Blackass: A Novel

by A. Igoni Barrett

  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.

  In the far corner of the balcony, Arinze was stooped over the railing with his forearms dangling out. When Furo drew close to him, he spoke without looking up, like he was resuming an old conversation. ‘The most painful thing is the constant disappointment. Everything in this country prepares us for that feeling. One disappointment after another …’ His voice trailed off, and Furo grunted to show he was listening, and then snuck a glance at him. Bitterness showed in the squeeze of Arinze’s lips, but his voice was untouched when he spoke again. ‘I’ve scrapped the special vendors. It was a failure. I should have known better.’ He bit his bottom lip, then straightened up from the railing and turned to Furo. ‘Let’s get to work.’

  Once inside, they took their seats at the desk, and Arinze read through sales data on his computer screen before declaring satisfaction with Furo’s performance. Furo had visited seven companies in four days, sold ninety-one books, and brought in orders for about three hundred. ‘Not bad for your first week,’ Arinze said in a tone of approval; but the next instant, in a voice veered on the businesslike, he instructed Furo that he was only to go out for marketing assignments on Monday of the following week, because on Wednesday they would be travelling to Abuja for a crucial meeting, and it was essential that Furo prepare for it.

  ‘Who are we meeting?’ Furo asked.

  ‘Alhaji Jubril Yuguda.’ Arinze must have seen recognition in Furo’s face, because he nodded once and then said in a voice as soft as a prayer: ‘The big man himself.’ Giving up all pretence of concealing his exhilaration, he leaned forwards on the glass surface of the desk, his presence looming with the parallax creep of his reflection. ‘You must have heard of Yuguda’s project, it’s been all over the news: the lorry driver employment scheme. OK, perfect. It kicks off this month, the seventeenth. One of the project objectives is to give the drivers some business training, so that they can set up their own SMEs. That’s where we come in. Yuguda wants books. Lots and lots and lots of business books.’ Arinze’s tone kept dropping lower as the books piled up on his tongue, until finally, under the weight of all that hope, he sank back in his chair. ‘It’s the big time, Frank,’ he said, his anxious gaze holding Furo’s. ‘It can change everything for us.’

  The one o’clock sun was the fiercest it had been since 19 June. It was a sweating Furo, irked by the slow progress of Iquo and Tosin as they headed back to the office from lunch at the buka, who finally found refuge in the reception’s coolness from his dread of sunburn. He left the chatting ladies at the foot of the stairs, and as he walked down the hallway towards his office, he met Kayode emerging with the crash of flushing water from the lavatory. Over the past week Furo had been validated in his impression that Kayode was the opposite of Headstrong, as since their brief exchange on his first day of work the driver hadn’t spoken to him again. For this reason, a niggling curiosity, Furo halted by Kayode, greeted him in a cordial tone, and said the first thing that came to mind: he asked him if he knew where Headstrong was. Kayode kept his gaze on the floor as he shook his head no, all the while maintaining his grip on the lavatory doorknob. ‘If you see him, tell him to come and see me,’ Furo said, and then turned towards his office with the eerie suspicion that Obata was spreading evil gossip around the office.

  Furo was Googling the Yuguda Group when a knock sounded on his door. ‘Headstrong,’ he called out distractedly, and as the door opened to admit Tosin, he exclaimed, ‘Hey beautiful!’ He was rewarded with a supernova smile. Tosin flitted across to his desk, rested her hips against the edge, then cast a glance at his laptop screen and said, ‘What are you up to?’

  ‘Some research on the Yuguda Group. I’m travelling to Abuja with Abu on Wednesday. We’re meeting Alhaji Yuguda.’

  ‘I know. That’s why I’m here. I was instructed to book your flights. I want to confirm what name you’ll be travelling under.’

  ‘Oh,’ Furo said, and his tone supplied the missing ‘no’. He had just realised he would need ID to fly, and since the only official document in his possession belonged to Furo Wariboko, he would be forced to travel under that name. That was the last thing he wanted, this pulling back to a place he had left behind. This resurrection of a self he had buried. All these questions and challenges from HR, from Obata and even Tosin. While thinking these thoughts, Furo had risen from his seat, and he tramped around the office until he saw Tosin watching him. Reaching a quick decision, he stopped in front of her and said, ‘Can you give me some time? I’ll let you know by Monday.’

  ‘We have to book early,’ Tosin said. She paused before adding, ‘I’ll wait till Monday.’ And finally, in the gentlest of voices: ‘I hope I’m not prying, but which name is really yours?’

  Despite her stated hope, she was prying full steam ahead.

