Featured image by Adejonwo Kizito and Dantala Ali.
The tell-tale sign of squealing tires came first, skidding hard against the road as the owner struggled to avoid the inevitable. It was too late. At the intersection between Mississippi and King’s Cross roads, the two cars collided.
CRASH.
Then more sounds: metal bending, the tinkle of shattered glass scattering, horns blaring. Bystanders covered their mouths in shock. A woman jumped down, unharmed, from the driver’s side of the car that had hit the other from behind. She slammed the door close; face caked with heavy makeup, long thick braids decorated with wooden beads piled up on her head like a tower—an unstable one.
“Oga come down! Now!” she screamed and slammed her palm on the roof of the other car. Still there was no movement from within the tinted glasses of the car.
“Is he alive?” someone whispered.
“Oga! Mr. Man! I said come down!”
Finally, the door squeaked open and a young man stepped out with unstable legs. He was dressed cleanly in a white shirt and well-ironed trousers, and his barber had taken his time to carve out the edges of the frohawk at the top of his head. A fine man.
“Look at my car!” the woman screamed in his face. “Can you see what you have done?”
The man turned to look dramatically. The bonnet was bent in an awkward shape and smoke rose ominously from the hood.
“Can you see? In fact, who gave you this car to drive? All these small boys carrying cars their wives gave them, causing havoc on the roads. What nonsense.”
“But madam,” the man squeaked, finding his voice at last, “You’re the one that hit me. Why are you blaming me for this?”
“You’re very stupid. I feel like slapping you. Let me tell you, I have your type at home, he even get sense pass you. You think because you’re fine, I’ll let you go?”
Across the street, Akunna stood, hidden in a multitude of faces, observing the goings-on with mild amusement and a touch of pity for the young man. He’d learnt the hard way to never involve himself in such matters, watching from a distance was safer, easier. Selfish? Yes. But it was what it meant to exist as the weaker sex in a society, one had to constantly look out for themselves or be caught in a constant web of trouble.
“Lower your head and live your life and you won’t have problems,” his father always said. He’d thought it cowardly advice once, but he knew better now.
He tapped his shirt and trouser pockets to confirm that his phone and wallet were still on him and breathed a sigh of relief as he felt their reassuring bulges; pickpockets were rampant in the city and gatherings like this were prime opportunity for them to strike, when people were too busy staring open-mouthed to notice the fingers snaking in and out of their clothing like ghosts.
Once should have been enough to teach Akunna a vital lesson. He’d witnessed a woman harassing a man for a minor accident and had thought to intervene, to speak up for his fellow man. He’d ended the day phoneless, without a wallet and at a police station waiting for his mother to save him from the policewomen who had fined him up for disturbing the peace. Another time, he’d ended up at a mechanic’s workshop bargaining the cost of spare parts for a car that didn’t belong to him. The mechanic, a thickset woman in oil-stained overalls, looked over the car, toothpick in her mouth and said, “Oga fine boy, this your motor go cost,” with a leer in Akunna’s direction, not even acknowledging the car’s rightful owner. “But I fit cut cost for you,” she added with a wink. Then he’d offended her by shuddering when she’d over familiarly placed her stained fingers on the shoulder of his starched shirt. “Oga that is the last price, take it or leave it,” she snapped, withdrawing her fingers and walking away, but Akunna caught her muttering: “No be like say na him own the car sef. Ashewo.” He didn’t know much about cars, and later he’d found out from his friend Ezinne that they’d been cheated by at least a thousand cowries.
“In fact, why am I still talking to you? Give me your wife or your mother’s number, even girlfriend sef, I only discuss such matters with hardworking women like myself. I know you didn’t buy this car yourself. Ashewo,” the woman with the towered beaded braids shouted, as if on cue.
One didn’t have to do much to be called an ashewo—prostitute—anyways. Akunna could count how many times he himself had been labeled one for merely walking down the wrong street. He glanced at his wristwatch—those were memories best kept for another time, when he wasn’t late for work. He began to push his way through to the edge of the crowd.
