₦airaland Forum

Ann2012:
Well done OP

Thanks a great deal Ann2012. Happy Easter!

Ep. 3

Call me Clean. Or Maclean. It doesn’t matter.
My dad named me Maclean when I was born, and as I grew up, the kids had their fill jesting me, Maclean! Maclean! Toothpaste!
On my first day at the township school, I introduced myself as Mac, but by recess everyone was looking in my direction and snickering. And each time I couldn’t get the urchins to understand that ‘Maclean’ wasn’t a detestable name after all, I threw back the rage at my father.
I hated my father for being poor. I was the first of 17 kids, being that my father wanted a girl who eventually came in at number 17. Time and again, I wondered why my chi allowed me to be born into the Ugo family. I was a great kid, brilliant, good-looking and all, and as such I should have been availed the honour of choosing my own progenitors (which would certainly have been the White House family!)
But as the first son of Alex Ugo, I spent my childhood peddling wares: garden eggs, dried fish, watermelons and the rest. It did not end even when I went to my Uncle’s in Warri to complete my secondary education. In fact, I had to do some real hustling to get through university. That’s history now though. I’ve got a grip on my personality now, you can’t bully me anymore even if hearing my name makes you raise an eyebrow.
Shortly after my NYSC in 2013, I got a job with TrustMond Bank, a merger between Guaranty Trust Bank and Diamond Bank. For no particular reason, my father died in my second month at work. It did not take long for my homeboys to find their way to my place in Asaba where I stayed and worked. Others would call from time to time to ask for the possible and the impossible. ‘Maclean works in a multinational bank; he’s got the dough!' They said. They never stopped to ask how much a cashier at TrustMond earns. If you have someone there, you should stop to ask them. And what happens when they deduct all that tax stuff. God help you if you took the car loan.
That’s why I will tell you a couple of things. First off, if you need help, get help, and get it in the right place. How do you know the right place? Hear me out.
After cleaning out my desk Friday October 15 2014—the week after the robbery, my buddies at TrustMond—Shaggy, Tobo, and Kome—and I went to our newest hangout Club Royale in Okpanam. Club Royale was one of the top nightclubs in Okpanam where the rich and influential hung out. Sansa couldn’t come because she had to go to her aunt’s. We had pressed Kome into coming, telling her that life was not all about church, that she needed to loosen up after all the stress. She changed her mind at the last minute. The stress part was true. It indeed had been a heated week. TrustMond officials had flown in from Lagos to observe the renovations that were taking place after the failed robbery. They reshuffled the staff and laid off quite a number. Kome, Sansa and I were among the lucky few retained. Alikama and Jenky didn’t get so lucky.
At the club, we secured a comfy booth, ordered drinks and got talking about stuff that average people talk about: the itchy hands in government, latest cars, fashion, Ebola—this cracked me up as I recalled the incident at TrustMond during the robbery. I had thought that the likes of Genevieve Nnaji and Nse Ikpe-Etim were the Prima Donnas of motion picture, until I met Madam Agambala. In spite of her size, her performance that day was topnotch—you’d have thought she had the EVD for real. The essential thing was that she saved our hides that day. And her inestimable connection was why we could hang out in a top class club like Club Royale tonight.
After the robbery, Madam Agambala and I exchanged contacts and shortly afterwards, I became her personal accountant—I don’t know what buttons she pushed. It was then I got to see her act it out over the phone with one of her numerous aristos. In no time, millions of Naira slipped into her account. I also got to know that she was of Gambian descent.
The club was now rapidly filling up and the live band had switched to up-tempo music. Tobo got up to dance. Kome rolled her eyes and said she wasn’t interested, that she wanted to go home. Shaggy looked at me and shrugged. You heard the lady…
We heard a cheer from a corner of the arena and found out that it was a drinking contest. We forgot about Kome and joined in.
Being who I was, I won two of the contests and got showered with rounds of drinks. As Shaggy and I stumbled back to our booth, we stumbled upon a sight that jarred our glazed eyes—Kome was on the dance floor, flailing wildly to the music and drunk as a sailor. A crowd was cheering her on and offering her more drinks.
Sometime after 2am, embarrassed, and bodies glistening with sweat, Shaggy and I towed a smashed Kome into his Lexus. Tobo had since eloped with a guy whom she claimed was an old friend.
As Shaggy drove us home, he explained that he needed to go home to his wife, that he was sorry. He winked at me as he dropped us off in front of my apartment.
I was still wondering how to contain the situation, considering the army of homies in my apartment when my phone rang.
Sansa.

