by Sefi Atta
“You catch,” he said. “I follow up.”
He explained. I would forward my email responses to him and he would send them to his oga. I retrieved my sandal, which was lying on its back, and began to bang my other sandal’s head against the pavement. There was no way of checking that he wasn’t cheating me.
“What about the mugus?” I asked.
I gave my sandal a concussion before I let go of its neck and stood up.
Augustine stopped running on the spot. Mugus came from Ireland or from towns in England like Wigan, and in America from states like Wisconsin, Wyoming and Idaho, he said. Anywhere there was a high concentration of dullards.
“I feel bad for them,” I said.
“Why?” he asked.
I shrugged. He wouldn’t care anyway, but before I knew it, we were arguing and he was lifting his newspaper to stress his points.
“What are you feeling bad for? If you’re feeling so bad, maybe you should go back to playing cards or whatever you do during your free periods at school. Let me tell you, you should be feeling bad for yourself, as a black man. Ever since slavery, these oyinbos have been taking advantage of you...”
He raised his newspaper so high I thought he was about to strike me. Slavery? But I wasn’t yet born and neither was he.
“And they’re still taking advantage of you,” he said. “Economic imperialism. Have you heard of that?”
I imagined a white man as a Nigerian traditional ruler, wearing an agbada and a conical crown. His chiefs were white as well. They wore coral beads around their necks, and their servants were all Nigerian.
“No,” I said.
“How Europe Underdeveloped Africa by Walter Rodney, with a... with a postscript by A. M. Babu. Have you ever read that book?”
“No.”
“StupidWhite Men by Michael... Michael Moore?”
His cousin worked in a bookshop at Falomo Shopping Center. He borrowed books and returned them, as if the bookshop were a library, he said. No one bought the books he read, or missed them. They stayed on the shelves for years, while the Christian books by Creflo Dollar, Bishop T.D. Jakes, Joel Osteen and Joyce Meyer were gone in a matter of days.I knew the bookshop. I used to go there after Fausa broke up with me. The rainy season was in full force, and I was so heartbroken I was beginning to suspect that certain clouds in Lagos were following me. It was like a conspiracy. The minute I stepped out of our block, the lightning would locate me, then the thunder would laugh, “Ha ha, found him,” then the clouds would pelt me. Some days, I wouldn’t retreat. I would walk through the rain, refusing to run. I would end up at the bookshop. The place always smelled clean, unlike the barracks that stank of overflowing septic tanks. I would pick up exercise books and sniff them when no one was looking. They were the closest I could get to freshly cut grass. I would pick up pencils and erasers. School supplies, that was my section. I never bothered with any books.
The books and newspapers Augustine read had influenced his views. He talked about Halliburton, Nigeria, and the bribery allegations. I was not interested. He told me about the G8, Paris Club and that U2 bobo, Bono. I told him I was not the one who borrowed money from the International Monetary Fund or whoever, so no goddamn individual or club in the universe could forgive me for debts I hadn’t incurred. His views reminded me of Brother’s, during his Shrine days, when he would come back from Sunday Jump and start singing Fela songs like “Why Black Man Dey Suffer...” Brother was conscious in that way.
“You just sit there,” Augustine said. “You don’t know your history. You don’t know what’s going on in the world or how it affects you. You haven’t even heard of the International Monetary Fund or globalization.”
I imagined the world as a white man’s head gobbling me up. Opening up its wide mouth and just gulping me down with one big globalization.
“Oh boy, do you read the papers at all?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
Scandalous headlines only, in the Sun especially. If I saw one that said “Bombshell” or something like that, I was immediately drawn in. The juicier they were the better. A mob had recently burned a man in Idi-Araba to death over some commotion near a mosque. I wasn’t sure of the details.
“You don’t,” he said. “I have not seen you buy one and yet you say you want to be a journalist.”
My voice rose. “I listen! I remember! I make observations!”
Koilywoily had told me that. What he had actually written in my report was that I was highly articulate and had an eye for detail. I had never thought of myself as being articulate and I believed my eyes were just good for figuring out the size and shapes of bobbies, but after he wrote that, I supposed he was right.
