‘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.
‘I’m talking to you!’
A sharp-toed pair of shoes – oxblood leather finely cracked, the uppers lopsided from long wear, black laces untidily knotted – appeared in Furo’s line of sight. He raised his head.
‘Yes, you, don’t act as if you didn’t hear me. Or you don’t like black people?’
Tall man, lean and dark, with a round small head from which his cheekbones stuck out. In the corners of his mouth white flecks of saliva showed.
‘I don’t understand,’ Furo said, and took a step backwards.
The man barked with laughter, a false laugh, showering spittle. Furo gave a start as he was strafed in the face; he fought the urge to raise his hand as a shield. Scattered titters drifted along the queue, and when he stole a look, a gang of eyes confronted him.
‘My elder brother lives in Poland.’ The man stared at Furo as if aw
aiting a reply. Furo took another step backwards. ‘Where are you going?’ The man’s tone was surprised, and striding forwards to close the gap between them, he crowded Furo with his height and sun-beaten odour. ‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’ he demanded, his Adam’s apple jumping.
Furo managed in a calm voice, ‘What does that have to do with me?’
Sadness suffused the man’s face. ‘Your people have refused to give me a visa. I’ve applied four times. My brother is getting tired of inviting me.’
‘I’m not from Poland,’ Furo said.
‘Did I say you were from Poland?’ At Furo’s silence, the man added in a softened tone, ‘You came for the job interview?’
Furo’s nod set off a flurry of exclamations from the queue. The person ahead in line, a Deeper Life-looking woman – hair banished into a scarf, no earrings on, and dressed in a polyester skirt suit of baggy cut – glared at him with fuck-you intensity. The animosity in the air was so noxious that for an instant he thought of leaving. For an instant only. He needed the job more than he feared a lynching. Lucky then that he didn’t have to face his convictions, because the tension eased when the mob leader – this idiot who wants to get me in trouble, Furo thought with a flash of hatred – raised his voice: ‘It’s a nonsense job anyway.’ He turned his attention back to Furo. ‘You have to go inside and write down your name, then collect a number from Tosin, the woman at the front desk. She will call you in by your number.’
Relief flooded Furo’s guts. ‘Thank you,’ he said quickly, and then stood waiting, uncertain of how to take his leave. He wondered if he should shake hands to show his gratitude and dispense the man’s assumptions about his feelings towards black people, but the handshake it turned out wasn’t needed, as the man seemed to have forgotten the grudge he held. He grinned at Furo, placed a hand on his shoulder in a gesture of affability, then bent his face close and said, ‘I like you. You don’t talk through your nose like other oyibo.’
Furo forced a smile. His face itched from the flying spittle.
‘Black and white, we are all brothers,’ the man continued. ‘We should support each other, you know, like Bob Marley, one love.’ He held up his free hand with the middle and index fingers entwined, and waved these under Furo’s nose. ‘We should be like one. I plan to marry oyibo when I reach your country. My brother’s wife is oyibo. She’s the one inviting me—’
Furo interrupted him. ‘I have to go and put my name down.’
‘Yes, go and write your name,’ the man agreed, and nodded vigorously, but did not release his grip on Furo’s shoulder. ‘You will get the job, for sure. Me and you have plenty things to talk about.’ His eyes bored into Furo’s, and his face hardened, shed its friendliness, twisted into a scowl. ‘Watch out for Obata!’
The vehemence of his words spattered Furo with spit, and this time he couldn’t help it, he raised a hand to wipe his face before muttering, ‘OK, thanks.’ He shrugged off the man’s hold, drew away from him, and ran the gauntlet of hostile faces towards the building entrance.
The receptionist smiled at Furo from her chair. The push-button phone on her desk had started ringing as Furo entered, but she ignored it. She gave him her full attention.
‘Are you Tosin?’ Furo asked.
‘Yes, I am. How may I help you, sir?’
‘Someone told me to come in here and collect a number from you.’
The puzzled expression that leapt into the oval of Tosin’s face was quickly replaced by a smile of apology. ‘I’m sorry about the mix up,’ she said. ‘You must have spoken to one of the applicants. We’re interviewing for a vacancy.’ She flipped open the visitors notepad on her desk and picked up a biro. ‘Who are you here to see?’
The phone had fallen silent, but the air vibrated with anticipation of its next ring. The Haba!-branded clock on the wall above Tosin’s head pointed to nine minutes past eleven.
Furo said, ‘I’m here for the eleven o’clock interview. I’m really sorry I’m late, but I’ve been here – I’ve been outside for the past fifteen minutes. My name is Furo Wariboko.’
Tosin’s eyes widened. ‘You mean the interview for the salesperson job?’
‘Yes,’ Furo said.
The biro slipped from Tosin’s fingers, clattered on the desk, and as if to complete her embarrassment, it evaded her scrabbling hands and rolled to the floor. She was bending to pick it up when the phone rang. She jerked upright in her seat, snatched the receiver from its cradle, and pressed it to her ear. Her eyes avoided Furo all through her low-voiced conversation, and by the time she replaced the receiver, she had regained composure. ‘OK,’ she said with a light clap of her hands, and rising to her feet, she looked at Furo. ‘Please come with me.’
He followed her up a staircase that ended in a hallway lined on one side with doors. Each door was fitted with a copper-coloured plaque announcing function. SALES. MARKETING. IT. LAVATORY. The last office, the door closing the hallway, bore a plaque that read, AYO ABU ARINZE. Tosin halted in front of the second-to-last door. HUMAN RESOURCES.
‘Yes?’ a surly voice responded to her knock, and she cracked the door open. ‘I’ve brought one of the candidates for the salesperson job. I think you—’ A cough cut off her words, followed by the abrupt clatter of cutlery. The man spoke, his angry words slurring through a mouthful of food. ‘But I told you to wait! Is something wrong with your ears?’ Tosin shot back, ‘Just stop there, Obata, I don’t have time for your rudeness this morning.’ Throwing open the door, she waved Furo in. As he stepped forwards there was a gasp, and the man seated behind the desk leapt to his feet and spilled his plate of stewed beans. ‘See now!’ he snarled, staring down at his shirt, and then he looked up at Furo and stammered out, ‘My apologies, sir, but … surely …’ he swung his gaze to Tosin and a furious note entered his voice, ‘you’ve made a mistake!’
‘No mistake,’ Tosin replied, her tone impassive. ‘His name is Furo Wariboko and he’s here for the salesperson job.’ Without another word, she pulled the door shut behind her.
Obata was still on his feet, one hand gripping the desk and the other his plate. His mouth hung open, and in his face irritation and disbelief mixed like the mess of beans in his cheeks. He noticed the direction of Furo’s gaze, and closed his mouth, then bent down and pushed his plate under the desk. Straightening back up, he swiped his hand across his lips. With the same hand he jabbed a finger at Furo and said in a voice gruff with challenge, ‘You are Furo Wariboko?’
Furo nodded yes. In the wall behind Obata an ancient air conditioner hummed, rattled, regained its rhythm, and dripped water into an empty paint tub placed underneath.
‘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.’
Blackass: A Novel Page 2
