Dangerous Love (28 page)

Omovo passed out of the cold office and made his way to the hot warehouse. As he travelled these antipodes he was overcome by something more than the intimation of things about to happen.

The day's work progressed. Customers came in such numbers that the chemicals in stock had to be strictly allocated. Often the competition was such that powerful clients went higher up in the departmental echelon to arrange their orders. When that wasn't happening they often resorted to back-door methods, to bribery, to intimidation, or to sheer persistent verbal attacks. The office would be crowded with customers squabbling, attempting to jump the queue, or to get more than had been allocated to them.

It was Omovo's job to make the allocations on a daily basis, to take the customer's orders and arrange for them to collect. This meant interminable trips up and down the corridors, to the warehouse where the authorised documents were deposited, and then to the accounts department where copies of the transactions were submitted and the customers' accounts checked and debited. By one thirty Omovo was usually sweating, haggard and exhausted.

He was on his way back to the department when Mr Babakoko blocked his path. He was a bulky man, a businessman, in a resplendent agbada, with beads and amulets around his neck and gold rings on his fingers. He had facial scarifications and small red eyes. He smelt of incense and corruption. He had sly mannerisms. Omovo had been aware of him in the office. The loudest of customers, he padded about the place with his thick arms dangling beside him as if he were a chief. He was an important customer with a lot of influence in the company. He had a major contract to supply the state's water corporation with liquid chlorine.

‘My friend, what wrong have I done you?' he said.

‘Nothing. Why?'

‘So why are you treating me like this?'

‘I don't understand.'

Mr Babakoko at first responded with a look of bewilderment. Then he smiled and put his weighty arm around Omovo's shoulder and walked with him up the corridor. Omovo felt uncomfortable, he felt himself enfolded in a conspiracy he didn't understand. The powerful odour of Mr Babakoko's Arabian perfume, the incense and the bodysmells, made Omovo feel slightly ill. He shrugged his way from under Mr Babakoko's arm. The businessman smiled at him again and Omovo understood.

He was such an important customer that it had become customary for him to get his supplies directly from the manager, who got either Simon or the supervisor to deal with them. But this afternoon the manager was unavailable, the supervisor had gone off to have his car repaired, and Simon was at the trade union meeting. It fell to Omovo to handle his allocation and he treated Mr Babakoko's papers no differently from anybody else's.

‘Listen, my friend,' Mr Babakoko said, ‘you are young and I understand what you need. Just come out straight with me and don't waste my time. Your friends are straight with me, your manager is straight with me. They get what they want and so do I. Everyone is happy. Fall for me, I fall for you – that's the game. Don't be shy about it.'

‘About what?'

‘Tell me what you want and arrange my supplies quickly. Your queue is too long. I have five other companies to get to and I can't spend all day here.'

There was a moment's embarrassment. Then Mr Babakoko, drawing up his agbada sleeves, dug his hands into the folds of his voluminous garment and began to struggle with one of his hidden pockets.

‘You are making a mistake,' Omovo said, moving towards the office.

Mr Babakoko found what he was looking for and, running alongside Omovo, began to peel off notes from the bundle he had in his hand. It seemed like a substantial sum. He attempted to pass it into Omovo's hand. But Omovo rejected it. All this happened in the corridor, in full view of workers who passed by them.

‘I said that you are making a mistake,' Omovo said again, stopping to make his point decisively.

‘Don't be a fool, young man. Take my offer and do my business quick.'

‘You'll have to wait your turn.'

Mr Babakoko peeled off some more notes. Omovo had a sudden desire to knock the bundle out of his hands. Instead he turned, said something incoherent and insulting, and pushed on. Mr Babakoko caught up with him again. The money had disappeared. He stopped Omovo and with a demonic expression on his swarthy face said: ‘The world is bigger than you. In this place money does all the talking. I feel sorry for you. Very sorry.'

Then he hurried off angrily down the corridor, his agbada fluttering about him like obscene wings.