Two policewomen, the contours of their round potbellies evident through the fitting seams of their khaki black and red uniforms, sauntered towards the scene. It was all too familiar; their daily bread had been served. Indeed, God endeavored to answer everyone’s prayers.
Akunna spotted the Rolex watch, glinting brightly in the sunlight, on the young man’s wrist just as he turned to leave. He had money; he would be fine. Money made everything go away.
The cab driver was moving too slowly, every grinding roll of its tires a million seconds in Akunna’s mind. “Madam abeg I’m late now. Please move faster,” Akunna said impatiently, staring at his wristwatch and pleading for the second hand to move slower. This was his punishment for being such a busybody. God forbid he turned up late. The last time he’d had to beg Madam with both knees on the floor and promise never to repeat such untoward behaviour again, while his colleague Chinasa, equally on her knees, wailed beside him like a woman who had just lost her mother. What if Madam fired him this time?
He couldn’t afford to lose this job. For one, there were no jobs in the country. And his parents were middle-class people who’d spent their life savings sending him to the best schools but lacked the right connections to get him through the polished doors of elite employment. His school results were good, but not astounding enough to have him working at those international firms where everyone had to act professional, and even then, he’d heard stories from his friends who worked there about having to make tea and buy akara for their bosses. What was one to expect in a country without proper labour laws?
Akunna appreciated his job though it was for a small one-man business that came with a stifling work environment, power abuses, utmost unprofessionalism, and god complex displays from its owner. He would take it all over the turmoil of unemployment any day. He’d sat in his room all day back then, writing and sending application letters and resumes, reading the job descriptions over and over to make sure they fit just right— unlike his female friends, he never applied to jobs he was underqualified for. Then frantically checking his phone at the slightest beep afterwards, waiting for that one call or email that would change his life. Most times, it was just his friends checking in or sending pictures from their lavish vacations or asking him to hang, but he didn’t even have money for transport. He would open his email and stare at the unmoving unread count of “0” in bright red.
When the first interview invite came, he screamed and ran to show his parents, and they’d given congratulatory pats on the back. He soon learnt not to get excited over such things. The first rejection letter came as a shock; it had gone well, he thought. Then the second and the third. And so he lowered the caliber of companies he applied to: perhaps he was dreaming too big. The interview invites increased after that, surely one would say yes.
“You’re a young man, virile. Are you married or planning to get married soon? Do you have a fiancé?” one interviewer asked without preamble, looking straight into his eyes.
“I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you mean,” Akunna responded, battling to hide his shock. He did not want to lose this opportunity.
“Are you planning to get married soon? We’re always skeptical of hiring young men like you because next thing you get married, before we know it, you’re heavy with child and taking leave from work. You come back from that leave and you’re pregnant again within one year. Of course, we’re not saying you shouldn’t have a family but not at the expense of your work and our organization.”
Was this legal? He was reminded of his science teacher in primary school, the one who’d first explained to him where children came from, she’d spoken to him like an adult and not a little boy of seven. A woman’s egg and a man’s sperm came together inside the man and grew into embryonic sacks that depended on the man for survival for seven months before the man went into labor and had to have his stomach cut open to release the child.
“That’s unfair! Why only men?” little Akunna had demanded.
“Go and ask the creator,” his science teacher retorted, then added under her breath as she walked away, “You men are so selfish,” perhaps thinking of her own husband.
That weekend, he’d told his Sunday school teacher that God was a wicked woman punishing men for existing and had spent the rest of service facing the wall and reciting scriptures of forgiveness.
“No, I don’t plan to get married anytime soon,” Akunna reassured his interviewer with a fixed smile. Perhaps he hadn’t sounded convincing enough because the rejection email came the very next day at 9 a.m. He told himself that it was for the best, he didn’t want to work for such an organization anyways, but he desperately needed a job; he was running out of money fast.
The gatewoman was on the verge of locking the gate when Akunna arrived. He jumped out of the cab and ran through the small opening like a mouse, before it crashed closed. “Good morning,” he shouted behind him. She hissed in response, the sound carrying in the morning wind.