“Observations my ass,” Augustine said. “How can you write if you don’t read? Do you think Reuben Abati got where he is by not reading?”
He took the little I had told him, twisted it, and used it against me. I would never again confide in him, I swore, and I would pay him back. All those stories about Chip and Peanut, how he played ping-pong with them at home and tennis at Ikoyi Club. He was probably fetching their balls.
“Eh, what about the Savages?” I asked. “Weren’t you running errands for them?”
He shouted, “Peanut and Chip? Yes, they treated me like their houseboy. So what? So what if they did? You think I enjoyed it? Was it my fault my popsi was their cook? Was it my fault they were sending him up and down? Yes, we were living in their boys’ quarters, and if you saw the way they were enjoying life in the main house, you would know what I mean about economic imperialism.”
He was squeezing the newspaper so tightly it crumpled in the middle. The headline said IG Probed.
“Don’t feel bad for mugus,” he said. “These oyinbos are stealing from us right, left and center and they are prejudiced. Yes. They never want to acknowledge any good in Africa, never want to see any progress, and if they are so advanced, how come we Yahoo Yahoos are the ones controlling the World Wide Web? Answer me that.”
I honestly couldn’t. He tapped his temple to imply I was crazy.
“You have to read the papers. You have to. You can’t just sit here and be ignorant, especially if you want to make it as a journalist. Look, this same Summit Oil Mr. Savage worked for, do you know what they are doing in the Niger Delta?”
I sort of found out from another headline, when our president told the people there to go to hell. The petroleum companies were destroying the environment.
I faked a yawn as he began to tell me about his cousin, Magnus. Magnus grew cassava and maize on his grandmother’s farm to pay for his matriculation exams and got into Port Harcourt University to study mass communication. After he graduated, his uncle gave him a camera. That was how he began to take photographs and eventually became a photojournalist. Now, he had a gig with the Associated Press and covered the Delta region. The AP paid him in hard currency, but the bobos who flew in from wherever with their better equipment were paid much more, even though they had less experience. Magnus said the minute they landed in Lagos, they would leave the international airport and head for the nearest refuse dump, the higher the better, to take photos. If they had assignments in the villages, they looked for the nearest pot-bellied child. Their photographs would end up in this or that Times and everyone would congratulate them and hand them awards. Oyinbos didn’t give a shit about the true picture of Africa, panoramic or close up. If they needed credibility, they found Africans to do their dirty work for them, and there was always one spineless, short-sighted buffoon of an African who was willing to sell his soul for a little money and foreign acknowledgement.
Magnus sounded like he had a bad mouth, but Popsi was also against the press. The press were always picking on the police, he said. They never wanted to acknowledge the problems that police families faced. The foreign presses were worse. Always the bad stories about Nigeria they reported. Never the good.
“Do you know all the wayo wayo America is doing in the Middle East because of this same oil?”
Augustine asked.
I knew less about that. In that long email from the South African woman, she’d mentioned that Yahoo Yahoos were as unpopular as Americans were, worldwide.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I don’t support what Osama bin Laden did. In fact, I completely condemn it as a supporter of non-violent protest. I do, and I don’t understand why these Muslims always have to go around destroying buildings because they are outraged. That is why I choose to fight my battles on the internet. There is free speech there. Total freedom, and no one can come and burn down the internet because they are offended. But do you know why bin Laden chose to attack the Twin Towers?”
I had no clue.
“Because it was a symbol.”
A symbol of American economic imperialism, he said. One moment he was trashing the place and next, he was planning to escape there. How could he dislike Americans and still sort of worship them?
The day the Twin Towers went down, Popsi wouldn’t talk about them. Momsi said, “But what bin Laden has done is wicked.” Popsi said, “Please don’t mention his name around here.” He didn’t even want to hear the word “bin.” Shortly after, he banned the word “bush.” He was even sadder after the explosion in Ikeja Cantonment that shook Lagos. People were going there to commiserate and calling it our own Ground Zero. It was a disgraceful display, he said, and Nigerians were desensitized to human tragedy.