Omovo watched him go. He remembered what the men of his compound had said about the massive can of worms. He thought about the entanglement of bureaucracy and corruption that had spread throughout society. He thought about the older generation, how they had squandered and stolen much of the country's resources, eaten up its future, weakened its potential, enriched themselves, got fat, created chaos everywhere, poisoned the next generation, and spread rashes of hunger through the land.

He thought about all these things, and about his confiscated painting, as he stood at one of the large windows of the corridor. The windowpane was very clean and he looked out into the courtyard. The concrete floor was streaked with light and the factory buildings were painted yellow. He stared at hulks of machinery and at the workers in greasy overalls without seeing them. He could feel the sweat all over his body. He felt his face lean, his head bony. He felt exhausted and realised that he was trembling slightly. He made his way up the corridor, away from the office, with the vaguest idea of his destination. He felt fairly certain, however, that trouble was gathering over his head.

‘Where can we talk?' Joe said to him, at the accounts department.

‘Anywhere. Here.'

Joe looked around. ‘It's not the kind of thing to say anywhere. And certainly not here.'

‘The warehouse then.'

‘Fine.'

‘But be quick about it or the manager will say I'm loitering again.'

Joe was one of the few people in the company whom Omovo liked. He was tall, had a moustache, dressed brightly, looked sharp, modelled himself on film stars, dreamt of going to America, and was easy-going. He used to be in the chemicals department before being promoted. He had joined the company a few months before Omovo.

They went to the warehouse and stood like conspirators behind a stack of chemicals. The smell of all the different chemicals was dense and pungent. Omovo found it difficult to breathe. And when he did the pungencies burnt his nostrils and shocked his brain. The heat in the warehouse was incredible. Green mists hung in far corners and it was as if the sacks, the crates, and the walls were giving off their acrid essences of boiling air. Strange liquids coagulated on the floor. Powders and granules had spilled out of their greasy sacks and changed colours as if their inorganic natures were bursting into flower.

‘What did you want to say to me?'

‘Take it easy.'

‘I am.'

‘How long have you been with the company?'

‘Six months.'

‘How much do you earn?'

Omovo looked at him.

‘Don't think I don't know. I work in accounts, remember.'

‘A hundred Naira a month.'

Joe fingered his fashionable tie. ‘Only?'

‘Yes.'

‘Have you been confirmed?'

‘No.'

‘Why not?'

‘I might be. This month.'

Joe laughed strangely. ‘How much overtime do you do?'

‘Depends.'

‘On what?'

‘On if it's compulsory. Left to myself I don't care much for overtime.'

‘Why not?'

‘I'd rather go home and paint.'

‘Sure. But does your salary last you until the end of the month? That is after feeding yourself, transport, tax, the national provident fund, the weekend fun, and, of course, things for your painting?'

‘I manage somehow.'

‘Do you have old people in the family?'

‘Joe, where are all these questions leading? You sound like the inquisition.'

Joe smiled, and then lowered his head. ‘I hear things. People talk. They whisper. They say things when you go past. Some people don't like you.'

‘People don't have to like me.'

‘Sure. But they say you spoil their “business”. They say you are too proud.'

‘I do my job and go home and paint.'

‘Sure. But that's why you're a fool.'

‘Take it easy, Joe.'

‘You think you're smarter than everybody, don't you?'

‘I'm balder than everybody.'

‘You think not taking a little harmless bribe makes you special, eh?'

‘No.'

‘Listen. I'm telling you this for your own good. Your boss doesn't like you.'

‘I know.'

‘I overheard him talking about you in the canteen.'

‘What were you doing in the senior staff canteen?'

‘I have my plans.'

‘Sure.'

‘Your colleagues don't like you either.'

‘I know.'

‘You keep too much to yourself.'

‘I'm left out.'

‘You don't give people a chance to get to know you.'

‘I try.'

‘The job you do is important.'

‘Is it?'

‘Of course. That's why when you were interviewed for the job the manager asked you if you would be co-operative. You said yes, didn't you?'

