On he went, his voice flailing at Furo.
Furo’s position was now unbearable. His skin crawled from drying spit, his buttocks ached with renewed malice, and a deep flush was burning across his face. Other commuters were staring into the car, as startled as he was by the spectacle of the oyibo being screamed at by his driver. He had to do something to regain control, to restrain Headstrong’s belligerence. No longer would he stand for the micro aggressions and blatant rudenesses he had gotten from Headstrong ever since the first day they met. He was the boss here – he wasn’t mates with this ordinary driver. Even Arinze wouldn’t talk to him this way. Neither would Syreeta, the only person he owed anything to. Headstrong was out of bounds and needed putting in his place.
‘Shut up!’ Furo yelled at the top of his voice. In the stunned silence, he took several deep breaths before saying in a threatening tone, ‘Look here, Mr Ikhide, I’ve had enough. What gives you the right to speak to me that way? You’re my driver, just stick to your job. In fact, another word out of you and I will report this matter to the MD!’
‘I’m sorry,’ Headstrong murmured without looking over. His balled hands tightened their grip on the steering wheel as he added: ‘Please don’t tell MD.’
‘You talk too much, it has to stop,’ Furo said, stern-voiced. There was more he wanted to say, especially about the spitting, but already he was growing weary of playing boss, and so he finished in a softened tone, ‘I’ll forgive you this time, but watch yourself.’
By the time the car arrived at Oniru Estate Furo was wondering if perhaps he had been too harsh. Since the telling-off, Headstrong had remained silent and fixed his attention on the world in front of the windscreen, and Furo now regretted the loss of ease between them. But he resolved that the quiet was worth the tension, and after Headstrong, following his instructions, parked the First Lady behind Syreeta’s Honda, then got down, locked the doors, and handed over the key, all of this done in silence, Furo claimed the final word: ‘Report here tomorrow morning by six o’clock. You have my number, call me when you arrive.’
Furo planned that night to inform Syreeta of his name change and then borrow money from her to make another passport, but he was exhausted from his first day of work; and, also, they had so much to discuss already – his first-ever office, his disappointing car, his early impressions of his colleagues, his very own laptop which needed a carrying bag, his masterful handling of the driver’s impertinence; and not forgetting his wish to stay on longer in her apartment, a question to which she responded yes with reassuring promptness – that in the end he decided there was no hurry, it could wait, he didn’t need the passport anyway until September; and, again, in spite of his fatigue, he would rather make love to her than explain why he’d adopted a new name; and so, perhaps because she had missed him all day, but certainly, on his part, because his confidence was raging from his improved circumstances, Furo and Syreeta fucked relentlessly that night.
At the nine o’clock meeting on Tuesday morning, Arinze gave Furo a crash course in sales. Lesson over, he handed Furo his company ID card, a pack of business cards, and a bundle of branded bookmarks that Furo was to present to clients as gifts. The business cards – a simple design of green text on a white background, with ‘Haba! Nigeria Ltd’ stamped on the flip side – bore Furo’s mobile number underneath ‘Frank Whyte’ and his email address underneath ‘Marketing Executive’. Seen in print, his name felt the more his and his title gave him purpose. His plastic ID card displayed a colour photo of an unsmiling man with a buzz of carroty hair and eyes the colour of sun-warmed seawater. It was a face that startled Furo less and less.
After the meeting ended, Furo returned to his office and summoned Headstrong to lug down the carton of sample books that Arinze had selected. To aid Furo in his sales pitch, Arinze had printed out a memo whose first three sheets had the books’ descriptions, snippets of promotional reviews, their list prices and discount ratios. On the penultimate sheet were details about the client company and its owner, Mr Ernest Umukoro; while the last sheet contained some FAQs about Haba! as well as Arinze’s answers, which were in red. Armed with this information, Furo set off for Gbagada, where the company was located. The company name was TASERS, Total Advertising Services. It employed forty-six people, the memo said.
