Unable to return mentally

Photo: Oluwapelumi Adeyemi

“This is shit. Crap. Godforsaken mess. Shithole of the first order.” Walter waved his arms angrily as the expletives dried up. He flung his long-limbed frame onto the nearest sofa and seethed like a kettle on a brand new stove.

“Take it easy, pal,” Jimi consoled him, the sympathy in his voice tinged with amusement. “That is the problem with my guy,” he thought for the umpteenth time. More than three years after relocating physically from the States, Walter was yet to return mentally. He ambled over to the refrigerator, pulled out two cans of Heineken beer and handed one to the fuming young man. Walter nodded his thanks, popped the can, and took a calming guzzle.

“Come, Jim, how do you take it? A guy, who ought to know better, schedules a meeting for 11 am and keeps you waiting for three hours. When he swaggers in, he goes ‘ooh, sorry, it was the traffic.’ Traffic, my backside.  Guess we are plying Martian roads.”

Jimi took a deep breath.

“I just know we most likely kissed the prospect of at least a three million naira investment in our proposal goodbye.” He sat forward, his face suddenly devoid of humour. “Talking to Chief Deinde like that was frankly stupid. I wonder if those fancy pants at your big league schools taught you anything. That beggars aren’t choosers. Place Deinde’s cash, reputation and influence side by side with a little thing like African Time, and you tell me the damn opportunity cost.” Jimi’s hurt was obvious. He downed some beer to calm his nerves. “Guy, you must make up your mind: you gonna do biz here or not.”

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Walter could not reply. He sighed deeply and reflectively. “It was one long hard road,” he thought. For months, he and Jimi had been luring the sinfully wealthy and well-connected chief to invest some much-needed capital in their online merchandise company. The business was one crazy dream the two friends held dear and nurtured for the past five years. It had started up like the proverbial mustard seed; now it was at a stage where financial oxygen was seriously needed to take it to the next level. As usual, Nigerian banks were in no mood to bank on the dreams of two zany youngsters who had over-read motivational books by Norman Vincent Peale and George Samuel Clason.  Jimi, whose ears were more firmly connected to the ground of Nigeria’s business clime, came up with the idea of seeking out individual investors. Chief Deinde met their yardsticks.  He was young, rich, and the owner of a track record of investing in enormously successful enterprises. There were preliminary positive feelers. The good chief set up a meeting in his deluxe guest house. Only to arrive a good three hours behind schedule, airily talking about the traffic. Unable to restrain himself, Walter quietly said, “Sir, at least you could have planned your itinerary to accommodate us.” He had felt Jimi’s eyes burn his head as he uttered those words.

“I see,” said the chief, his tone like an emerging volcano. Before Jimi could intercede he got to his feet.

“This meeting is over, gentlemen.  Jimi, perhaps you can teach him how to show respect to his benefactors.” The door closed behind him before Jimi could utter a word.

Walter sighed again.

“Maybe I am getting it all wrong.” He spoke sotto voce, the pain in his eyes cutting through Jimi’s anger.  “See, man, it wasn’t right, what he did.”

Jimi nodded vigorously.

“Of course. But what really matters to you?”

“My dignity.”

“Hope your dignity balances out our books.”

Walter shook his head. Jimi downed more booze and focused a gimlet look at his friend.

“Bro, if you can’t adjust to our people’s way of seeing time, of living, let us reconsider this venture. Trump isn’t Buhari, you know.” There was no mirth in his words.

Walter’s brow was as heavy as Satan’s after his revolt against God failed. But he simply nodded, got to his feet, and left the room, banging the door behind him. Jimi sighed and wondered if his friend would ever return to his roots. “He left Nigeria for only six years,” he thought. People who spent decades in the United States and Britain quickly fell into line as soon as they got over the shock waves of Nigeria. He hissed and guzzled his beer, silently thanking God that he, unlike his friend, had not resigned his job to focus entirely on their online venture.

Walter and Jimi went back a long way. Their mothers were nurses at St. Monica’s Hospital, Dugbe, Ibadan, where they became close friends, even though Walter’s mother was Igbo from Imo State and Jimi’s mum was a true daughter of Abeokuta. The boys took to each other in secondary school where they met for the first time. In their first year at the University of Lagos, both sat for entrance examinations to the New York State University. They also took the scholarship exams sponsored by USAID. Jimi did not make the grade while Walter passed both tests with flying colours. Contrary to general expectations, Walter’s success only cemented the friendship between both guys. Ten months after Walter left for the States, the gods approved of their bond by blessing Jimi with first prize in the Young Entrepreneurs for the Twenty-First Century competition organised by USAID. Jimi always had an entrepreneurial flair. He knew the streets, the Nigerian psyche, far better than his good friend who swallowed all the stuff his business professors taught him in Nigeria and the US.

