Hustler by choice

Photo: Eva Blue

“It’s time for morning devotion!” My mother yelled as she knocked on my squeaky wooden door that was now barely affixed to its weary frame by a single hinge. I had become accustomed to this religiously punctual human-alarm in the form of my mother. She unfailingly woke the entire house for morning devotion at 5am every morning. It didn’t matter the kind of night you had or what you had done the previous day; as far as she was concerned, everyone living under her roof had to wake up for devotion every morning.   

Once, I had a friend over and she insisted that he partake in our morning ritual. I tried to protest that my friend wasn’t religious and had only arrived from a long trip the previous evening; but she wasn’t having it. “As long as your friend slept in this house last night, he’s praying with us. Besides, God doesn't bite.”

Despite the jejune nature of this morning routine, I had come to accept it—maybe God was what I needed at this point in my life. Sometimes, I even woke up a few minutes earlier than 5am, anticipating her knock.

On this particular morning, I woke up 30 minutes earlier. Since I had a lot of time to kill, my mind wandered. Nothing fancy, just the usual fantasies of a man my age who still lived with his parents: school, work, money, family. After hovering like a stray paper in a sandstorm, my mind perched on my unemployed state—three years after university I was still unemployed. All those years of attending sardine-packed lecture classes, reading through the night, and cajoling lecturers to give me a D instead of an F were beginning to seem like a waste. I shuffled slowly to the other side of my mattress that wasn’t soaked with sweat, gazing intensely at the ceiling and subconsciously counting the square spaces marked by the transverse frames that ran through its entire length.

I never imagined that, rather than building actual bridges as a trained civil engineer, I would be lying on an old sweaty bed three years later—engineering castles in the air— and deluding myself that Uncle Emeka would eventually come through with the China Civil Engineering Company job offer that he swore was reserved for me. “Just graduate with at least a 2:1 and finish your Youth Service, and the job is yours for the taking. You have no cause to worry; your future is secure.”

Those, now infamous, words were once a source of pride and encouragement for me. But they slowly transitioned from hope, when I was in my first year in the university, to anticipation, during my compulsory twelve-month Youth Service; to a cruel betrayal, three years after. I angrily dropped the call the last time I called Uncle Emeka to enquire about my reserved job position and he told me to send him my CV. Again! He reminds me of Ufoma, the local herbalist. Unrelenting in his sales pitch, his concoctions cured more ailments than its label could hold. “A trial will convince you,” he yells at me every day even though he knows now that I cannot part with more than a smile.  

I was legit staring at a pre-midlife crisis like a drunkard peeping into his last bottle of beer after a drinking spree that has again left him indebted to the bar.

“Just graduate with at least a 2:1 and finish your Youth Service, and the job is yours for the taking. You have no cause to worry; your future is secured”

I could tell that my father had gotten tired of seeing me at home every day because, that morning at prayer, he kept repeating, “an idle mind is the devil’s workshop”. The irony was that I was willing to intern in the devil’s workshop if it paid good money. So, I responded “amen” each time and then bowed my head to conceal my sleepy eyes. I was usually half asleep during most of our early devotions; this morning was no different.

“Young man, you have to start taking your life much more seriously!” Father shouted, waking me from my half-sleep. “Three years is not three days!” He sighed, looked me dead in my eyes, and stressed with subtle aggression: “Find something to keep body and soul together; you cannot continue like this. At this point, doing anything productive is better than sitting in this house all day. Ehn! This boy, your face is already full of beards in case you haven’t noticed. You better start acting like a responsible adult that wants to make it in life. Otherwise, you will end up dragging customers with Ufoma.”

I nodded and quickly dashed to my room.

It’s not like I have just lounged these past three years. Ask the soles of my shoes. No. I only lost the zeal to keep searching after so many we-will-get-back-to-yous.  Apart from a few pyramid schemes that were unsurprisingly eager to employ me, every other reputable firm must have missed or lost my CV like Uncle Emeka. I got a job teaching English to students preparing for international English language exams. I actually spent most of last year doing that but, periodically, I would glance at my Bachelor in Engineering certificate and shake my head in despair. I felt like a fish desperately trying to fly. I eventually grew tired of teaching English to people that had much brighter futures than me. It’s been seven months now. I quit the teaching job to recalibrate my life, or so I convinced myself. But apart from a deluge of wishful gambling on football matches and lottery tickets, I had accomplished nothing.

As if to confirm what my father said about my facial hair, I peeked at the mirror before I threw myself on my bed. My father’s speech can sometimes be needless and annoying, but today’s outburst jolted me back to life. Glancing at the latest cache of my failed gambling exploits, I realised that I simply couldn’t gamble my way to riches. My father’s warning of suffering the same fate as Ufoma was now looking like a grim reality. I concluded that I needed to go out and hustle. Dressed casually, I sauntered out of the house without a destination in mind, determined to return a hustler.