Ep. 2

It was the foul stench of damp boots that fired me into reality: I was still alive. One of the men had slammed a foot into the back of my neck.
‘You think say you get sense shebi? When I say make you put your head for ground you no hear. Next time, I go gun that your head for you. Ewu!’ He spat and walked away. His guttural tone made me chilly.
Moments later, I heard him bellow again, ‘…You dey tell my Oga say you no go open wetin?’ A thunderclap followed, or maybe a slap. Whatever it was, I knew it was for Mr Alir.
Meanwhile, a jackhammer rumbled away somewhere in my head and my swollen lips throbbed painfully.
When feet clattered away in the direction of the strongroom, I knew Mr Alir had given in.
The atmosphere tensed up as the remaining four men trained their weapons on us, you could hear a feather drop. Someone sneezed. I squeezed my eyes tight and held my breath, expecting a barrage of bullets. It didn’t. I relaxed and projected the distance of the culprit. Madam Agambala!
She sneezed again. And again. Each time with increasing intensity.
‘Biko, cover your mouth!’ Someone hissed.
Madam Agambala started to shiver, so violently I could feel the earth beneath me tremble. I peeked at her out of the corner of my eye. What was wrong with her? Did she want to get us killed?
Just then, her neck jerked up at an awkward angle, and she started to foam at the mouth. I raised my head in horror and my heart raced… high fever, vomiting, muscle spasms… Is that what I think it is?
I suddenly preferred to be eaten by a python. I looked around frantically, three of the men were already drawing closer. One of them had lifted his hood, it was the youngster I attended to earlier.
‘Wetin do this one?’ they said to each other.
Another turned to me, ‘What is wrong with her?’
‘e … e … bo…’ I stuttered and saw my nemesis making for me, he had been at the other end of the hall. Those boots again? Tufia!
He was almost on me when I released it, ‘EBOLA!’
They backpedalled instantly, crashing into each other and scrambling around like children at the playground.
Reflexively, I sneezed. Someone else sneezed. In half a minute, three dozen people were sneezing and writhing fitfully on the floor.
I was too busy wriggling; I did not know when they snuck out through the security door.

Ep. 1

The soft purring of air-conditioner units and the whirr of money counters in the bulk room was unusually bothersome that day. I was having a terrible day and I knew better than to permit my feelings to interfere with my work; one sissy mistake and I would be shoved out. Fine, I wanted out, but not just yet, not with what I was down with.
The youngster I was attending to was unsmiling, he seemed rather in a haste to leave. I scrounged up a dutiful smile anyway and handed him the duplicate copy of his slip. He stalked off with a glimmer in his eyes. He had paid in N950,000 to some private holdings and his swagger was as though he owned the world.
‘Next customer please,’ I said.
A large stately woman lumbered towards me, a black polythene in her hand. A wave of garlic assaulted me as she sank into the chair before me.
She pulled out bundles of cash from the bag and handed me her slip.
As I entered her details into the machine, I found I kept making mistakes.
Her voice rang out ‘A… G … A … M… B… Agambala Eboferiore! Did you get that, love?’
I smiled. She did not smile back.
Just before I got to counting the bundles of notes, I took one last look around. Sansa’s cubicle was next to mine. She stood backing me. Oh the view! Her rounded behind which was further accentuated by her tight plaid skirt was in my face, just beyond the glass partition. On her finger sat the sham engagement ring. It had been a while since I had her …
Mrs Agambala snorted and I fell from cloud Sansa back to my cubicle.
That was when I heard it, the crack of automatic weapons. My heart lurched and suddenly I knew it was what had been bothering me.
Hooded men tramped into the bulk room and brandished their deadly weapons in our faces.
‘Down, everybody! Get down! On the floor! Get down!’
I dropped to the cold tiles wishing I had one of those alarm buttons under my desk. Was this how I was to die? In spite of all my labour?
Three hooded men stood over us. ‘Ngwa, all of you behind the counter, come out.’
We crawled out on all fours.
They collected our phones and herded us to the main banking hall and merged us with those who had been rounded up there. The hall was big, so they had us lay prostrate on the ground.
More people poured in from the stairs. Mr Abayo, the CEC, had bloodstains on his sky blue shirt. The man was naturally obstinate, served him right.
‘Now, gentlemen and ladies…’ one of the hooded men began, he seemed to be the boss. ‘…don’t try to be smart, I repeat, don’t try to be smart. If you cooperate, nobody will die.’ His voice was definitely refined, although masked well.
Mr Alir the Branch Manager walked gingerly down the stairs, hands about his head, a rifle trained on the small of his back. By the look on his face, I could tell that he did not get the chance to depress the small red button, the slowcoach. Not as though the police would have come anyway…
Alikama, Kome, and Sansa, my colleagues lay beside me and were quivering like leaves in a dry summer gust. Madam Agambala looked like a sack of groundnut on the tiles, her arms like great boughs of an oak tree. In spite of myself, I grinned at her chattering teeth and the saliva that drooled out of her mouth.
Suddenly, my face smashed into the ice-cold tiles and a million stars exploded in my head. It was over, I was dead, and free.

Hey guys.
This is a story I began a while ago and I'm going to post weekly for your reading pleasure and as a way of propelling myself to complete it. I'd like your comments, suggestions, evaluations and rapt attention.
Thank you.

(c) Tobi Abraham 2014

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