‘And on the third day?’ mocked the supervisor.
‘I began to recover.’
‘You recovered.’
‘I began to.’
‘He began to,’ said Simon.
‘Yes.’
‘I see,’ said the supervisor.
‘We see.’
‘You better go in and see the manager.’
‘Yes. You better go and see him.’
‘Not without my permission,’ shouted Chako.
Omovo looked round at them, his heart beating fast. He felt rage simmering within him. Rage and defiance. He was about to say something insulting to the entire office when the main door opened. The manager’s nephew, who had failed his certificate examinations three times in a row, hurried into the room. He bustled towards the kettle and began tinkering with the cups. In the silence Omovo understood why the office mood had changed. The manager’s nephew was young, he looked fresh. He wore black trousers, a white shirt, and a red tie. He looked as if he was full of ready obedience. They nodded at one another.
Omovo turned and, without knocking, stormed into the manager’s office. Chako tried to stop him, but was too late. Omovo went in and shut the door behind him. The manager looked up once, his face expressionless, and proceeded to finish his cup of coffee, nibbling on a biscuit. Omovo approached his desk and stood there silently gazing at the manager.
After a few seconds Omovo discerned a certain pungent smell in the office. He wrinkled his nose. He knew. The manager, squirming in his seat, knew that he knew. The silence remained. Omovo brought out his handkerchief, covered his nose, and took two steps backwards.
‘That’s why I have a secretary,’ the manager said, eventually.
The smell grew worse, as if it too were positing a new law of corporate physics: that hot air rises to the top. Omovo refused to speak for a while. He held his breath, released it, and then breathed in measured shallowness. He looked round the manager’s office. He studied the table. He noticed the framed picture of his young wife, his gilded nameplate, his thick brown wallet, and thousands of documents. On the wall behind him, next to large portraits of the Head of State and the Director of the company, was a photograph of him in England. He was with other English officials of the company. He was in the background and distinguishable only because he was a lone black face amongst white ones. The rest of the walls had many scenes of Western capitals.
‘Sit down, Omovo,’ the manager said after a long silence.
The air conditioner droned softly. The smell had gradually diluted.
‘So what do you want?’
Still standing, Omovo said: ‘I want to know if I have been sacked.’
The manager smiled for the first time. ‘No, not at all. As a matter of fact your salary has been increased.’ He paused. ‘But you have been transferred to our Mile Twelve Branch.’
‘The department is very kind,’ Omovo said, changing stance.
‘What do you mean?’
‘What I said.’
‘Listen, you failed to turn up for work for three whole days. You had no sick leave, nothing.’
‘I was ill. I had been beaten up.’
The manager continued as if he hadn’t heard anything. ‘I could easily have recommended your being sacked. But I am a considerate man and our department is nothing if not accommodating. We are giving you the benefit of the doubt. We are giving you a chance to change your bad habits.’
‘Meanwhile you give your nephew the benefit of employment.’
The manager looked at him, anger flashing for a moment in his eyes. ‘These things happen, you know.’
‘Sure. But what if I refuse your offer?’
‘I’m afraid we’d have to lay you off. Millions out there are waiting for a job like yours.’
‘Well, I’m not accepting the transfer. It’s spiteful. You know I could never make Mile Twelve from Alaba even if I woke up at five o’clock.’
‘Excellent. You have spoken your mind. All is well taken. As I said, the department is accommodating. Put in your letter of resignation with immediate effect, claim your salary and allowances and go. Good luck to you. I have work to do, if you don’t mind.’
The manager picked up a file, indicating that the meeting was over. Omovo glared at him, then said in a voice of controlled rage:
‘I can see right through your pretence at good office relations. I’m not impressed. You don’t have to try and frustrate me any further. You’re very civilised, very decent. You’re shit. Time will wash you away.’
The manager threw down the file and exploded. ‘You’re mad, Omovo. God punish you for what you have just said. Take your money and get out. We don’t want people like you anyway!’
Omovo smiled, and left.