Walter had no desire to come home after his graduation. Nigeria’s dire economic strait was no news; millions of Nigerian youngsters would give their souls to get the opportunity he had. No matter the crazies of life in Uncle Sam, like white cops coming close to pulling pistols on him just because of his pigmentation, life was better there. There were things he had never found acceptable back home, such as the sheer disdain and unconcern for other people’s time. You would think a city on the move, like Lagos, would give a damn about time. But everyone shrugged it off. You dared not try it in the Big Apple where Walter got a job after graduation; unless you wanted extreme reactions which could include an angry .38 bullet to the brain.

But Walter was his parents’ only child. His beloved mother died from cancer in his final year. Though his father mounted no pressure, he knew the old man would not survive the loneliness. Besides, they were close. Walter returned to Lagos and was fortunate enough to get a managerial post in the Nigerian branch of the American corporation he had worked for in the States. Then he made the biggest mistake of his twenty-nine years on earth: he threw his all into the dream business he and Jimi had set up after he returned from the States. Jimi was stunned when he told him he had turned in his resignation.

“Nobody does that here, Waltee.” He called his friend by his nickname right from secondary school. “I’m not.”

“You gotta be totally committed if you want to get to the top.”

Jimi had thrown up his hands and wondered for the umpteenth time how such an intelligent young man was so bereft of wisdom. To be fair, Walter gave the online business his best. He might not have been as street-smart as Jimi, Naija style, but he was a virtuoso in their line of business. But things got rough and they sought Deinde’s investment only for Walter to let his years in Uncle Sam take away his thinking faculties.

Walter paced his sitting-room like a cornered rabbit. Emotions chased themselves around his head like an angry whirlwind.  He felt like grabbing his passport and heading for the airport. What kind of mess had he gotten himself into? All because of a bloody mindset called African Time. He knew Deinde was not responsible for his joblessness, but if the son-of-a-bitch had been less arrogant, it would not be a pain in the strategic area. He sighed and flung himself on his sofa.

“This meeting is over, gentlemen.  Jimi, perhaps you can teach him how to do show respect to his benefactors.”

Am I getting it all wrong as Jimi said? he wondered. The accusation that he had refused to come home hurt. Jimi was not the only one who regularly hurled this in his face. Maureen, his girlfriend, was unsparing. Dad, though he didn’t say much in that regard, often gave him a peculiar gaze when Walter came up with one of what Jimi called his “crazy Americanisms”.

Thinking of Maureen, he wondered how she was going to take the news. Their relationship was going the way both of them liked, despite his Americanisms. He was seriously contemplating something he had never thought of for his former lovers. And from all indications, the twenty-seven-year-old events planner was thinking in the same direction. She had not accepted his resignation with hugs and kisses. “But it takes guts and faith in your vision to take this step. I didn’t do that when I got into events planning. It was only after my first big contract that I fully left teaching.” She looked deeply in his eyes. “There is no social security here, loverboy. Hope you know that.”

Walter’s savings and the little his partnership with Jimi brought in had kept him off the breadlines, assuming such existed in Nigeria. But now this was another ballgame. He sighed. She will be here on Saturday. The bad news can wait till then. He went to bed, morose and pensive.

“The clock doesn’t rule us in Nigeria. We rule the clock. We determine events.”

Maureen’s mellow words filled Walter’s head as they lay in each other’s arms in his bed, aglow with satiation from a session of passionate, intense and body-sucking bongi. Walter had taken his courage in both hands and told her everything as soon as she settled down. To his shock, Maureen pulled him to her and kissed away his worries.

“The world isn’t going to end today, loverboy. And if it is, I must have my tonic first. Missed it all through the week.” Her sultry words and even sultrier touch and kisses set both of them aflame, and they began right there in the sitting-room and ended up in the bedroom.

Now, reality stared in Walter’s face with her words.

“So you remain backwards?” he asked, not wanting this argument at this moment.

“Come on, Walt. What makes you think we are backward because we aren’t slaves to time? Listen, honey, the concept of time is multi-dimensional.  We aren’t late by our standards because no law in the cosmos says we must shamelessly ape the white man’s concept of a beginning, middle, if it exists, and end. Time is not a universal concept. Did the white man know the four-day market day calendar of our ancestors? Eke, Orie, Afo, Nkwo means nothing to him.” She sat upright in bed, her long tresses wildly encapsulating her arrogant breasts as she spewed her philosophical concepts in the same mellow tone. Walter watched her with increasing admiration underlined by concern and not a little surprise.

“Good Lord, did you teach this to your students at Standard High School? How do you run that events planning venture of yours?”

Maureen swung out of bed as he reached for her. With feline grace, she slid into a robe.