At the reception area, behind an arch oak and glass reception desk with Florence Homes printed on its front, Darlington (what sort of name was that anyways?) preened like a bird in his hot pink suit; at least this was better than the flamingo coloured monstrosity he’d attired himself in on Friday. Akunna never understood Darlington’s clothing choices, who thought himself some sort of fashion icon. Darlington was also Madam’s nephew and her eyes and ears within the office when she was away; a professional eavesdropper and tattletale through and through.
“Akunna you’re almost early today,” Darlington announced in a parsonic tone as Akunna walked through the doors, like a clergy reading his congregation their sins.
“Good morning,” Akunna mumbled and shuffled past quickly, refusing to take the bait.
“You know, maybe you should be leaving your house early if you want to get here before the gates are locked,” Darlington continued, dusting an imaginary speck from his trousers. Akunna continued towards the stairs without responding. “If you like pretend like you’re not heari—”
Akunna, already at the edge of the staircase, turned to see what had interrupted Darlington’s tirade.
“Good morning Madam! Welcome ma!” Darlington effused in a canorous voice.
Akunna bolted up the steps like a man chased by spirits. Darlington’s tinkling laughter followed behind like a ghost.
“George is away on paternity leave,” Sade, the team manager, informed the marketing and customer relations unit that morning. Akunna blinked twice. He hadn’t known George was pregnant, no wonder his waist had thickened so much in the past few months and he’d begun to wear baggy clothes. He just hoped he didn’t have to fill in for him: extra work and no compensation.
“As you know, George is a very vital part of the team, and so, going forward, Akunna, Christiana and Michael will be filling in for him. Necessary emails and files have already been shared with you, please endeavour to work together. Let’s meet for a quick meeting in an hour,” Sade concluded and turned to leave.
“You know it’s his second time in three years,” Michael whispered as they waited in the meeting room for Sade.
“Hmm,” Akunna said, not because he had nothing to say but because he disliked Michael. Michael was a kiss ass, who always tried to look good in front of the bosses and backstabbed his colleagues at the slightest opportunity. He wouldn’t be surprised if his words were recited to George over the phone that very evening.
“Yes o, three! I heard from someone in HR that he might not get his job back,” Christiana said, joining the conversation. She was relatively new to the firm, poor girl, she had no idea how Michael was.
“Really?” Michael said, his tone exaggeratedly high. Akunna guessed that he’d already heard but wanted to know whatever it was Christiana knew.
“Yes, really! Madam is tired of him going on leave all the time, she says her company is not a large corporate and she needs people that will be available all the time. This real estate business is very competitive o.”
Sade’s stern voice interrupted whatever response Michael was about to give. “Are we ready?”
“Yes,” they all chorused, like school children on an assembly line.
An hour later, Akunna was at his desk battling with the barrage of emails and phone calls coming his way. Who knew George had been doing so much? He’d never spoken about it, unlike those who went on and on in loud voices about every client and situation they face. Yet during the last promotion cycle, he’d been overlooked while others had moved up the ladder. To think this was just one third of George’s workload. If looks were anything to go by, Michael and Christiana were not having an easy time either.
His desk phone rang again. “Hello. Good morning, Florence Homes.”
“Yes, good morning,” a man’s gruff voice came through. “I’m calling to complain about the apartment I rented. The roof is leaking, especially the side in my bedroom. Because of your nonsense property, it’ll be raining outside and I’ll be bathing too like a homeless person. My cooker isn’t working well too, something is wrong with the gas connection.”
“I’m really sorry to hear this sir. Which of our apartment buildings do you live in? I can send someone over to look and help with the issues you’re facing.”
“Sorry for yourself. This is the second time I’m calling in a week. Last time I spoke with one Michael fellow that sent a plumber and technician that did absolute nonsense work. I want to speak with a woman. Where is your madam? What do men know about properties anyways? Nothing! Better go and find another job.”