I
He collected his month’s salary along with a pro rata payment for his leave allowance, his overtime and his Christmas bonus for that year. It came to quite a substantial amount. He had never held so much money in his hands before.
He went back to the office. No one spoke to him and he addressed no one. He went through his desk, taking out things, his notepads, his felt tips, the various objects he had accumulated which would be of help to his painting. He put them in a plastic bag. The manager’s nephew stayed away. Simon left the office. The supervisor went off for an early lunch. Chako sat stolidly considering his football coupons. When Omovo had finished clearing his desk he left a note to his successor about the errors in the records. As he was about to leave Omovo suddenly felt sad. He felt that sad sickening feeling of being sacked, of uncertainty, of the faces he was leaving behind and might never see again, even of failure. He felt a twinge of loss at the little things about the office, the air conditioner always on high, the coolness of the place when no one was around, the serenity of drawing there after work when he was supposed to be doing overtime. He also felt, in advance, the loss of special relationships, the overheard gossip, the resentments that had become redundant, the parts of him that only the office brought out, the parts that die with the leaving.
But in spite of the difficult shedding of a skin that couldn’t grow with him, he had to leave. His shoes grated as he went down the corridor. The walls were yellow, freshly painted, clean. The corridor was empty. When the doors were opened he felt the cool air from the offices. A fine excitement, an almost defiant joy, grew within him at escaping from the grinding wheels of the company. He felt free. His mind was clear. He had decided never to work in an organisation again, never to be a cog in a wheel. He had sworn to set his sails to the fortunes of art. How was he to know what cruel and difficult seas his ship would travel?
As he passed the last of the offices, the door opened and one of the sales representatives stuck out his head. He was heavily bearded and rather fat. He saw Omovo and said urgently: ‘Omovo! Make two coffees for me and my girlfriend! Quick! And when you’ve finished get us some meat pies. We’re starving.’
Omovo took a few steps backwards, a mischievous smile on his lips. Through the open door he saw the sales rep’s girlfriend. She was very thin, wore a long silk gown, and was all pasted up with eye-shadow, rouge, and lipstick. Her skin had been unnaturally bleached with skin-lightening creams. She was peering at her bony face in a small mirror.
‘What are you looking at? Hurry! I don’t have all day. Or do you want me to bribe you first, eh?’
Omovo grinned. ‘That won’t be necessary,’ he said.
‘Good.’
‘Because you and your girlfriend can drink piss – and enjoy it!’
The rep’s mouth hung open in astonishment.
‘And watch your mouth. A fly might dive into it,’ Omovo added.
Without awaiting a reply he pushed on. He left the offices and said goodbye to the gateman. He didn’t feel so sad any more. He felt brave. Outside, the dense heat startled him. The smell of diesel oil rose from the overflowing gutters. There were traffic jams on all the roads. Two men were fighting near a shoe shop. He noticed a policeman secreti
vely accepting a bribe from a defaulting taxi driver. There were many flies and midges in the air. But he felt the double liberation of having quit work and of recovering from his fever.
He stopped outside Valentino’s Restaurant. He had always gone past it, looking in wistfully. The windows were tinted and it seemed plush inside. He had always wanted to go in and order himself a lavish three-course meal. For the first time he had enough money. ‘Why not now?’ he thought. He pushed open the doors and went in.
The air conditioner blasted cold air in his face. The restaurant was as comfortable as it looked. It was elaborately decorated. Bad paintings hung on the semi-marbled walls. The lights were blue, the music tinkled from the ceiling and there was a glass goldfish tank. There were armchairs, sofas, and cushion chairs covered with imitation velvet materials. He found a table and sat. A waiter soon came over.
‘What will it be, sir?’
‘I haven’t looked at the menu yet.’
‘Take your time, sir.’ The waiter, a middle-aged man in a blue and red uniform, bowed away stiffly.