On the drive down, Furo sat in the back seat with the carton of books beside him, and as the silent Headstrong steered the car with steady hands and a ramrod neck, Furo looked through the books. There were twelve titles, two copies of each, twenty-four books in all. He found some titles he had heard of before, even seen vendors flogging in traffic. One such was Execution: The Discipline of Getting Things Done. Another was The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People. Furo knew The 7 Habits well, his father owned a copy whose tattered cover used to be a constant sight around the house, and over the years as Furo searched for a job he had picked it up many times with the intention to read but hadn’t ever gotten around to achieving this. Apart from the pain in his neck, his scepticism was blameworthy for his inability to dig into that marker-highlighted bible of his father’s. His highly ineffective, chicken-farming father. A man as blind to his ironies as those book vendors who sweated while wearing T-shirts emblazoned with the slogan My money grows like grass. At least the vendors were disciplined in their execution, they got things done. More to the point, they weren’t sold on the books they were selling.
Returning The 7 Habits to the carton, Furo resolved again to read it – if only the pain in his neck would allow him. At this thought, he jolted forwards in his seat, raised his left hand to rub his neck, swung his head side to side and worked his jaws, then clamped his mouth shut and composed his face as Headstrong cast a startled look in the rear-view mirror.
The pain in his neck was gone.
TASERS was on the top floor of an eight-storey building whose elevator didn’t light up when Furo jabbed the buttons. In a far corner of the lobby the uniformed porter was playing a game of draughts with a rifle-bearing police officer, and when Headstrong, at Furo’s command, walked over to the porter to ask if the elevator was ever coming, the man raised a hand and pointed out the staircase without looking up from the draughtboard. Furo crossed to the unlit stairwell, waited some seconds for his vision to adjust to the shock of darkness, and then, as the sound of Headstrong’s footsteps approached behind him, he set off at a sprint. But five floors up he ran out of breath, staggered huffing on to the landing, then hunched over to find his wind. He was in that position when Headstrong arrived with the carton of books balanced on his head and his mobile phone held out before him, its screen lighting his path. He continued on with his light and load, the echo of his footsteps fading above Furo’s head. Furo waited for the sweat on his face to dry before he resumed his ascent, and as his heavy feet delivered him on to the last-but-one floor, Headstrong jogged past on his way down.
At the stairhead, the door marked TASERS was ajar. Through the gap Furo sighted the carton of books on the reception counter. The flaps hung open. Standing close by was a woman whose sleek black hairpiece was styled like a geisha’s hairdo. She was holding one of the books, flipping through it, but as Furo pushed past the door, her hand stilled in the splayed pages, and she turned around. Furo halted, said good morning, and after the woman returned his greeting, he said: ‘I’m here to see Mr Umukoro. I’m from Haba! Nigeria Limited. My name is Frank Whyte.’
The woman cocked her head and asked, ‘What of Mr Arinze?’ she asked.
‘He sent me,’ Furo replied. ‘I’m the new marketing executive.’
The woman’s face cleared. ‘Marketing executive,’ she said, drawling the words and nodding slowly. ‘It seems Haba! is moving up.’ She extended her hand to the open carton, placed the book in it, and after closing the flaps, she said in a tone that strove to be casual, ‘Your boss usually comes himself. You know he has been trying to sell us books since last year?’ At Furo’s silence, she gave a small smile and said, ‘I’ll tell oga you’re around.’ Sh
e strode to a glass-panelled door, buzzed it open and stepped into a long passage, and some time later, through the closed door, Furo heard another door open. He turned away from the door and swept a glance around the reception area, but his mind was elsewhere. In light of the information he’d just got from the woman, that Arinze himself had been to TASERS to sell books – a detail he neglected to mention during their meeting – Furo realised he needed a fresh strategy.
What had Arinze told him this morning? Know your strategy beforehand. Because of what he now knew, what he’d just learned, that was a fail. Convince the client that what you’re selling is what he needs. But Arinze, over several visits, hadn’t succeeded in that. Once you get the client talking, the sale is halfway made. That was it. Furo could feel the seismic tremors of an idea taking shape in his mind, and decided to plant his trust in the impromptu. He would forego any introductions other than a greeting and the handing over of his business card, following which he would spread out the sample books and then ask the client which of the titles he had read. With this new strategy, Furo thought he stood a chance of getting the client talking; and when the door swung open, after the woman announced that oga was ready to see him, he reached for the carton of books, but she said no, leave it, I insist, I’ll have someone bring it in. Without his conversation starter his plan was a non-starter. And so he told the woman not to bother, but she marched forwards and nudged his hand away from the carton, shook her head at his protestations, and said in a firm voice as she guided him by the elbow towards the door: ‘There’s no way I’m letting you carry that heavy load.’