Akunna held his head in his hands. What kind of man spoke of his fellow men that way? Today was not looking like a good one at all.
Wanna hang?
Ejiro’s message flashed across Akunna’s phone screen as he cleared his desk to close for the day. And what a day it had been.
He’d had to call Christiana to help with the resident with the leaking roof. Afterwards, he’d dealt with endless phone calls and email conversations with George’s clients who needed reassurance that George’s absence was only temporary and that they hadn’t lost their trusted realtor.
At lunch, George had been the topic once again as everyone went back and forth about the news of his paternity leave.
“Do you think Madam will really fire him?” Christiana asked no one in particular.
“He should have thought of that before having another child, that’s what birth control is for,” Michael retorted unkindly.
“But that’s unfair,” Joe, the new admin intern responded. “Birth control doesn’t always work, you know, and it makes you gain weight.”
Michael made a face like he couldn’t believe Joe was having sex. Others joined in the conversation after that, arguing in loud voices. Akunna sat in a corner silent; Darlington was somewhere around the corner and he would not fall into the trap.
Akunna’s phone buzzed as another message came in. ??? Are you coming or not?
He rolled his eyes. Ejiro was always impatient, the sort of behaviour that came with regularly having your every wish met with immediate alacrity.
We’re meeting at Abdul’s house. Come by if you want.
Akunna sighed. He knew who “we” were, and he’d have to show up if he intended to keep his circle of friends.
He could hear their voices through the door when he arrived; Abdul’s wife must have been away on business; it was only when she was that they behaved freely and unhinged. He pressed the bell once and waited for a steward to open the door.
“Akunna my man, you’re here!” Abdul shouted from the living room as Akunna crossed the gleaming floor of the expansive foyer of Abdul’s home with the crystal chandelier sparkling above.
“Yes o,” Akunna shouted back with more enthusiasm than he felt. Abdul’s house always smelled like a blend of dates, spices and perfume. Today, it smelled like chicken.
Bottles of beer and opened pizza and barbequed chicken boxes were scattered on glass coffee tables with gold detailing. His friends were sprawled in different positions on the Armani Casa sofas; Ejiro was stretched on a Bonaldo chaise longue, the 146-inch micro-led wall TV droned on in the background. Unlike Akunna, they didn’t have to slave away every day to make ends meet. Their grandparents had made sure of that.
Ejiro’s grandmother had been the country’s first prime minister, and both her parents held very powerful positions in the current government. Abdul’s grandfather had started the country’s first and largest indigenous oil company and Babarinde belonged to one of the largest real estate family dynasties in the country. Secondary school had brought them together but even then, as now, Akunna felt like an outsider. His father had had to sell his grandfather’s land to afford the fees, whilst his classmates had carried bags worth far more. He would have been treated like a pariah had it not been for Ejiro taking a liking to him. Sometimes, he wondered if they kept him around for his entertaining “poor people stories.”
“I thought you weren’t coming,” Ejiro said raising a casual brow. She was the only girl in their group, the queen. She was dressed as usual, in a large t-shirt and baggy jeans and her hair was shaved into a high mohawk. Ejiro had never been feminine, even her voice could be mistaken for a man’s, and she wore her peculiarity like a badge of honor despite the raised brows in a society as theirs.
“I was just clearing my desk when your text came. No vex,” Akunna responded with a wry smile.
They played cards, ate chicken and drank beer, except Ejiro of course. She hated fast food and she definitely didn’t drink beer; red wine was her preferred choice as she shuffled the cards and took cigarette breaks.
“My father is disturbing me about getting married. I’m tired of the man,” Babarinde complained halfway through the game.
“Your father is wise. Come and join me in my state of enjoyment,” Abdul quipped.
“Enjoyment ko. You that your wife monitors your every move. Police and thief relationship,” Babarinde replied and they all burst into raucous laughter, including Abdul.
“You’re exaggerating. She’s just making sure I’m alright,” Abdul replied with a good-natured smile. “You know this world is a dangerous place for a man. How about you Akunna, aren’t you planning to get married?”