The menu was almost entirely alien to him. He was a little confused by the exotic food names. Starters: pâté maison, mushrooms a la Grecque, stuffed courgettes. He decided to skip the starters. Main courses: poussin chasseur, tournedos maison, escalope de veal à la crème, entrecôte poivre, eminces de cabestu, scampi Provençale, avocado vinaigrette, pizza, chicken salad, jollof rice and pounded yam. He cursed his poor knowledge of international cuisine. And yet he didn’t want to settle for the merely familiar.
‘Have you made up your mind now, sir?’ the waiter said, mysteriously reappearing in the midst of his confusion.
‘Oh yes. Emm. I’ll have pizza, chicken salad and jollof rice.’
A mocking smile crossed the waiter’s face. ‘Any wines? Starters? Sweets?’
‘Sweets? What sweets? Oh. No sweets for me.’
‘Fine, sir. Wines? Starters?’
‘No starters.’
‘Can I suggest the stuffed courgettes, sir?’
‘Nothing stuffed for me, thank you.’
The waiter coughed. Discreetly. ‘Wines, sir?’
‘Wine?’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘Emm. Red wine. No, white wine. Cancel that. Just a glass of water, please.’
‘Just water.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Fine.’
‘And please…’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘I am not a sir.’
‘As you please.’
The waiter bowed away. Omovo gave a sigh of relief. He had begun to sweat. As he sat waiting for the food he remembered something Dele had said:
‘If you ever despair of going abroad, just step into a good restaurant and you are as good as there.’
He smiled at the memory. Who despairs of going abroad? he thought. He wondered if Dele had gone to the USA. He wondered how Okoro, who desperately wanted to join him, was taking it. He thought about how intensely the new symbol of progress had become going abroad – to the USA, to London, or Paris. He didn’t have the desire to go abroad. He wanted to stay home and bear witness. His brothers had both gone: if he went too who would keep the home front? Who would provide the continuity? Besides: where would he go, what would he do, who would pay his college fees? He envied the solidity that could belong to people like Keme: that of knowing the landscape, being seasoned by it, wrestling with its changes, watching its unfolding history, staying the course. It was the solidity he needed – that of working a fruitful but demanding tract of land. Yes. He would set his sails to the fortunes and rigours of art. He would grow in the landscapes, earth himself. How was he to know that he had chosen the most terrible path?
He looked around at the other clientele. A group at a big table caught his interest. Three white men seemed to be having a confused discussion with two Nigerians. They mixed badly. The white men were lightly dressed. The Nigerians wore suits and ties and they sweated. They were businessmen. The white men sat in a semi-circle and wholly dominated the table. They crowded the Nigerians with words in strange accents and with the tone of their voices. They were all sunburnt and they spoke loudly, in the manner of people who think that what they have to say is intrinsically interesting. Omovo picked up bits of their conversation and was amazed. One of the white men had come to work with an oil company. He said:
‘Our people still think of you as savages. You are remarkably civilised.’
One of the Nigerians, who obviously hadn’t understood what was said, burst out laughing. The other one said: ‘Pardon me?’
The second white man, Scottish, was returning home.
‘Had enough of this place. It’s a mess. You could run your country better,’ he growled.
The first Nigerian laughed again, beating his hand on his thigh. The second one looked away.
The third white man was a journalist. He wore a massive wrist watch. Turning to his companions, a bored disdainful expression on his mean face, he said: ‘I’ve come to write about the English abroad. For The Times, you know.’
‘What about the natives?’ the oil worker asked.
‘Who? Oh them. They’ve got their independence now. They can take care of themselves.’
‘But their country is a mess.’
‘Still very civilised though. A friendly people.’
The Nigerian businessmen smiled through the exchange as if they were being polite at uncomprehended jokes. They kept looking around the restaurant as if they hoped someone who knew them would see them in their elevated company. And when they spoke, trying as they were to sound like the white men, they got their accents mixed up. The whole exchange at the table was composed entirely of misunderstandings. It was only the embarrassed laughter of the more unctuous of the two businessmen that relieved the uneasy atmosphere.
