Blurry Lines

Hey people! I’m back from my break. I must say that I really enjoyed my away-time as I gained new and refreshing experiences. Today, I am posting a story by a guest writer who happens to be my friend and ‘learned’ colleague. I promise to get down to writing soon and continue “On Asero Hills.” Enjoy the read! *Let me whisper – is it just my thoughts? I think this guy shares my absurdity 🙂

Blurry Lines by Femi Eromosele

I wake up really sweaty. I can feel the onset of a slight headache – usually the aftermath of sleeping long in a place without much ventilation. The fan had been spinning at its highest when I slept. But PHCN must have interrupted power just after the sleep took me. The room is like a pot on fire. I tug out the edges of the bed sheet and wipe my face with it. I drag to the window and pull apart the curtain, my right hand simultaneously sliding the glass aside. Eyes closed, I let the gust of air brush past my face. The dizzy feeling abates.

I am not sure what my agenda for the afternoon is. I know though, it would involve a visit to the internet cafe on the next street. Three days a week, I go there to search for vacancies online and apply, if possible. This has been the routine since my return from Youth Service eight months ago. All my colourful imagining under the tree at Tunga Magajiya, of a banking job, a nice apartment and a Toyota Camry are yet to materialise. I have not lost hope.

I invest all the diligence to visiting the Cafe on alternate days of the week. I have ceased to be particular though; any job with fair remuneration will do. It doesn’t have to involve fancy suits and nicely starched shirts. I would even prefer it doesn’t. For all I care, the rats are welcome to chew on my certificate in Finance.

The part of my days not spent at the cafe is spent indoors. I have taken a strong liking to reading literature. I prefer them old; at least a hundred years, something with some philosophy to chew on. I love Tolstoy. And I have read every book of his I can lay my hands on. I sometimes wish there would be some discovery of a lost manuscript. Now I just take a bit of Victor Hugo and some Charles Dickens. Dickens makes me laugh. Sometimes during my evening stroll to the cafe, his words would drift to my ears and I would use my hand to stifle the laughter threatening to erupt from me. I am not always successful.

This evening, Dickens seems far from my mind. Instead, Jean Valjean stays with me. I’m wondering how suffering creates a spirit so true. Can such a person exist in Nigeria? If he does, then he must live in one of those remote and undiscovered parts where electricity does not exist or pretend to exist; where dreams are not haunted by the shrill cries of “I-pass-my-neighbour” generators badly in need of servicing. It would have to be one of those places where one couldn’t watch a man who had no shoes before, spend millions to maintain flowers because he has been elected. It has to …. “Wait!” I audibly tell my legs. But they would not respond. I say to them a little louder “I said wait!” Now they stop. I look at the slippers on my feet. Once again, I have worn them mismatched. But that is not what brings a grin to my face. I realise at that moment I have passed the first test of governing a people: I have no shoes! Surely, my mismatched slippers couldn’t pass for such. Now all I have to do is find people to vote.

I command the legs to walk on. As I run my hand through my head, I notice it is the same way I left it two weeks ago when I combed it last. I don’t know why I forget things too easily these days. Even Tunde is beginning to get upset with me. Four days ago he had told me to go and put some water in the soup he was making in the kitchen. I took the container of kerosene and emptied it into the soup. He was furious. I tried to explain that I thought it he had told me to do so. He wouldn’t listen. Later, I heard him calling my dad and talking in whispers. But I could hear him say that I needed care. I don’t understand. How do you need care for cooking with kerosene? Tunde is one of the best friends anyone could ask for – I mean how many people would house and feed an unemployed friend for almost a year? –but sometimes even he can get unnecessarily cranky. Perhaps he needs to read literature more. He needs some Tolstoy.

I notice the odour of dried sweat emanating from the shirt. I like it. Clean shirts have begun to irritate me lately. They make me nauseous. I hate that I have to wear a shirt for days before I feel comfortable in it. I could easily pull out one of Tunde’s from the laundry pile. But he would get furious again. And call home. I try to make my slippers stop the slapping sound it is making.
Walking past Mama Keji’s store, I see her teenage daughter outside. As always, I can’t help but look at her. She has that shadow of a smile on her face and a look that seems to say she is privy to some important secret that I have the misfortune not to know. As always, I bless her with a scowl. I don’t think she would vote anyway. But her mother might.

As I arrive the cafe, I find the siding door closed. I pull hard but it wouldn’t budge. I continue pulling. I don’t want to go elsewhere. The computers here know me. The stools know me. The owner knows me. He often gives me free tickets to use the internet when he is around. Before joining the Police, he had lived in the same place i did my Youth service. I peer into the glass and notice some people there. I listen closely and hear what seems like voices arguing. One voice in particular seems filled with intense anger. I conclude something must be happening in there they don’t want me to know. My incessant raps on the glass become louder and the attendant finally opens. I stretch out my money for a ticket, deliberately ignoring the five young men by the corner. I go to my favourite stool, kneel before it and tap five times until it smiles and tells me to sit. While engaging the computer I hear the groans from the young man on the floor. He has his hand over his head as if trying to shield it from something. My curiosity heightens. I pretend to concentrate on the computer but my ears hang on the sounds emanating from that corner. Now and then i hear abuses and strings of sentences in Yoruba:

“Idiot! May your generation never amount to anything!”
“Offspring of bastards, You will rot in penury!”
“You this layabout! how can you expect to reap where you have not sown?”

So the voices go, each seeming to gain more strength in anger. The hands also join in speaking. As if to lend potency to the curses, they come on his head in slaps and blows. The sound of one in particular makes me wince, and my pretence falls apart. I turn to the young men to inquire what crime the boy on the floor has committed to deserve such merciless beating. The one with the angriest voice offers some explanation.

“ Can you imagine!” he begins, “ I and these others work off our butt in front of the computer looking for magas and just as we are about to get rewarded, this idiot hacks into our mails and steals the control numbers!”
“We had noticed this occurrence a couple of times,” another offered, “but really couldn’t tell who was doing it until today”
“Just wait for oga to come back. You will see!”

I run my hand through my hair, trying to make sense of what they are saying. For a split moment, I get it. And then it goes away. Again it returns and seems clear to me: the yahoo boys are waiting to report the hacker to the policeman for relieving them of the money they duped other people of. I must write it down somewhere before I forget. I will tell Tunde about it when he returns from work. Unable to find a pen, I log out of the system and exit the cafe. I walk as fast as my legs can go without running, and continue to mutter it several times. Something about the incident seems incongruous but I can’t put my hand on it, and it is tingling and teasing my memory. Halfway across the street, I forget. I stop and try to remember what it is I am trying not to forget and why it seems so important. The thought seems to run back and forth the back of my head but receding every time I try to push it to the fore. I notice people begin to stare a little longer than they used to but I don’t care.

In my frustration I hold my head in my hand in one last effort to retrieve it. Finally I get it. But I wrestle with what to do. I am not sure anymore whether I want to cry or laugh. I make the decision.

Clutching my belly, I go on my knees and let my voice ring out in roaring laughter. I remain oblivious to the stares and shaking heads.