Akunna laughed. “Me? No, I’m not even seeing anyone. I’m chasing money now.” His comment was followed by awkward laughter, they did not know what it was like to chase money. “We should be asking Ejiro, our resident madam,” Akunna said to take the attention off himself.
Ejiro’s smile disappeared. “I’m hungry, I should order in,” she said, rising from her seat and pulling out her phone. “Nkechi! Bring me another bottle of wine,” she called to Abdul’s head steward as she walked towards the French windows leading to Abdul’s back garden.
The three friends left exchanging anxious glances. There were rumors that Ejiro was into women; she’d been reportedly spotted at underground gay clubs, but it was a topic they’d never discussed or cared to validate. Akunna worried that he’d offended his friend and benefactor; she’d regularly helped him out in his days of unemployment.
The game continued but with a stilted air of forced relaxation and laughter.
“Let’s watch the news. I’m tired of playing,” Abdul said minutes later, giving up on the game.
Ejiro walked in as Abdul raised the volume of the television.
A male newscaster reported on protests outside the National Assembly as members of parliament deliberated on the Equality Bill. The screen switched to men and women raising placards, chanting and singing in front of the white domed building of the country’s legislature.
A smiling female reporter interviewed one of the protesters. “We deserve equal opportunities and rights too,” the man said into the microphone held to his face. “We have a right not to be discriminated against when seeking employment and to be treated the same as women, to inherit property and to be protected by the law like any other citizen. It is a disgrace that we’re still discussing such matters in the year of our Lord twenty ninety-nine.”
The screen returned to the newscaster.
“Akunna you agree with this?” Abdul asked, noticing that he’d nodded at the protester’s words.
“Of course. Don’t you?” was Akunna’s surprised response.
“It’s not that I disagree, I just don’t see the point. We have other pressing issues, what will we do with equality? There’s no equality anywhere, in any part of society — family, work, school. There’s always hierarchy. Even religiously. I’m not even dragging for equality with my wife, I don’t see what benefits equality brings.” Unsaid, was that even amongst them, there was a hierarchy and Akunna was at the bottom.
“I agree,” Ejiro added, relaxing in her chaise longue once again. “It’s not like women have it easy either. So much pressure on us, especially financially, to provide. If you people want equality then we should also scrap the advantages you have. Everyone has their place.”
Akunna stared in disbelief. The voice of the newscaster interrupted his silence. “The Federal Government has, against the advice of foreign governments and policy experts, reiterated its ban on same sex marriages and activities within the country, punishable by fourteen years imprisonment.”
“Unnecessary, stupid, discriminatory. For what?” Ejiro spat out. Her phone cut short her tirade. “Yes?” she answered, irritated.
“Good evening sir, I’m here to deliver your order,” came the timid voice of a delivery girl over the speaker phone.
“Madam! Not sir,” Ejiro barked.
“Sorry?”
“It’s madam, not sir!” She said it like it was an insult, the same tone you told someone “Don’t stain my white.”
As he walked down his street later that night, Akunna wondered if he should hang out more with his colleagues, perhaps make friends with people of his ilk, who were more in touch with the realities of everyday life.
A woman whistled across the street and he pretended not to hear. The chiseled features he’d inherited from his father were both a blessing and a curse. A cursory glance in the whistler’s direction assured him that she was far enough and so he wouldn’t have to avoid confrontation with coy smiles or polite excuses for his own safety.
His phone beeped and he stared at the picture of his colleagues at a bar in the work group chat. They looked wasted; the sort of gathering that Ejiro would turn her nose up at.
No, what he needed was money.
It was then Akunna noticed the sound of heavy footsteps behind him, quick and consistent.
He didn’t bother to turn to check. He just ran as fast as his legs could carry him.
A shrill cackle rang in his wake. “Fear fear. I just dey play with you.”
“Asshole,” Akunna muttered under his breath, his chest heaving from the run.
