The man with the wire-rimmed glasses – the one in front of me – slurs when he speaks. From his accent I deduce he is an American with a protruding navel that jingles as he talks. His little office has that smell of tobacco; an ashtray of stubbed sticks in it. God knows how many sticks he smokes a day. I peek at his tired eyes through the glasses and try to assume his age, he looks older than my poor ailed father, but this man is strong – strong enough to make a whore scream.
I was there for an interview- my friend said he is the only one still hiring. The truth is that we’re in hard time with a lot of companies downsizing and retrenched workers multiplying the number on the streets of Lagos. With even our president seeking asylum in a white man’s land,
He looks at me when he is done perusing my CV, his two tired eyes pierce through me like beta-particles. Why is he looking at me? I thought, before I could snap myself out of it. He lights another stick and blows smoke at my face. I recoil and make a face. He is trying to muck up my lung with smoke? I fan off the smoke and adjust my itchy yansh in the chair. He laughs
“You can’t work with me without f*cking the smoke”, he says getting up and adjusts his over-sized trousers on his jingling waist. He walks to the window and perches outside at the men in coverall working. That heavy clang of metal against metal, coupled with tobacco stench in the room increase my hunger. Inhaling a smoke on an empty stomach gives me a kind of tormenting ravenousness
He walks back to his seat and sits, “you smoke?” he asks glancing through my CV again.
“No sah”, I answer and burst out coughing – that dried hard cigarettey kind of cough.
He bursts out laughing. I feel choked, but I manage to control myself. I undergo mitosis- with another apart of me begging me to be manly and not let mere cigarette smoke to deprive me of an opportunity.
“You’ve got a good resume, but I can’t have you as my driver because I smoke non-stop”, he says pushing my credentials to me.
“I am strong sah, I can stand it”, I argue on.
In Lagos you’ve to admit almost to anything to get a job. If you don’t, hunger will come at night like a thief and wage war – and you don’t want to writhe in bed all night or have your landlord throw your things outside.
I lift up my nose and draw in the smoke, it fills up my chest. I feel like throwing up but I put I-am-strong- enough face and he stares at me and smiles.
“Nigeria, you still have a long way to go” he mutters to himself but I hear it clearly.
I couldn’t defend my country because I was helpless. The man is damn right. We’ve sold out our resources to foreigners, but I am not a part of it. I bear no hand in that evil.
“Are you a Christian?” his question startles me back to reality.
“Yes sah” I nod like agama lizard.
He fixes his atheistic eyes on me for a long time and then.
“Well I am not, I am an atheist”, he says getting up to the same window, then turns over his shoulder and looks at me.
I feel tormented. A part of me says get up and leave but I couldn’t. I need a job to take care of my family. I am the first child with many responsibilities on my shoulders. My brother school fees in the university stare hauntingly at me in the face.
Of what benefit is defending a country that takes everything away from you – a country that thrives on crushing its citizens to make way for foreigners. No. I need this job. Working for an American is better. They don’t owe like Nigerians. You work for a Nigerian and at the end of the month; he tells you the company isn’t making money. But every night he throws money at strippers in top-notch Lagos clubs. His children school abroad. But every day you hear him cuss about.
“There is no money; your salary will be little delayed”
That is their anthem. That month passes- another month comes without any money. By then, Iya Onome , selling foodstuff down the road has already started pestering the heaven out of you for her money. Then you stop working and decide to f**k the Indian or Lebanese. They don’t owe but they treat humans like animals.
My mind reverts back to this my- soon- to- be- employer. He is an American- yes an American. They understand the law; perhaps the one that governs labor.
“I am sorry my friend I can’t hire you, I am more concerned about your health. This smoke isn’t good for you” he says walking back to me this time with no sticks in his hand. I guess he might have thrown it outside the window.
“I can stand it sah, I smoke too sah” I beg reaching out for the pack on his table- take a stick and tuck it inside my mouth, it tastes sour, but I refuse to spit it out. He stands staring at me with folding arms. I snatch a lighter on the desk, light the stick and take a long uncontrollable drag. I break out coughing and almost knocking things down on the table.
He hurries up to me and snatches the stick from me.
“Enough, man I know you’re vulnerable- Nigeria is full of vulnerables. But you don’t have to kill yourself here”, his accent very sharp this time.
I rush to a water dispenser at the corner, take the plastic cup. I almost press the hot button, but stop half-way.
He stands watching me as I quench my burning throat with water.
“If only your leaders will learn how to make good use of the richness of this country – the oil wells in Delta” he says with a concerned voice – maybe concerned for my predicament.
“I am sorry sah”, I manage to voice out avoiding eyes contact with him.
“I can’t make you my driver because I am addicted to smoking, but I can help you” he pretends to be looking for something new or interesting in my credentials this time around.
My eyes are aglow with expectation.
“You can work here in the site….believe if you’re good enough you’ll make yourself a good engineer”, he utters tucking my credentials inside his drawer.
I go on my knees, “thank you sah, God bless you”
The mention of that name seems to pique him. He stops abruptly and stares at me and smiles.
Then I remember he is an atheist, I quickly subtract God out of the equation.
“Thank you sah, I am very happy sah” I say with it my heart beating fast against my chest.
Idongesit Franklin is a screen writer and satirist. He writes from Lagos. He is in love with food