Not long into my rather hasty quest, I ran into Chike, also unemployed. I have known Chike for two years now. We used to go job hunting together. I met him after we both failed to make the final cut for a job interview, having made it to the last stage. I realised that he lived just past my street, so we remained in touch—misery loves company. That has been the closest we have both come to securing a real job.  But, unlike me, he didn’t have the luxury of quitting jobs or staying home because he had siblings that depended on him for daily bread.

“My guy, how far, you say make you comot today?” Chike bantered pleasantly while wrapping his hands across my shoulder and drawing me closer to himself. My friend, Chike, was the definition of a hustler. A clever fox that always found a way to survive.  Despite flirting with poverty all his life, he constantly reiterated that the illegal life was not his calling, and he would either wind up dead or in jail if he took that path; either of which, he would joke, were worse alternatives to his present impecunious state.

“Chike, I dey frustrated like this. My parents have been on my neck to find a job,” I replied to his tease while removing his hand from my now burdened shoulder. He gave me a look of pity. “Well, I am heading to the market now, na there I dey run my package.”

Without a destination and with a partner that I trusted was a true hustler, I set out to become one too.

As Chike flagged down a bus, he looked at me with that cocky smile he always puts on when trying to be mischievous. “My guy! My guy!” he hollered. “I know say you get money, and you go pay.”

You never know with Chike—when he is joking or when he is serious. Me, I always keep him straight. Waving my hand at his face and pointing my index finger to his temple, I sternly reminded him that our meeting was purely accidental. He laughed. The bus stopped in front of us, and Chike urged me to get on.

Sat beside him, it occurred to me to ask him what exactly he did at the market. He turned as if to respond, hesitated, and then replied: “Guy, you be my student for today, so you must agree say you go pay my transport first.”

The conductor was already in my face, screaming and threatening to throw me off the bus for delaying his fare collection. I dipped my hands into my pocket, handed some money to him, and reluctantly said, “for two”.

Chike’s face brightened.

Barely 15 minutes, and I was already growing tired of hustling. I gave him a stern look and nudged him with my elbow. With a cheeky grin, he turned to me. “See ehn, the thing be say today na the first time I dey try this market, and I been no get any intention to comot this morning, but after you talk say your people dey hala you for house to find work, I come decide say make we try our luck for this market because one of my good friends assured me that we could make good money here just by pretending to own a shop and attracting customers to it.” Chike had a knack for abruptly switching from pidgin to proper English. And when he wanted you to know that he wasn’t joking, he typically spoke proper.

After hearing Chike’s business plan, my anger grew, but he didn’t seem perturbed. He just kept on smiling through the traffic-laden drive. As if to tease me even further, he struck up a conversation with the conductor where they noisily argued about football. For some reason, the more he laughed, the less angry I got.

He was taking the same risk as I was; uncertain of the result but yet willing and eager to try. “Make we just see as today own go be,” he remarked trying to pacify me. Shortly after, the bus stopped. The conductor gestured at those alighting at Odili market to hurriedly get off the bus at this stop. Chike and I, along with several other eager passengers, speedily made for the exit as the impatient driver kept screaming: “I no dey wait for anybody, come down make I dey go.” And true to his words, we had barely alighted the bus when he zoomed off.

Chike grabbed me by my hands. “Guy na so the hustle dey be o, them no dey sit down plan am.”

Considering my father’s rant earlier, and my long overdue hiatus, being out in the market instantly began to look more and more appealing. Amidst the chaos and the noise in the market, I grabbed Chike’s hand in agreement. “Even though this seems like a dumb idea, I can’t think of anybody else to make this mistake with.”

He laughed uncontrollably, tugging my shirt the whole time as he struggled to maintain his balance. After having a good laugh and creasing my entire shirt, he winked at me then slowly muttered: “Fortune favours the bold, and today we shall seize it by the horns. You see this money ehn, we go make am by force!” This time, we both laughed.

Together, we ambled through the rowdy crowd as we made our way through hoards of people littered all over the market like cockroaches trotting for safety at the first spray of insecticide. Looking ahead, Chike pointed to a block of shops on the opposite end of the market; giving me an assured look, he yelled in excitement:

 “I think I have a plan.”

As I followed his lead, I kept assuring myself that I won’t die today. And what doesn’t kill you can only make you stronger—or so they say.

About the author

Sochima Frankline Uche is a Marine Engineer that doubles both as a sailor and a freelance writer. When he's not wandering the seas, he spends the bulk of his time writing, reading, learning, and exploring.