Akunna stared at the ceiling above his bed morosely on a Saturday morning weeks later. “You should be ecstatic,” he told himself. But all he felt was gnawing guilt. He’d been promoted the previous day at the office, and everyone had given a standing ovation, including Michael who’d looked like he’d swallowed something rotten whilst doing it. George’s paternity leave had not even ended when he’d been let go and Madam announced that Akunna was to take over his position as a reward for the hard work he put in over the past months.
PING!! PING!! PING!!
He picked up his phone from his bed stand. It was Ejiro, updating the group chat with pictures from her vacation in Seychelles. Akunna smiled at the pictures, he could never get used to luxury his friends could afford.
Come and join me *tongue out*, Ejiro said.
Beg my wife to release me, came Abdul’s quick reply.
I have a business meeting to attend with my father on Monday, can fly out afterwards, Babarinde said.
Oshey!! Biggest boy! Abdul hailed.
You guys are not serious. Looking good Ejiro, Akunna said and swiped to close the app.
He opened a social networking site to distract himself from his thoughts. The legislature had failed to pass the Equality Bill and several debates were ongoing online. He nodded at some and rolled his eyes at the extremists on both sides. He didn’t want all women gone from the earth please, he planned to have children someday and equality didn’t mean men would take over the world. Nonsense. He was careful not to post or repost anything controversial. The last time he’d done so, someone had sent screenshots to his mother who’d threatened to throw him out on the streets.
He put on his slippers and decided to leave his room. Living with his parents wasn’t always the most comfortable option but it was cost effective, he never had to worry about food and bills, as long as he contributed his monthly quota. He hadn’t told them about his promotion yet.
His father was in the living room watching the morning panel debate on a news network. “Good morning,” Akunna said.
“Good morning Akunna. How are you? By the way, I saw your aunties yesterday, they said I should tell you to settle down and get married soon so they can set you up with a good business.”
Akunna had no response. He stared at the television. His father raised the volume to fill the silence.
“The legislature has shown that it is not ready to take the nation forward by failing to pass the Equality Bill!” a man on the panel said raising his voice passionately. Akunna couldn’t help thinking that he would have turned red if he were Caucasian.
“Sir, there’s no need to be this aggressive, we can all hear you clearly,” the moderator said condescendingly.
“This is exactly what we’re talking about!” the man responded with even more fervor. “When the women on this panel spoke, they were passionate. But I’m aggressive. Absolute nonsense! Our societal orientation needs to change!”
“All these men fighting for equality,” Akunna’s father said disapprovingly. “See the way he’s shouting, that tie will choke his neck. Wonder if he’s married sef. Who would live with such a man?” He flipped the channels until he reached one with football on.
Akunna’s mother walked in then, she was dressed to leave the house. “Ụtụtụ ọma. How are you people this morning?” She was in a good mood.
“Good morning my dear,” Akunna’s father responded.
“Good morning mum,” Akunna said.
“Akunna I’ve always told you to reply me in Igbo. How else would you pass on our language to your children ehn? Your father is an old man, he can do whatever he wants.”
“Ndewo,” Akunna mumbled.
“Good!” Her smile was wide, her teeth bright. She turned to his father. “Okwudili you’re always watching this game I can’t understand. Don’t know what is interesting or rational about grown men kicking a ball around for almost two hours.”
His father pretended not to hear.
“Anyways, my friends are coming over this evening to watch our weekly soap opera Paloma and Diego. Please help me prepare food — good food o — and drinks for them ehn. I will make it up I promise. Daalụ. Ka ọ dị.” She was out the door before he could respond.
Okwudili picked up the TV remote and turned the channel to the panel debate.
Aiwa spent the better part of her life wanting to be an accountant like her father before discovering her love for writing. She has contributed to published nonfiction works in the past and recently participated in Chimamanda Adichie’s Purple Hibiscus Trust Writing Workshop. Her short story Faces was also longlisted for the 2020 Commonwealth Writers Short Story Prize. Aiwa is a Chartered Accountant and holds an MBA from the University of Oxford.
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