Apeteshi

by Bolaji Odofin

part 1 of 3

“I know the system,” said Apeteshi to his friend. “Watch me.”

His friend watched him leave, watched the big building swallow him up.

Apeteshi hailed the Minister’s secretary. “I’m here to see the Minister,” he announced, beaming. “He’s expecting me.”

The young female secretary examined her fingernails. She said nothing. There were people waiting in the small receptionist’s office. They glanced at Apeteshi. Apeteshi turned his smiling face toward them. They looked away.

The silence grew. Flies buzzed at a windowpane. From far away, a clock tolled ten.

“Wait over there,” the secretary finally said, her eyes sparkling with malice. “You met people here.”

“Haw, haw, haw,” Apeteshi guffawed as if he’d just heard a joke. His mouth worked, wanting to say something; something witty or crushing or devastatingly both, but no words came. He grinned and took a seat on a yellow plastic chair.

It was four hours before his turn came. He knocked and let himself into the Minister’s office. The Minister’s eyes were small and insect-like. They crawled over him from head to toe. “Yes?”

“Afternoon, sir.” Apeteshi bobbed his head. “Well done, sir. I came about the stationery supply contract, sir. My friend, Chief Kayode, said he would mention me to you, sir. Said I should come see you today about it, sir. Yes, sir.”

“I see,” said the Minister. “I’ll let you know.” He looked away.

“Thank you, thank you sir.” Apeteshi bowed. He waited but nothing else was forthcoming. “Thank you, sir,” he said again.

He gave the secretary a small jaunty wave as he sauntered past. Her lips curled.

His friend came to see him that night.

“He’s going to give me the contract,” Apeteshi informed him, confident in blue wrapper and a white cotton singlet. “I told you, didn’t I? Osagie, I told you I have the connections in this town.”

“Eat your food,” said his wife.

“A-pe-te-shi.” His friend was admiring. “You’re a very clever man.”

“I told you.” Apeteshi grinned into his bowl of foofoo and okro soup. “I told you. I know the system.”

APETESHI NIGERIA LTD

Printers. Publishers. Import and Export.

General contractors.

Apeteshi surveyed the signboard with pride. He’d spent thirty of his almost forty years in Lagos; he couldn’t deny the city had been good to him. He strode briskly into his one-room establishment. His boys were at work; cutting, binding, sorting and arranging. “Good morning sir,” they said with exaggerated respect.

“Well done, boys,” Apeteshi said gruffly. He threw himself into the role of Dreaded Boss; scolding, commanding, withholding praise. It was a fine performance, even if he said so himself. If smirks hid behind hands, he chose not to see. Placing his feet on his desk, he reclined in his seat, content.

“Apeteshi?”

“Eh?”

“I need some money. Give me some money.”

Apeteshi glanced at his wife. Ebele was young and round and demurely pretty. She sold second- hand clothing at Oshodi market. “Apeteshi, business is not going well,” she told him. “Almost all my money is gone.”

“Woman, don’t bother me,” Apeteshi grumbled. “God knows I do enough for you.”

“But Apeteshi, you have the money now,” she whined.

“No,” Apeteshi said, “I’m not giving you any money, and that is final.”

“Final. Final.” Ebele’s tone was accusing. “You carry all that money about in your pocket, and you say it’s final. It is a miracle you’ve not been robbed in this Lagos. You would rather the money go to thieves than help your wife, abi? Ehn, Apeteshi? No be so? Answer me!”

“There’s no money in my pocket!” Apeteshi shouted at her. Their children darted them quick disinterested glances, then turned back to the black and white television. “Are you mad? What money? Woman, be careful.” He towered over her threateningly, cutting the air with a stiff warning finger.

Ebele gave him a cold little look from under her lashes. She was obligingly silent, ceding him the illusion of control. She even hung her head a little, feeling generous.

“Well done, sir.” Apeteshi bowed to the Minister. “It’s me, sir. From your friend, Chief Kayode.” He gave a little chuckle. “Well done, sir.”

Apeteshi sat in front of the Minister, twisting his cap in his hands and smiling.

The Minister regarded him without expression. “Mister Man, get yourself out of my office. If I see you here again, I will arrest you.”

“Yes, sir.” Apeteshi shot to his feet. “Thank you, sir.”

He let himself out. Smiling, he made his way through the antechamber and out into the boiling sun.

No Parking signs where everywhere. His jalopy was parked almost half a mile away. He began to walk.

“Baba, ki lo n sele ke?” A dirty handkerchief was spread at his feet. “Declare surplus for your children.” The hoodlums seemed to come out of thin air. They were whip thin, clad in torn American gangsta clothes, their eyes bladey and merciless. “Your children are hungry,” they said. “Throw down sometin.” One of them stabbed the handkerchief with the point of his knife.

Apeteshi was frightened.

“I don’t have money here,” he quavered, conscious of the thick wad of naira notes in his trouser pockets. “Everything’s in my car.”

“Baba wan die,” one of them hissed. “Baba wan die, se.” He edged closer, his face ugly-mean. Apeteshi fought waves of nausea. “Wait, wait,” he croaked, frantically searching his shirt pockets. He threw two hundred naira on the handkerchief. The hoodlums crowed, and he took to his heels. “Hey!” they shouted after him. Apeteshi stopped running only when he was a few feet from his car. Wheezing, he bridged the gap.

He was resting on the hood of his car when voices barked at him. They were men of the Road Safety Task Force. Apeteshi was in violation of traffic laws, they informed him. He was charged with Illegal and Incorrect Parking. Ignoring his protests they convened court on the spot and fined him one thousand, seven hundred naira. He could pay up jejeli now, they said, or he could come ‘rescue’ his jalopy from a police station later.