  Furo was attracted to Tosin, he had admitted that already. He knew the feeling was mutual. Since they’d begun lunching together the signs of her affection had grown stronger with passing days and lengthening conversations. From the start he had shown his enjoyment of her company with light flirtation. Not today though, and not, as she might think, because of Iquo’s presence, but
because yesterday, while making love to Syreeta, he had imagined Tosin in her place. The guilty sting in the tail of that fantasy had stunned him back to his senses. Tosin was not Syreeta. Not Syreeta who asked no questions, not even about his buttocks; who revealed nothing about herself, not over food or in bed; and with whom it felt good to be bad.

  Furo spoke, his tone cutting, ‘My name is Frank Whyte.’ He averted his face from the mercury surge of hurt in Tosin’s eyes, and then he walked the long way round his desk. Standing beside his chair, he said, ‘You’ll have to excuse me, I need to get back to work,’ and when the door closed behind her, he relaxed his features with a sigh, then sat down, picked up his phone, and searched through the contacts until he found the number he’d stored as Passport Deji. The call was answered by the voice he recognised. ‘Afternoon,’ Furo responded to the man’s hello, and then began his introduction: ‘I’m the guy—’

  ‘I remember,’ Passport Deji cut him off. ‘You’re the oyibo who get Nigerian name.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Furo replied, and then he said he had changed his name and he needed a new passport by Tuesday at the latest. He ended with the question that was burning a hole in his pocket: ‘How much will it cost me?’ Passport Deji was silent a long time. ‘It’s not possible,’ he said at last, his voice doleful at the loss of business. ‘Not in Lagos. Your fingerprint have already enter immigration computer. You must go to Abuja. That nah the only place where you fit do a new passport with another name.’

  After the call, Furo chuckled through a long list of paraprosdokians – phrases with unexpected endings, such as (1) Money can’t buy happiness, but it sure makes misery easier to live with; (19) You’re never too old to learn something stupid; and (37) If you’re supposed to learn from your mistakes, why do some people have more than one child? – which were in a chain email forwarded by Tetsola, until three o’clock came and went. Afterwards he tried to make up for his misuse of office time by spending the next hour reading up on Yuguda’s business, but by five o’clock he was sugar-sick from gleaning details in online tabloids. He had Monday and Tuesday to continue his research, and so he gave up for the day, and shut down his laptop, and was reaching for his bag when the door to his office flew open. The startled leap of his heart hauled him to his feet, but he regained his calm when Zainab said from the doorway, ‘Thank God I caught you! Please, Frank, I have a favour to ask.’ Releasing her grip on the doorjamb, she placed her hand on the bulge of her belly, and gulping air like a blowfish, she shuffled into the office on legs bowed by the weight of life. Furo hurried round his desk to meet her halfway. This was the first time she had entered his office, and because of the straight cut of her satiny jellaba, it was also the first time he had noticed how advanced her pregnancy was.

  ‘Do you want to sit?’ he asked as he took her elbow. In response she shook her hijabed head, then leaned against him, and as he led her towards the table he said, ‘I hope the baby’s treating you well? Is this your first?’

  ‘Ah, no, my third,’ she answered with a fatigued smile, and rested her haunches against his desk. ‘But this one is giving me more trouble than the boys. It’s a girl.’

  ‘How many months?’

  ‘Almost eight. I’ll do my CS in August, after Ramadan ends, Insha’Allah.’ She fell silent to catch her breath, and then glanced around his office with interest before she said, ‘Let me not keep you. The favour I want to ask is, we just received an order for fifty books, but the customer wants us to deliver them today. He’s in Lagos Island, near Awolowo Road. Your driver told me you pass there on your way home. Can you please drop off the books for me?’

  ‘Of course, no problem, I can do that,’ Furo said.

  ‘O se o, Frank.’ She reached out and patted his hand. ‘Do you speak Yoruba?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Ah-ah, why not? Your girlfriend hasn’t taught you yet?’

  Furo gave a chuckle at the fishing in her question. ‘I don’t have a girlfriend,’ he said.

  ‘But still,’ Zainab stated in a voice from which dangled something hooked. ‘You can’t stay in Lagos and not speak Yoruba. I’ll teach you myself. In fact, you should have a Yoruba name by now. I’ll give you one—’ She fell silent, a squall brewed in her face, and she clamped her lips in pain as her hand rubbed her belly in commiserative circles. After her sigh of release indicated the spell had passed, she smiled a sweaty smile, and jerking her thumb in the direction of her bump, she quipped, ‘I can’t teach you anything until this one has come.’

  Neither her suffering nor her jesting could quell the irritation Furo had felt at her suggestion of giving him another name, and so he said in a dour tone: ‘Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.’

  Zainab searched his face, then heaved up from the desk and toughened her voice. ‘I’ll give your driver the books and the delivery address,’ she said. ‘The customer will sign the invoice. I’ll collect the duplicate from you on Monday. I appreciate the help.’ Placing her hands on her belly, she clutched it like a dance partner, and then started towards the door, leaving behind a trail of pheromones that hinted at reproach.