The sun was too hot; I was exhausted. This was like an economics lesson. Economics and current affairs. I felt sick.
“Listen,” I said. “I just want a mobile.”
“A mobile?” Augustine said.
“Yes,” I said. “A cell phone. That’s all I want.”
“Why didn’t you ask before?” he said. “I can give you a phone if you want. Ah-ah? If it is a phone you wanted all this time, you should have said. I can easily give you one. Here.”
He pulled out a phone from his trouser pocket and handed it to me.
“You’re talking about feeling bad for mugus. Mugus? They don’t care about the reality of your situation. You’re not deceiving them. You’re just telling them exactly what they want to hear.”
We stood there like a couple of pallbearers, burying our grudges. The man with the Peugeot was standing on the street. His helpers had dispersed. Waves were crashing onto the beach. The sea was greenish blue.
“It’s as if we have been here before,” I said.
“It’s a trick of the mind,” Augustine said. “That is what is called a déjà view.”
He was an ITK, an I-too-know, and he was a liar. He fabulized more than me. He insisted we cross over to Bar Beach. We got there and he said he wanted to buy Trebor mints. He bought the Trebor mints from a hawker and somehow made a detour to a prostitute’s shack. He said he was looking for Schweppes bitter lemon. The prostitute was sitting there with her bronze hair standing on end. She was wearing just a bra and denim shorts. She was not like the sophisticated ones that came to the hotel. She looked pregnant and her bobbies appeared cross-eyed. I had x-ray vision for bobbies. I could tell what shape they were, how big their nipples were.
“You wan fock?” she asked.
“Ashawo!” Augustine said.
She spread her fingers at us. “Nothing good will come to you!”
Ever, ever, she said. Lai, lai. We ran. That was funny, but it gave me anxieties, marital ones. One had to be careful these days. I couldn’t imagine a time when sex was safe. It was like the commercial hubs. All the sex I’d ever had was in my head and how would I ever get any experience then? Worse, what if my jomo was too small and I got married to a woman who laughed at the size of it, or spread rumors that I was a virgin, as Augustine’s ex-girlfriend had?
“I beg,” he said. “I done tire. Let’s go and get some grubbies.”
The phone was a Nokia. I could have French-kissed it. It was chunkier than his, and plastic. His was metallic. He loaded my phone card and handed it back to me during our meal at Tantalizers. He had a plate of jollof rice and chicken. I had jollof rice as well, but with beef. I preferred beef.
“This place is for the masses,” he said, munching on his chicken leg. “The food is sweet, but I can treat you to a better meal. A meal with class.”
His lips were glossy with oil. Glory’s hotel, he said. He would take me to the restaurant there and she could arrange the best plate of steak for us, a steak au pauvre. The way he was wolfing down his chicken, one would think he was satisfied with Tantalizers. The place had air conditioning, marble floors and leather booths. For dessert, they had Golden Scoop ice cream and fruit cake.
Tantalizers was a happening joint, as far as I was concerned. People were striding in and waddling out like pregnant women. They looked like office workers. The owner of the chain was an entrepreneur. I wished I could get into a legitimate business like that. I was gobbling my beef. The rice was peppery. My nose was running. I wiped my nostrils with the back of my hand and fiddled with the buttons on my phone. The power on and off was the most important. I would have to remember to keep my phone turned off at home.
“Leave that phone alone for one second,” Augustine said, pointing with an oily finger. “You want to spoil it?”
“I’m just checking.”
He sucked his finger. “I beg, don’t disgrace me here. Are you a bush boy or what? How can you be acting as if you’ve never seen a phone before?”
Popsi had a cell phone. He used it for work. Momsi wouldn’t know how to use one. Modern contraptions confused her, but she needed one for her business. Her rich clients had up to two, three or even four phones. I promised myself I would buy her one, the best phone ever, whenever Augustine paid my commission.
Augustine wiped his lips with a paper napkin, which turned orange and translucent.
“What about my commission?” I asked.
He frowned. “What about it?”
“How will you pay me?”
He flexed his fingers. “Why?”
