Like Joshua Said

  We knew this but we also knew that no teacher was idle enough to carry out an out and out reshuffle. They usually used our arrangements as a bed-rock and built their program from there, sending one child away from a trio – usually the middle one - and bringing in a stranger. By sitting together, we would maximise the chances that two of us would be landed with each other.

  ****

  I had been home for two week when I finally managed to track down Mr Okafor who worked as a lecturer at the University of Lagos. Our family knew him from Church; he was a staunch Catholic and had his finger in many church pies. He was chairman of the Laity council, in the executive of the Sacred Heart Society and held various positions in several capacities around the parish. I left for the university the following Monday after I arrived from the north as I wanted to give my father who was home at the time a chance to approach Mr Okafor first about my request before I came in. We could not afford to waste any more time than was strictly necessary, if we were to stand any chance of minimising as much as possible the risk of that common and dreaded fate of prolonged unemployment that befell about half of all graduates.

  Papa also had his ulterior motives for coming to my aid. He had only recently – a year ago - been the victim of a mass retrenchment that had hit his company and constantly shopped around for little avenues to buoy up his fast dwindling severance pay. His employed children were going to be a significant avenue for income so he made it his priority to try to get them working. He was very different now; he had aged some and the furrowed lines I’d always seen on his forehead had increased in numbers and deepened enough to trap formidable dirt. He was grumpier now and rarely had a smile or a kind word to give. There were too many of us, he’d often complained very much like our births hit him by surprise and at this time when we were all going through secondary and university education, he and my mother were struggling to cope.

  ‘Leave the children out of this,’ Mama would often chide when he got into his moods. ‘You decide to have all seven of them. No one forced you so you better find the money to take care of them.’

  ‘For how long?’ Papa had once retorted. ‘Why should I be wasting all my money sending them to school after school? They are old enough to work and to contribute towards the family upkeep.’

  ‘You mean to help you do your job?’ Mama was furious. ‘Was that what you had in mind from the beginning – to have lots of children to help you take care of your family?’

  My father had been true to his opinion though, and looked for every opportunity to help any one of us contribute to the family coffers.

  I toured the crowded university, trying to locate the faculty of science and medical department and ended up in a well furnished office.

  He was sat behind his desk looking the complete picture of a distinguished academic, greying at the temples and a pair of spectacles resting on the bridge of his nose, some distance from his eyes. I could detect no hint of recognition in his eyes as I greeted him and I knew that my task could be much more difficult than I thought.

  ‘I am Arinze Onyebuchi sir,’ I began. ‘Mr Onyebuchi’s son.’

  ‘Which Onyebuchi?’ he asked rather icily.

  I did not like his tone and my confidence crashed. ‘Mr Onyebuchi in the laity council sir.’

  ‘Mm, What can I do for you?’

  ‘I was wondering if you could help me get a lecturing position within the university. I am…’

  ‘Young man, I can’t help you with anything like that,’ Mr Okafor cut me short. ‘I told your papa that you should hand in your CV and I’ll see what I can do. The decision to employ you or not does not rest with me. I’ll only forward your CV to the right place.’

  ‘Yes sir. Thank you sir,’ I said, not sure what I was being grateful for.

  ‘Well, leave me your CV and I will look around for what vacancies there are and forward your CV for the position.’

  ‘Thank you sir. I don’t have my CV here with me. Can I bring it in tomorrow?’

  ‘I won’t be here tomorrow. You can leave it with Bridget in the office next door.’ He sharply turned his attention to the sheaf of papers on his desk and I took this as a sign of dismissal.

  ‘Thank you sir,’ I said again as I turned towards the door disappointed but eager to leave as good an impression as I possibly could. My journey home felt longer that day than the other times I had failed to find Mr Okafor. It was because deep down, I knew with a sinking feeling that my chances of getting a place in the university with the lecturer’s help were not much more enhanced now than before I spoke with him.

  Three weeks later, I was still at home and not even been invited for an interview. Mr Okafor had informed my father at Church that there were no vacancies at the university suitable for my skills, so I had been sending off application letters frantically to companies around. At first, I had stuck to vacancies that would use my training in Economics but these did not appear very often in adverts and were highly competitive. I could also feel my father’s patience wearing thin and I knew that my presence at home was not entirely welcome, especially, as I was not bringing any money in. I didn’t have a lot of company at home at this time either.

  My younger sisters, Oluchi and Obianuju were at university and every time, they came to visit, they made a note not to return home after graduating like I did. My two elder sisters had left university a year and two years before and both had left home not long after my father moved back in, the year before.

  ****

  I had taken to walking along the balcony of the second floor for my breaks now. Ireneh was rarely around that week and I was not sure that it would have made much of a difference if he had. I reckoned that it would take me at least a month to get used to the new experience of being on the top floor.

  I would lean on the rail and gaze down at the tumbling and racing children, a sea of two distinct colours and imagine I was charging in their midst sat on a horse with a sword in hand. My imagination was very stretchy and the films I had seen at Christmas – there was always good TV at Christmas – of battle scenes replete with mingling men bearing and employing all manner of arms; pistols, muskets and swords in fiery hand to hand combat - were feeding my monster.