Furo was ushered into an office whose every surface seemed laden with plaques and trophies, the walls covered with framed certificates and photographs of staff receiving framed certificates. Daylight filtered through the blue window screens and gave the room the atmosphere of a stained-glass chapel. The air was thick with the smell of dusty rug. ‘Take a seat,’ the woman whispered before withdrawing. An enormous man in white shirtsleeves, a red bow tie, and yellow-polka-dot braces was hunkered down behind the desk facing the door. When Furo halted at the desk, the man glanced up from his iMac screen and nodded at him to sit before returning his gaze to the playing video, which sounded like a sports car advert, a husky male voice waxing beatific about curves and balance. After the video reached its end, the man turned his cold eyes on Furo and said, ‘So Abu sent you.’ Furo recognised his voice from the video.
‘Yes – yes – good morning – sir,’ Furo replied with a stammer. He drew a calming breath, and reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled out a business card, then stood up from the chair and leaned over the desk with the card extended. But Umukoro refused the card with a sharp shake of his head, and then gestured at him to sit back down. ‘I know why you’re here,’ he said. ‘Start talking.’
Furo’s thoughts scattered in all directions. His improvised strategy was based on the sample books. He had nothing to say until the carton was brought in. As he tried to collect his thoughts, he began recalling all the things he should have done. He should have been less eager to avoid the hostility that brimmed in Headstrong’s manner. He should have come up the stairs with him. He should have stopped him from going back downstairs. He should have ignored that bad-luck receptionist. He should have phoned Headstrong to come up again and do the carrying. He should have insisted on carrying the carton himself. Or at least picked out some books – he should have thought of that before. And now this fatty bum-bum was waiting for him to sell books he should already have read, books he knew nothing about except – the memo sheets!
He shouldn’t have forgotten them in the car.
Umukoro’s voice stabbed the air. ‘How long have you worked for Abu?’ In a feeble tone, Furo responded, ‘I started yesterday,’ and Umukoro’s lips closed in a smile that turned his face sinister. At that instant Furo knew he had squandered any chance of succeeding where Arinze failed. Thus his surprise when Umukoro said, ‘I want to discuss something else, but first, let me tell you, Abu has come here many times to sell his books. The last time he came, I told him I would buy some books the next time he dropped by. But you’re not Abu.’
Sitting up to the pull of his ears, Furo spoke earnestly, ‘I’m his representative, sir.’ Whatever else he would have said was forsaken when three soft knocks sounded on the door, which then swung open to reveal the receptionist. She stepped inside and held the door open for the porter who had been playing draughts in the lobby. He shambled in bearing the carton and set it down by Furo’s chair. After the door closed behind them, Furo tried again. ‘Let me show you the books I brought. I’m sure you’ll like them. Mr Arinze selected them himself.’ He bent over the carton and took out four books, two in each hand, then spread them on the table. Bending down again, he reached for The 7 Habits. ‘This book changed my life,’ he said with an abashed grin as he straightened up. ‘I don’t know if you’ve read it yet—’
‘Save your breath,’ Umukoro said brusquely.
Furo’s disappointment showed on his face. And yet, as he tossed The 7 Habits into the carton, he wondered what Umukoro wanted to talk about.
‘You know my business is advertising.’ Umukoro stared at Furo until Furo kenned he was awaiting acknowledgement. ‘I work mostly with multinationals,’ he continued after Furo nodded, ‘and most of their local branches are headed by foreigners. You white men like to do business with your kind.’ He dropped his gaze to the books on the table and a spasm of distaste curdled his face. ‘How much is Abu paying you? A hundred thousand per month? One fifty? I’ll double that. And I guarantee you’ll learn more about marketing than a bookseller can teach.’ He smiled his sinister face again. ‘Are you interested?’
‘Excuse me?’ Furo said.
‘I want you to work for me.’