“I don’t know. I’m just thinking of where to put it.”
He pulled his phone out of his pocket and began to press buttons. “Your commission, your commission,” he muttered. “You haven’t even started to do the work yet.”
My phone rang. I yanked it out of my pocket. My eyes widened as I searched for the right button. I expected to hear Momsi’s voice when I raised it to my ear.
“Hullo,” Augustine said.
I hissed and returned the phone to my pocket. He placed his by his plate, which was clean, but for a chicken bone, crushed at both ends.
“That phone you have is the cheapest of the line,” he said. “The cheapest, let me tell you. Every market woman in Lagos owns one. You know what they call it? Free water. You know why? No one will steal it. That is why I gave it to you.”
Poverty was no excuse for foolishness. I, too, was poor. Yes, I was. I embraced that label now. Why not? Was I responsible for falling into a statistical bracket? I had already accepted that I had limited possibilities. Even if I had dreamed up an idea like Tantalizers, who would give me capital?
Nigerians were too enterprising. That was our problem, not that we were immoral by nature, but there was too much pressure to succeed—or to be on top. A Nigerian couldn’t just be satisfied working for someone else’s business. We had to own our own: fast-food chain, maternity clinic, law firm, primary school, even.
A common undergraduate degree was not enough. We had to have a master’s degree and then a Ph.D. For writers, it was the Nobel, like Soyinka, or the Booker, like that Ben Okri bobo that Koilywoily was always going on about, the one who wrote The Famished Road. It didn’t matter that the majority of Nigerians had not read his novel and could not even afford to buy books, even if they could bloody read. He won, and that was all Koilywoily cared about.
Nigerians.We couldn’t just work for one of the new banks and wireless-phone companies and be grateful. We had to be the MD, COO or CEO. Traditional titles, too: otunba, balogun, bashorun or erelu, instead of ordina
ry chief. Even in church: deacon or deaconess or pastor and not just an ordinary member of the congregation. President, instead of governor or senator.
Now, look where we were today: it was every man for himself.
In Keffi, where the café was, people were employing themselves any which way, selling hand towels, phone cards, socks, fresh grapes, Aquadana and Boost. In Obalende, seamstresses and tailors were designing clothes. Mama Puts were cooking away on street corners. At Mammy Market, you could get your hair cut, your nails done, photocopies made, buy frozen food or medicine. All down Awolowo Road, there were eye clinics, car rentals, art galleries and consultancies. Nigerians provided consultancy services like no man’s business, and we were always in training. Training for what, I didn’t know, but unfortunately our presidents came one after the other and messed up our lives. So there I was, and there was the internet. It would always be there for me and it was infinite. I had begun to see it as not cyberspace, but outer space. The patterns that emerged when I logged on were now planets and stars. Mugus were aliens. I was an astronaut.
I made the mistake of sharing these thoughts with Augustine and he said, “You see? Totally ignorant. I told you. When you won’t read.”
The internet was a network of computers, he said, stationed all over in America, in buildings.
“So Muslims can burn it down?” I asked.
Muslims wouldn’t stand a chance, he said. George W. Bush meant business. He was like Clint Eastwood in Dirty Harry. He would blow up any Muslim before they reached the doors.
I didn’t trust him and he got on my nerves, but he gave me reasons to continue to listen to him. In a way, he was better educated than me. He had been to the Central Library, the National Museum, and National Theater to see the Chinese acrobats.
Mrs. Savage had taken an interest in his educational progress. Her name was Libby. She was a psychologist by training and she had worked with children who had learning disabilities before she married. She wasn’t like the other expatriate wives who were either so miserable that their husbands had been posted to a godforsaken country like Nigeria, or so delighted that they could afford to employ servants for the first time in their lives. Those were the bossiest women, Augustine said. They would scream their houseboys’ names and ring bells. Mrs. Savage never did. She would walk to the boys’ quarters, sometimes barefoot. She didn’t care much for shoes, except for the ones she had to wear to play golf. She would find her way through the laundry lines of bedsheets in the backyard and call out in a soft voice, “Enoch? Enoch?”