Apeteshi paid up, shuddering.

His wife watched him as he slept that night. His mouth was open. Tears stood at the corners of his eyes. Creeping to where he’d hung his clothes, she expertly went through his pockets. Outside, in the moonless night, a small black cat climbed their broken fence and meowed mournfully.

The Nations Cup football tournament began. The entire country shuddered in the grip of its fever. Neighbours watched Nigeria and Cameroon kick ball on Apeteshi’s television.

“Why are we wearing white?” someone lamented. “White means bad luck for us, haven’t they heard?”

Apeteshi wasn’t watching football; Apeteshi was watching the wall.

His father hovered there.

“You’ll never amount to anything,” the old man was telling him in conversational tones. He wagged a gnarled finger, and looked wise. “You’re a coward, is what you are, Apeteshi. A coward. A failure. A bloody nobody. I keep telling you,” he added in sorrowful tones, “but you won’t listen. You keep fighting it. You keep fighting. Is there anything sadder than a man at war with his fate?” The apparition raised a small calabash to its lips and quaffed palm wine. Apeteshi stared at it, fascinated.

It was the middle of the day. Apeteshi was stroking the little signboard that pointed the way to his business premises when, suddenly, he froze. He had a feeling he was being watched. The sensation was almost overwhelming. He squinted up, up, into cloudless skies a lifeless blue. Hunching, trying to make himself small, he scurried back into the shop.

He didn’t know what to make of it. It’s silly, he concluded, and decided to laugh at it. “Haw, haw, haw,” he said, feeling like someone else. “Haw, haw.”

Overhead, in the cool shadows, a spider began to spin a web.

Apeteshi was a marked man. Of this he was almost sure. His friends and neighbours often related to him incidents that ranged from the pathetic to the bizarre: harassment, robbery, extortion, rape, fraud, kidnapping, assault, murder; these sometimes at the hands of uniformed personnel, politicians or elected public officials. They related what was, for them as well as a surprising number of their fellow citizens, The Nigerian Experience. For Apeteshi, it wasn’t that complicated. Things happened to him because he was different. He wasn’t a victim of his society; he was, simply, jinxed.

“Papa has added weight, did you notice?” Ebele was laughing as she spoke. They were in the car, on the way home from visiting her parents. “If my father can put on weight, anybody can put on weight.” She wrinkled her nose at him playfully.

“Is it not my handiwork you see on his body?” Apeteshi returned, only half joking. “I take care of my in-laws, you know. Your father is probably thanking his stars because of me, right this very minute.”

“Ahhh,” his wife jeered. “So-so mouth.”

The little car slowed to a crawl. Up ahead was a line of cars stretching far into the distance. Apeteshi cursed. They’d gotten stuck in one of Lagos’s notorious traffic jams. Swearing, he inched along with the rest. He’d been at it for almost an hour when a car drew up alongside his. It was a sleek black Mercedes with tinted windows and personalised license plates. Apeteshi stared at it curiously. Some big man was in the car, no doubt. An oil magnate, maybe a politician.

“There is space up ahead of you.” Ebele nudged him. “Move.”

Apeteshi was nudging his car forward when the sleek Mercedes turned towards that very spot. Apeteshi’s lips tightened. These big men. They think they owned the road. For some reason he thought of the Minister. He stamped on the pedal and beat the other car to it. He smiled smugly, pleased with himself. Again the other car tried to get ahead of Apeteshi. Again, Apeteshi was faster. This happened several times. The two cars were so close they were almost hitting each other. He felt a trickle of excitement. He was beating the system. He was winning!

He could feel Ebele’s eyes on him. He gave her a quick grin, then turned back to the road, his face grim. That’s your husband, he thought with a thrill. He doesn’t take nonsense from anybody. Not from some politician, not from the Minister. Not even from the President himself. That’s right!

Half an hour later the road was free. He spun the wheel masterfully, humming to himself, basking in Ebele’s admiration.

Tyres screeched, loud and sudden. The shiny Mercedes suddenly swerved in front of him and stopped. Apeteshi slammed on the brakes. Three men in sombre suits got out. They opened the door and dragged him out. He was opening his mouth to speak when one of the three slapped it shut. Ebele screamed and scrambled out of the car.

Apeteshi was dazed by the suddenness of the attack. Without a word the three men proceeded to give him a beating. Through a red haze he saw another man get out of the Mercedes. He was short and squat, clad in expensive lace. He watched the mauling for a while, then got back in the car.

A crowd gathered. Nobody interfered. They stared at the spectacle in distant pity. Apeteshi was in agony. One of them was hitting him with the butt of a gun. He could taste dust and blood. He could smell his own sweat. Dimly, he heard Ebele weeping, Ebele pleading.

When the three were done, they bundled Apeteshi into the boot of his car and slammed the lid shut.

Apeteshi could not sleep that night. He hurt in places he didn’t even know existed. In others, old scars peeled, and bled.

The bed creaked. Ebele’s shadow crept across the wall to where he kept his clothes. Apeteshi turned on his side. He shut his eyes tight.

“I’m going to see Osagie,” Apeteshi told his wife. “I’ll soon be back.”

“Ehen,” she said, nursing the baby. There was something about Apeteshi that unsettled her these days. Something about his eyes. “Greet him for me.”

Osagie was drinking at a beer parlour near his home. Smiling, Apeteshi joined him.

“Ah, my friend.” Osagie slapped him on the back. “My good friend, how are things? Na wah for you o; see how your cheeks are getting fat. Come, have you executed the Minister’s contract yet?”

“Shh.” Apeteshi drew a finger across his lips. “Yes,” he whispered and winked. “He was so pleased with me gave me another one. A bigger one.”

Proceed to part 2...