Furo’s first instinct was to refuse. He was tempted by the money on offer – with three hundred thousand naira he could do anything, go anywhere, be anybody – and yet he knew he couldn’t bear to work under Umukoro’s weight. The man looked like a butcher and sounded like a moneylender. He gave off an aura of heartfelt arrogance and easygoing nastiness. Moreover, he wasn’t the sort that Furo could ever call Ernest. After one day of working at Haba!, Furo already felt needed there; and he trusted Arinze’s intentions. Across the desk, in those unblinking eyes that were narrowed by their fleshy pouches, in that huge belly of a man who had swallowed his ego, Furo sensed that Umukoro saw him as no more essential than cake icing. He wanted but didn’t need him, and if ever he felt the need, he would throw him over with the same ease that he now offered to take him up. Syreeta was right, he deserved better. But this wasn’t it.
Furo spoke. ‘Thank you for the offer. Let me think about it. I’ll get back to you.’
‘No you won’t,’ Umukoro said. By the steady creaking of his chair and the quivering of his papal dewlaps, Furo guessed Umukoro was swinging his knees. The creaking stopped, his face froze over with indifference, and raising his hands to his computer keypad, he started typing as he said to Furo: ‘You’ve wasted enough of my time. Show yourself out.’
Furo arrived in the reception to find the receptionist engaged in a conversation with a man and a woman, both fashionably dressed, the man wearing a double-breasted suit of blue worsted, the woman a pearl-grey silk blouse and a pleated wool skirt. The ease of their postures, the relaxed cadences of their voices, marked them out as employees. Their voices dropped off as Furo approached the counter, and when he set down the carton to catch his breath, the woman asked the receptionist, ‘Are these the books?’ The receptionist said yes, after which the woman threw Furo a sideways glance before asking, ‘Can I see them?’ Without a word, Furo peeled open the flaps and stepped away from the carton. The woman reached in and pulled out 1001 Ways to Take Initiative at Work. ‘I haven’t read this one,’ she said to Furo. ‘Is it any good?’
‘Yes,’ Furo replied, and edging forwards, he stuck his hand into the carton and took out The 7 Habits. ‘I also recommend this one,�
� he said, and held it out.
‘Isn’t that Stephen Covey? said the woman as she accepted the book. ‘I read it a long time ago. I’ve read most of his books.’ Her words drew the attention of her male colleague, who came up behind her and peeked over her shoulder. She passed the Covey to him, and then waved the 1001 Ways at Furo. ‘How much is this?’
The question caught Furo unawares. His self-esteem was scalded from his futile meeting with Umukoro, and though he’d been willing to play along with the woman’s interest, he hadn’t expected the game to end in serious talk. At the mention of money, he now felt the oil slick of misgiving as he realised that the book prices were on the memo sheets in the car. He’d seen the prices, and had even checked to confirm that they were given for all twelve titles, but he hadn’t memorised the figures, hadn’t thought he needed to. His newness on the job was showing up in too many ways, and his frustration at this proof of his ordinariness, his annoyance with himself for committing the same apprenticeship errors as anyone, nagged at his faith in his innate ability to think himself out of a straitjacket. While he struggled to keep his face from betraying his confusion (over the price) and dejection (from his identity crisis) to the woman awaiting her answer, his mind, that Houdini, rose to the rescue, as he remembered that he had seen the price of The 7 Habits scrawled in pencil in the top right corner of the title page. He was sure he had, he knew he had, it looked like a price, and he hoped the same had been done for all the books, as he couldn’t risk losing this opening by going downstairs for the memo sheets. And so he said to the woman with a confidence he didn’t feel, ‘The price is on the first page.’ She opened the book, stared at the page for suspenseful seconds, and when she said, ‘One five, that’s not too bad,’ Furo beamed a super-ego smile before proclaiming:
‘That’s the cheapest you can find it anywhere in Lagos.’
He had no reason to doubt this claim. And what did it matter if it was bogus, he was doing his job. He was sure there was some jargon from Arinze to apply as appropriate, but he was too busy in the trenches to remember principles. Besides, he had caught the woman stealing glances at him. Lie or no lie, the sale was looking like his to make. When Furo spoke again, his tone was soft with coaxing. ‘I’m sure your decision won’t be influenced by price,’ he said to the woman, and flicked his eyes over the front of her blouse. ‘From your sense of style, anyone can see that you recognise quality.’
Blackass: A Novel Page 17