‘I had to. I didn't know it also meant taking bribes. Besides, how do you know what went on in my interview?'

‘I have my ways.'

Omovo looked at him again and saw him differently.

‘Listen. All of us went through that. You have to co-operate. Look at your mates. Go and see Johnson's place. It's in Ajegunle, but it is virtually a palace. Mark you, he's a clerk like you. Or notice how well Jack dresses. Or look at Simon. You think he is a joker, don't you? But he's building a mansion in his village, and planning to buy a car. Now look at you.'

It was Omovo's turn to smile. Joe looked him over with vague, if affectionate, disdain.

‘Your clothes are in bad shape. Cleaners and messengers look better than you. And to make matters worse you went and shaved your hair when there is no death in the family. Do you belong to a secret society?'

‘Sure.'

Joe flashed him a glance and decided he was joking. He continued. ‘So, like I was saying. How do you think people make it in the company when the salary is so wretched?'

‘Hard work, tailored spending. I don't know.'

‘Look man, it doesn't mean anything to take a little bribe. It won't stop you being the person you are. It doesn't stop Chako from being a fervent Christian, does it?'

‘Doesn't seem to.'

‘If you don't want to do it then at least don't make it difficult for others. Don't block people's way. The life is hard enough as it is.'

‘So what are you saying?'

‘The right hand washes the left. The left hand washes the right. Both hands are clean.'

‘You're a philosopher.'

‘I heard Babakoko complaining bitterly about you. He said you insulted him.'

Omovo began walking away. He walked over a burst sack of yellow granules.

‘Omovo, I haven't finished.'

Omovo went out into the fiery glare of the sunlight. He went past the stacks of alloprene, the yellow liquid-chlorine drums, past the noisy machines, and nodded at the drivers who were arguing in a truck. The heat was merciless. The sunglare crowded out his thoughts, deadened his pores, saturated his clothes with sweat. The multiple lights flashed at him from all the metal and the windscreens. He brought out his handkerchief and wiped his face. Joe caught up with him.

‘Omovo, don't be a fool. As a friend, I am the only one who can tell you these things.'

‘Thanks for telling me.' Omovo stopped to wash his face under the tap outside the canteen.

‘Listen man, you are not indispensable in this company.'

‘Nobody is.'

‘You are a nothing.'

‘At least I can't get worse.'

‘If you leave nobody will notice, nobody will feel it.'

‘You care too much about what people think.'

‘Sure. But you are unimportant. They can spit you out just like that.'

‘Leave me alone, Joe.'

‘You're nobody. They can just spit you out.'

‘Leave me in peace.'

Omovo bent down, threw his tie over his shoulder, and splashed water on his face. The water was cool at first and then it became lukewarm. Joe sucked his teeth in exasperation and contempt. He made a gesture which Omovo didn't quite catch. After a while Omovo heard his shoes grating on the cement floor in a supposedly significant exit.

When Omovo got to the office the supervisor said: ‘Why haven't you been attending to all these customers who are waiting, eh? Have you no pity? They have been sitting here all morning.'

Omovo said nothing.

‘I've seen you loitering about in the warehouse, chatting with Joe. Just watch it-o! So please attend to the customers now.'

Chako said: ‘Omovo, the manager wants to see you.'

The supervisor said: ‘Attend to these tired customers.'

Simon said: ‘Omovo, take these papers to accounts.'

Omovo stood bewildered.

The phone rang and Simon picked up the receiver.

‘Hello. Ah, na you. Okay. I'm sorry. Omovo? Okay. He will do it soonest.' Simon looked up. ‘Well, painter, our boss in the other office wants you to make him some coffee.'

Omovo stared at Simon. He knew that when one request for coffee was made, others would follow till he had made cups for the entire office and even the customers. He said: ‘It's break time.'

‘So what?' came Simon.

‘I'm not doing anything.'

Chako shouted from across the office: ‘Omovo, the manager wants to see you now!'