“Don’t dodge the issue. I don’t sanction late-coming.”

“Which is what African Time is all about,” Walter said energetically, also swinging his legs out of bed. “Sheer arrogance, disrespect for time and unconcern for the other party. Tell me, did our forefathers show up late at the appointed time for sacrifices at our shrines?”

Maureen walked forward and stood smack in front of him. Being almost as tall as her lover, they were eyeball to eyeball.

“But they weren’t slaves to time. You know their history.”

Walter took a deep breath to avoid saying something hurtful.

“Look, Mo, let us not get things twisted. Nobody’s advocating slavery to time. The world has come a long way from the day of our ancestors. Where is the place for concern and respect? What would it have cost Chief Deinde to put across a call? He figured we were inconsequential because we needed his money.” The bitterness in his voice was palpable.

Maureen softened and put her arms around his neck.

“Easy, loverboy. Let us not fight after taking Vitamin K.”

Walter laughed.

“Bad girl. So na Vitamin K we de eat?” His Pidgin English had a slight New Yorker’s inflexion. Maureen smiled and led him back to the bed.

The next Monday, she showed up at his place after work with cheering news.

“You will like this. Know Sir Obasa Koromo?”

“The oil magnate and politician? Who hasn’t heard of him?”

Maureen spoke excitedly. She had won a mouth-watering contract to organise an exclusive dinner-party for his business partners and their families in a month. While she was at his office to collect her standard upfront payment, she had learnt that his company was hiring managers and the interview was in a week. Walter was tailor-made for the job. She showed him the advertisement. Walter was delighted and would have expressed his appreciation practically, but she had to go home in a hurry. Not until she had left did Walter wonder why a big shot like Koromo would need an up-and-coming events planner like Maureen when he had the best at his beck and call to organize any event he wanted. He dismissed the thought from his mind: Maureen was one hell of a hustler and unafraid of moving in big circles to push her business forward. He smiled. “I will be on time like she admonished,” he resolved.

Time has become truly multi-dimensional for Walter. Multi-dimensional beyond the widest and wildest dimension of his imagination.  Perhaps what his ancestors saw as time was different from what the white man saw. But Walter has learnt the hard way that no matter the peculiarity of time to all, it has a universal component: pain.

The interview was at 10.30 am according to the advert Maureen gave him. Walter showed up at 9 am, smartly dressed in his best suit and armed with credentials and other documents. He was ushered up to a deluxe waiting room where applicants were required to register their time of arrival on an automatic time-recording machine. Walter observed, with concealed pleasure, that only two applicants had arrived before him.  He noticed that applicants kept arriving until a few minutes to ten. There was a tea dispenser and the smiling female receptionist encouraged them to help themselves. Walter cautiously decided against a cup: who knew whether the interviewers were observing through concealed cameras those who would display fundamental long throat by guzzling their precious liquid. At 10.10 am two handsome young men whose suits were undoubtedly sewn in Italy walked i and whispered to the good-looking receptionist.  They left almost immediately. Walter wondered what was afoot.

At 10.15 the young men returned. One had a printout, the other a small briefcase. The man with the printout coughed for attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Koromo Oil and Gas. The CEO sends his warmest greetings and wishes all of you the very best, irrespective of how this interview turns out for all of you. We will begin shortly. Please, if you were here between 8.50 am and 10.00 am, stand up.”

As he stood up, Walter wondered if this was the newest trick of employers to shortlist applicants. It was not unfair to knock out anyone who came after 10 a.m; the advertisement clearly stated the time the exercise was to commence. The young man’s calm, smiling demeanour sought to exorcise the spectre of apprehension which had sneaked into the faces and hearts of all applicants, whether standing or sitting.

“Please, indicate when I call your name.”

As he called each name his colleague passed out an envelope to the applicant. The exercise over, the speaker continued with the same practised friendliness and courtesy.

“Ladies and gentlemen, that‘s your transport fare for coming here. A round figure of seven thousand naira. We appreciate your coming and wish you the best in your future endeavours.”

Unseen lightning and thunder struck them dumb. But somehow the grip on Walter’s throat eased. He asked quietly, “Sir, is being on time criteria for disqualification from the interview?”

The young man smiled reassuringly.

“It is not a reflection on your undoubted competence, Mr Walter  Obi.” His voice was pure silk.

Blazing anger filled Walter’s head and left him feeling spongy.  A stupid urge to throw the envelope into the bastard’s smiling, satisfied face seized his mind. With an effort he ignored it.

“Then tell Koromo it’s only a matter of time before his business becomes history.”

He turned and followed other disqualified applicants out.

About the author

Henry Chukwuemeka Onyema is a Lagos-based author and historian. He recently published his first novel ‘In Love and In War.’ Email: henrykd2009@yahoo.com