  Ireneh’s tales of the daring deeds of his brothers also sprung to mind as my imagination took a firmer grasp of me; those boys would have to be numb to pain and blood, I thought and, obviously, that must be rubbing off on Ireneh. I thought of the afternoon he had pulled out the glittering blade of a short sword in front of me, swearing to do something about his brother and I shuddered.

  Try as I might for the next few minutes, though, I couldn’t shake the thought off. The numbness I was confident Ireneh’s brothers had might indeed have passed on to the lad but I was not sure if the look I’d seen in Ireneh’s eyes that afternoon in the garage had been of someone dead to violence or something else. He had certainly unnerved me and I hadn’t recognised him in that instant. Maybe that was what he’d meant by saying he was a different boy because it certainly had not been Ireneh standing before me at that moment.

  We hadn’t spoken about the incident since then not that there was much to say; I’d love to ask him exactly what he meant to do to his brother but then again, I was sure he simply meant some kind of rebellion, maybe that someday he would put up a fight and wave the weapon in his brother’s face. There was not much else my friend could do and, given his brother’s prowess, I could only hope he came out in one piece.

  His stories had dwindled from that point; he still talked a lot but of ordinary things, of teachers, other pupils, school facilities, games - nothing that I really wanted to hear. It was like he’d had a memory loss of some sort and had become a different person. The closest he had ever come to touching on the subject of that weird afternoon was while he was describing an incident of an armed robbery attack that someone had told him about to a group of us. This was about three weeks after I had been to his. The conversation had begun with tales of the exp
loits of wild squads who acted as vigilante groups for local areas and had slowly blossomed into stories about the scourge of armed robbers.

  ‘It was in Festac town. The robbers dragged the papa to the ground, made him lie down and asked him to bring out everything he owned. The man told them that he didn’t have anything and they simply broke two bottles on his head.’ Ireneh showed no signs of discomfort as he continued. ‘After they had beaten him for some time, they searched the flat but did not find a lot to take away. “What are you doing in a place like this if you don’t have anything at all?” they asked the man and the man replied that all fingers were not equal. So the robbers said, “ehen, if that is the case, we will make them equal.” They put the man’s hand on top of the table, took an aké,’ he suddenly turned to me at this point and said – ‘you have seen an aké before, ’ – ‘and slashed the man’s fingers across the middle,’ he finished.

  ****

  I have two younger brothers, Raphael and Chikwe; Raphael is directly junior to me and although we had grown up with girls on either side of us, we had never been close. We were simply too different to bond together and it didn’t help that he had spent a lot of time in a boarding school and his holidays staying with my aunt who lived in Akure. That was the most education he was prepared to receive, something that seemed to suit my father. Raphael had declared himself out immediately after his third unsuccessful attempt at the annual university matriculation exam. He did not have any time for book work, he said, and wanted to learn a trade. My mother had had her misgivings but my father promptly gave his blessing.

  ‘Go well my son,’ Papa had said, speaking formally. ‘Not everyone is cut out for academic work and it is tradesmen that help build our economy. I will speak to Mr Obiefuna to see if we can find you an apprenticeship place.’ Mr Obiefuna was an old friend of Papa’s who dealt in motor spare parts at the famous Onitsha market.

  Mama had bowed out at the tone of finality in Papa’s speech and at the fact that my brother had seemed delighted at the idea. This was about a year and a half before I went to Youth Service and I remember the little joke I had made at his departure.

  ‘Abeg go and make us lots of money; who knows, maybe I will join you in your trade someday.’

  ‘You, civil servant,’ Raphael had joked back. ‘You won’t ever need us; there is enough government money for you to steal.’

  At the moment, reports reaching us of him told a good story; he was highly ranked among the boys working for his master and he was earning himself a small fortune in tips and commission. I might indeed have to join him someday.

  Chikwe was the youngest and was in the final year of secondary school and, though, he was my only company, he didn’t suffer as much torment as I did - not that there was any reason why he should, nor did I ever enjoy his company for long. There was always some excuse for him to leave the house; this was understandable, he was a teen and had lots of friends.

  As the weeks passed, Papa became more and more insufferable; he now seemed to make out that the misfortune of the family finances was my fault, more so as it had become known in the fifth week after my return that I had shirked my religion.

  ‘What is this rubbish I hear about you not being a Christian?’ he had asked.

  I had let the cat out of the bag the day before when Mama and I’d had a small argument over prayer. The night prayer had gone on too long for any unfaithful person and I’d made my distaste show by sighing constantly and as loudly as I could and by using the bathroom frequently.

  ‘What is the matter, Arinze!?’ My mother had yelled at me as soon as the prayer had come to an end. ‘What is your problem – that you would keep sighing like that while we were praying to our God? Is this the kind of respect you show to God?’

  ‘Mama, I think God heard you the first time. You just kept repeating the same thing over and over again.’