  With Zainab gone, Furo packed up his laptop, exited his office, and then halted for an awkward moment at the top of the stairwell and adjusted the bag on his shoulder in readiness to see Tosin, whose voice he could hear below. The first thing he sighted on reaching the bottom step was Headstrong in front of the reception desk. His arms rested on a carton that stood on the desk, and he was listening to Tosin, who was seated. The hum of their voices continued without pause as Furo strode past the desk. He had unlocked the car and was waiting in the back seat by the time Headstrong emerged from the building, the carton in his arms. The entrance door closed in slow motion, pulled back by its own weight, and then it squealed open again as Tosin came through with her handbag in one hand and a carryall in the other. While Headstrong headed for the back of the car to stow the carton, Tosin startled Furo by catching his gaze. Making a beeline for the car, she halted beside the window by which he sat, her silent form blocking the light.

  ‘Hello,’ Furo offered. His voice came out squeezed. ‘Hello too,’ Tosin responded, and as she let the silence do the rest of her talking, he decided to try again. ‘Are you travelling?’

  ‘No. I’m spending the weekend in Ajah.’

  Furo almost giggled with relief. ‘That’s my direction. I can give you a lift.’

  ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ Tosin said drily. When she took a step towards the front of the car, Furo said, ‘Hold on a sec,’ and throwing open the back door, he leapt out. ‘Let me have that,’ he said, and grabbed the carryall from her hand. After she climbed into the back seat and scooted over for him, he placed the carryall between them, and then pulled the door shut. At that instant, as if at a sign, Headstrong banged the boot closed.

  From the moment the First Lady sped through the gate and Furo stuck his head out the window and shouted bye-bye in response to Mallam Ahmed’s waving, nobody said a word. Headstrong stared ahead, Tosin stared at the driver’s backrest, and Furo stared at nothing. But nothing soon became that beast of metal and rubber, of bellicose honks and hydrocarbon fumes: a traffic jam at Olusosun. This go-slow was unlike any other, because it crawled past a terrain which stank to the carrion bird-darkened heavens. On those days when the road was clear, cars sped up when approaching the scandalous sight: a range of craters dotted with blazing fires and strewn with galactic garbage. But today, as Furo grabbed for the glass winder, he saw car windows shooting up everywhere. For all commuters unlucky enough to pass by Olusosun, closed windows and breakneck speed were reflex actions, futile efforts against the stink that rose on plumes of smoke from the largest dumpsite in Lagos.

  The traffic jam evaporated at the mouth of Third Mainland Bridge. As was usual at this hour, the bridge was free-flowing in the direction of Lagos Island, while the opposite lane, clear of traffic in the mornings, was now gridlocked. Lagoon breeze fanned across the bridge, and as the First L
ady hurtled singing into its path, Tosin broke the silence. ‘Frank,’ she said, and when Furo turned towards her: ‘How do you manage with all the stares?’ Furo’s expression announced his bafflement. ‘The other cars, in the go-slow, people kept staring at you.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ Furo snorted in dismissal. ‘I’m used to it.’

  ‘You have a strong mind,’ Tosin said. She looked through the window at the water flashing past, to which she directed the sadness of her next words. ‘The way we stare at others, at white people, we Nigerians, it makes me ashamed. It’s just plain rude.’

  ‘Yes, I agree,’ Furo said. ‘But don’t let that bother you. There’s nothing you can do about other people’s rudeness.’ As the boomeranging meaning of his words struck home, Furo felt a stab of embarrassment, and he said quickly: ‘I’m sure people stare at you too.’

  ‘Me? Why?’

  ‘Because you’re pretty.’

  Tosin threw him a pensive look, and then glanced forwards as Headstrong said, ‘What are you ashamed of, ehn, Tosin? What is the bad thing about looking at oyibo people?’

  A spasm of annoyance crossed Tosin’s face. It was by force of will that her tone remained civil as she addressed Headstrong. ‘Look at it this way. How would you feel if you travelled overseas and everyone stared at you just because of your skin colour?’

  ‘Like a superstar!’ Headstrong exclaimed.

  As Furo fought back his laughter, he heard Tosin say, ‘Victor, be serious.’

  ‘OK,’ Headstrong said in a serious tone. ‘I will tell you what I think. Number one, your question is not correct. Because why? White people are not like us. They treat everybody in their country with respect. In fact, they treat us black people special. A policeman cannot just go and stop a black person on the street and be asking for his ID card. Not like our own police. Yes, listen, let me tell you! Even if oyibo want to deport you from their country, you can tell them that they’re fighting in your village and all your family are dead, that you’re a refugee and you want asylum. Because of human rights, they can’t do you anything. You see what I’m saying? Those are better people.’ Out of breath, he fell silent. But the next instant, while Tosin and Furo exchanged glances in mute accord that Headstrong was something other than compos mentis, he spoke again. ‘Abi am I lying, Oga Frank?’