By the time the waiter brought Omovo’s food he was furious. He burnt with rage. He thought about Ifeyiwa and the border clashes involving her village, how the ancestors of these white men had created the problem a hundred years before. He wondered at their insolence, their arrogance. Their exchanges had all but destroyed his appetite. Who despairs of going abroad? he asked himself again. If the white men were so insensitive in other people’s countries how would they be in theirs? He was furious and he wanted to get up and scream at them, insult them, but managed to control himself with a great effort of will. His hands trembled. He drank the glass of water and breathed deeply. When the moment passed he tried to concentrate on the food. He was disappointed with the pizza, which he couldn’t finish. In the end he ate very little. He ordered a Chapman. He drank and tried not to listen to the loud voices from the other table. Suddenly he wanted to escape, to get some air. He called for his bill.
When he saw it he could have fallen off his chair. The bills came to a fifth of his salary. With a set face he collected his change. The waiter stood beside his table longer than necessary, attracting attention to him. The white men stared at him. Omovo ignored them. He wiped his mouth with the serviette and smiled at the waiter. As he got up one of the businessmen released again his explosive laughter. The white men looked at one another, bewildered.
The journalist said: ‘I might put in a word or two about their sense of humour.’
‘You need one in a place like this,’ the Scotsman said. ‘Or you’d go bloody bonkers!’
The quieter businessman said: ‘When I was in London...’
The whole table, indeed the whole restaurant, went silent.
‘…I saw a fat woman dragged across the road by a small dog.’
The voices resumed their conversation. The pointless remark was ignored. The waiter blocked Omovo’s exit. His neck retained its stiffness, his eyes were determined, and he stared at Omovo. When Omovo dropped twenty kobo on the plate the waiter smiled.
‘I hope you enjoyed the dish – sir?’
Omovo, convinced that the waiter had rigged the bill, swearing that he would never eat there again, fled fr
om the restaurant with the supercilious voices of the white men ringing in his ears.
As he went home, he felt himself sweating. When he got to the Apapa residential area he found that he had to struggle against the current of the second wave of the ‘exodus’. The workers were pouring out for their afternoon and night shifts. He pushed against the grain of the people, against the mass of the crowds. He felt their urgencies, their violences, their fears. It took him a long time to get to Waterside. The crowd pushed him this way and that. He watched their faces, noted their infinite permutations of resilience and suffering. He noted the muscles beneath their clothes, the shapes of noses, the shadings of eye colours, the ruggedness of their jaws, the curious stains on faded shirts. He looked at the affluent surroundings, and through the well-cut hedges and whistling pines he saw the expatriate white kids watching the crowd through binoculars, secure on their balconies.
As he struggled against the waves of bodies that could easily have trampled him underfoot, he felt his armpits getting wet, felt his shirt sticking to his back, felt the dampness of his socks. Then he felt something drop on his shoulder, a wet weight. He looked and saw birdshit. He glanced upwards and saw nothing in the immediate expanse of the sky. He felt marked in some way. It was a very bright afternoon.
6
When he got home from the office, Blackie met him in the sitting room.
‘Do you know Ifeyiwa has run away?’ she asked, gently.
Omovo’s face contorted. He felt sick. ‘When?’
‘No one knows. Her husband thinks it was this morning. He came to look for you. I hope say he no go make trouble.’
Omovo was silent.
‘She was a fine girl.’
‘She was unhappy.’
‘Why?’
Omovo didn’t say.
At the backyard the compound people were gathered. Takpo was wailing about Ifeyiwa’s abandonment. His voice quivered. Tuwo was trying to comfort him with proverbs. The women advised him to go after her and ‘iron’ things with her parents. It was a noisy gathering; everyone contributed their opinion of where she might have gone, what should be done. Some suggested he go to the police. Others thought he should be patient. Omovo, unfortunately, went past on his way to the toilet. There fell an immediate accusatory silence. All the faces turned on him, the eyes bored into him. Someone said: