to Arinze and extended the résumé to him. ‘See the CV he sent.’

Arinze scanned the sheets in silence, and then he said, ‘Mr Wariboko?’

‘Yes,’ Furo answered.

‘What’s your date of birth?’

‘Sixth of May, 1979.’

‘Your secondary school?’

‘Baptist High School.’

‘Where?’

Furo stared at Arinze. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘What town is the school in?’

‘Oh,’ Furo said, relief washing through his voice. ‘Port Harcourt.’

‘What are your hobbies?’

Furo thought a moment. ‘Swimming, travelling and reading.’

‘And your mother’s maiden name?’

‘Osagiede.’

‘That’s not what it says here.’

Furo’s brow creased in perplexity; he raised his hand to massage his nape. ‘My mother’s maiden name is not on my CV,’ he said at last.

‘It’s not,’ Arinze agreed, and lowered the résumé. He spoke to Obata. ‘I would like to interview Mr Wariboko myself. Is that OK?’

The stain on Obata’s shirt rose and fell with his breathing. ‘I guess,’ he said, and averting his face, he added tonelessly, ‘What about the others? Do you still want me to interview them?’

‘By all means do,’ Arinze said. ‘We still need a salesperson.’ He walked to the door, pulled it open, and stood to one side. ‘After you, Mr Wariboko. Let’s finish this in my office.’

The stuffiness of Human Resources had left its impression on Furo’s mind. So much so that when Arinze opened the door to his office, Furo, disoriented by the burst of daylight that lit up the room like a terrarium, hesitated so long on the threshold that Arinze touched his elbow to urge him forwards. Leading Furo to a glass-top desk the size of a ping-pong table, Arinze said, ‘Please have a seat,’ and inclined his head at two soft-leather chairs arranged in front. ‘Coffee?’ he asked after Furo was seated, but Furo shook his head no. While Furo cast furtive glances at the room’s decor — the window ledges decorated with a plethora of bric-a-brac, the white walls adorned with colour-splashed paintings and brooding masks and a samurai sword in its wooden sheath: ornaments announcing a moneyed, well-travelled life — Arinze strode to the coffee table beside the open French windows and poured a mug of coffee, its woodlands aroma rising with clouds of steam. Returning to the desk, he set down the mug and sank into his swivel chair. A shellacked bookcase covered the wall behind the desk from floor to ceiling. To Furo’s bemused gaze it seemed about to topple from the weight of books.

‘Mr Wariboko,’ Arinze began, and rested his elbows on the desk with his hands cupping his mug. He pinned Furo under the force of his stare. ‘I’ll be frank with you — we need a man like you on the team.’ He paused for his meaning to sink in, and then said, ‘I’m about to offer you a job. But first of all, I need you to answer three questions. And I expect the truth.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Furo responded in a too-loud voice. He struggled to keep a straight face, tried not to grin with pleasure, and failed. His mouth felt full of teeth.

‘Another thing,’ Arinze said, smiling back. ‘Please don’t call me “sir”.’ He took a sip from his mug, set it down, and rubbed his palms. ‘First question. Is your name really—’ he glanced down at the résumé on his desk, ‘Furo Wariboko?’