  ‘So, it is me now? I am the one with the problem now because I don’t pray the way you would like me to – is that it?’

  ‘No, as a matter of fact, I wouldn’t like you to pray at all. I don’t pray, not anymore because I am no longer a Christian.’ The tone of my voice had fallen now, almost to a whisper. And then as if to clarify, I added, ‘I don’t think there is any reason to be one.’

  Mama had been as still as a statue for a few seconds looking totally shocked.

  ‘Are you mad? Are you sure that you are ok? You, the one unemployed, looking for a job, not sure of a future – and you are the one toying with God?’

  ‘Mama, you make God sound like electricity,’ I replied, ‘It is not..’

  I didn’t get far; I saw a swift movement and saw a light flash inside my head as my mother’s palm connected with the side of my left eye. I reeled back as I heard her lash out. ‘Something is wrong with you, do you hear? The evil in you will leave as long as you are in this house. That evil spirit will be cast out in Jesus name.’

  There was a time when those words would have spurred me on, encouraged me that I was on the right path – seen as different, weird, alternative, even perceived to be possessed. That would have been my goal, my badge of honour in the days when I meant to revolutionise the world. But those days were far behind me and I had a more pressing task of building a life for myself. So this time, her words expressing her belief that I was disturbed didn’t give me any comfort. She had railed on into the night and I noted with muted sadness as I left the living room that I needed to place a limit to the length of time I could spend at home in my current relatively idle state. A few days later and with Papa also on my case, my days looked very numbered.

  ‘You hear me?’ he had pressed on. ‘I ask you a question.’

  ‘Yes, I am no longer a Christian,’ I answered.

  ‘Well, I am sorry for you and I am sorry for your soul,’ Papa replied. ‘But you will not do that rubbish under my roof; this is a house of Christians. I have said, like Joshua, that my household and I will serve the Lord. You will not sink the family ship like Jonah almost did to those sailors. I will cast you out first. When you leave this house, and that should be soon for your sake, you can be a non-Christian but as long as you are under my roof, you must obey and honour the Lord.’ It was too long a speech for a reply but Papa was in one of his laying down the law moods and anything went.

  ****

  Mrs Deji didn’t do exactly what we expected her to; she had come in that morning and announced that she would be changing our sitting positions. Oddly enough, she began from the rear of the class and made a comic mess of class order by placing some of the biggest and notoriously dull boys in more exposed positions at the front of the class. She definitely caused a stir when she lodged Bamidele the ugliest and most unkempt eleven-year old I ever saw between two rather fragile looking little girls. ‘And I’ll be watching you for any trouble,’ she said in a tone of finality to the boy. That did nothing to calm the frightened girls who looked like they would burst into tears the moment he took his next breath.

  As she swayed past our half of the row, her walk drawing attention to her shapely curves, the strong scent of her perfume came wafting through so strong that it cut off natural oxygen for about three seconds. She went heavy on make up; she was so thickly done up that I worried that the thin and long cane she used for discipline would leave a stain if it hit my shirt. She was a beautiful woman, beautiful in the way that a lot of other women around would say of her, ‘Na money kill am – she’s got a rich beau.’

  But I was not in the least focused on her appearance, not at that moment. For me, my happiness the rest of the year depended on what choice she would make among my group in the next few minutes.

  ‘What is your name?’ she asked, presently, staring at me.

  ‘Arinze ma,’ I replied after pointing at my own chest as if to say ‘are you really talking to me?’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Eze ma.’

  ‘Ireneh.’

  ‘Stand up. How old are you?’ We got up and we gave o
ur ages. We were all ten but Ireneh stood tallest of the three of us and I could see the teacher looking at him interestedly. My heart sank.

  It was Ireneh who was taken away and sent to live in the midst of two girls, though thankfully, that was at the desk right behind us.

  ‘Ireneh, don’t worry. Nothing is spoilt. Eze and I are just in front of you so we are all still together,’ I said to my friend who looked as dejected as a child told Christmas had been cancelled.

  ‘And you girls better behave yourselves,’ Eze added staring evilly at the two innocent girls who were as disappointed as the three of us.

  ‘Face your front,’ the bigger of the two girls flashed back at him.

  The way we saw it, it still worked out three of us against the two girls behind that is if they were to give our friend any trouble. The girl brought to replace Ireneh and who sat between us had been transported from a far end of the class and had no links with the other two behind.

  ****

  Prayer, the evening Njideka came home, was protracted and heavier than usual; Mama was in charge as usual and mentioned as a request every human need recognised by anyone alive. She included every member of our extended family, hers and her husband’s, and prayed that all our wishes be granted. She expanded onto the wider society – the sick, the hungry, the dying and even the dead. No one was out of reach; she took longer with her words, emphasising each and she paused for longer between requests. I remained calm throughout and by the time, the prayer was over, my knees were as hard beaten as a camel’s. It was usually family time after night prayer and we would watch TV together, waiting for some late night movie. These days, though, I had broken with that practice leaving my parents and my brother together in the sitting room while I scoured newspapers in my room seeking out some new job opportunity.