Chapter 3

I’m oozing cold sweat again. My eyes are wide and staring unblinking at the screen before me. My thoughts are several things at once: hazy, dense and turbulent.

The voice on my phone has acquired a whimsical drawl. “To cut a long story short,” it says, “It wasn’t until the very end of a long series of lectures, workshops and role-playing exercises before I could finally wipe the conference chief facilitator—a very well-paying job, but I thought I’d get something out of it first. Who doesn’t like personal advancement?”

“Hey, Steve-man…” A mellow voice blooms behind me, startling me into hurriedly minimising the window on the computer screen.

I turn around to behold the smiling face of Samson, our branch internal control officer, as he saunters up. Something in my expression causes him to raise an enquiring eyebrow, so I force up the corners of my lips and imbue my tone with cheer as I respond, “What’s good, my guy?”

Still grinning, he plops onto an empty seat nearby and mutters, “Those external audit niggas are just here to drink as much coffee and eat as much Pringles as humanly possible inside of a week. How many transaction exceptions can they even find in a branch this small, I wonder?”

“Yes o… na wa,” I chuckle and concur. “Not to mention take-out lunches and hotel accommodation for the two-week audit period.”

I’ve left my line open, not wanting to provoke the emotionally sensitive assassin on the other end of it, and the cell phone stays glued to my ear. When Sam points enquiringly at it, I cover the mouthpiece and silently mouth the name of a notoriously fickle but high net worth customer. He nods in understanding before rising to his feet.

“TGIF at after work, okay?” he says. “Na your turn to declare, so no dulling this time.” After walking a few steps, he swivels at the hip to mock shoot me with two stiff forefingers before disappearing past the entrance.

The voice from the phone is arid now—dust on a tombstone in Harmattan season. “You know, since you and I have established such a good rapport, this is what I’ll do: right now, I’m closer to Bibi’s place, and I’m going to remain here until you come up with a solution to our problem. Don’t waste any time and effort thinking of how to circumvent this—I’ve made sure she cannot receive any calls for the time being. You can’t stop me if I decide at any time to wipe her and then your sister. It would only take inside of thirty minutes to conclude that business. I’ll be long gone before you can, if you’re really lucky, get the useless police to do much besides bungle things up as usual…”

There’s a slow crawling under the skin of my arms and legs as he speaks; something cold and alien travelling through the web of veins and capillaries.

“Please sir,” I warble, “you don’t have to do this, I beg you. I beg you in the name of almighty God…”

“Shut up.” The retort is almost casual. “Don’t ever try to appeal to my faith. I lost that particular appendage some time ago. Instead, step back for a moment and put on your thinking cap. Me, I’m going to go somewhere and have myself a nice lunch; maybe find somewhere to sample your favourite efo-riro. When I call back in say, one and a half hours, you will present me with a workable line of action, is that clear?”

“Yes… yes, sir.” My response is a hollow murmur, chock full of doubt and fear.

“Very good. Time is twelve forty-eight. Call you back at around quarter past two. Meanwhile, get yourself some lunch and, for goodness sake, remain calm. Keep doing the right thing and everyone will come through just fine. I promise.”

The call ends and I sit and stare at my phone for the better part of ten minutes. When I look up, I find old Folly giving me a blank stare that, for some reason, raises my hackles. His bald pate gleaming under the fluorescent ceiling lights, the spectacles that cover almost half his face complete an owlish look that irks me all of a sudden.

“What the f*ck are you looking at?” I snap.

Reacting with goatish surprise, he stiffens, blinks at me and stammers, “You say?”

I lift my gaze and immediately understand that he must have been scrutinizing the wildlife themed calendar hanging on the wall before me a few inches above my head. I avert my eyes from his, mumble a vague apology, stand up and hasten back to my desk.

For the next half hour I gawk like a stoned addict at the textile industrial analysis I had begun composing on my laptop for a customer’s loan application proposal. Without even realizing it I have been typing the same words over and over again, my eyes blindly watching the words on the screen run together until they begin to double. My breathing hitches increasingly. My vision swims and grey spots lurk at the edge of my sight.

My eyes finally roll when the conference room door swings open again. Mrs. Okoye steps out, looks round for to find me before instructing that I raise lunch expense vouchers for the external auditors. Then she ducks back in.

Motions wooden, I rise to do her bidding while trying with all my strength to overcome the leaden weights that my limbs have become.

By one thirty-two the atmosphere in my work section has changed significantly as the wide hall becomes populated with the other marketing staff, now mostly returned from the field. The air is rife with human noises as they trade war stories in lively fashion, describing successes intermingled with disappointments and hopes for better results within the coming days and weeks.

I sit motionless in my ergonomic chair as I observe them—men and women in their early twenties, decked out in formal greys, blacks and navy blues as they exchange friendly jibes and serious banter all while pecking at personal lap-top computers, scrolling on mobile phones or lounging in their own chairs with the confidence of directed and ordered lives.

There’s no sign of what they all keep hidden behind thin veneers of professionalism and confidence: Fear. Fear for the future and for careers that may be stifled before they even begin; fear of the low creatures crouched outside in the darkened side street under failed lamp posts waiting to relieve them of their hard earned baubles; fear of being found finally unworthy of joining the club of the chosen few whose grand futures are set in stone and given a seat at the corporate inner table, to sup there with golden spoons forever and ever…

“Oga Steve, are you okay?”

The query, bright and innocuous, comes from Ada, a recent transfer to the unit. I slide red eyes towards her. Though as tall as me, she is a slip of a girl, with only a suggestion of curves under the tailored gown she is wearing. Next to Sam, she is also closest thing I have to a friend ever since no longer needing my mentoring.

I plaster a ragged grin across my face and mutter, yes of course, why? Most likely assuming that the ongoing bank-wide deposit drive and latest sword of Damocles is behind my gloom, she flashes me a smile of sunny encouragement. I form a thin smile. She heads for her cubicle. I pretend to be busy.

By one forty-five, my ears start to experience a fresh rushing.

By two, my skull feels swollen to outsize proportions, as full as it is with grim portents and suppositions of the worst possible outcomes for my dilemma.

Apart from one or two further enquiries about my health, I get away with pretending it is any ordinary day. Of all the others, only Ada seems to sense that things may not be as great as I make them to be. Once or twice, she catches my eye when I falter and let trepidation curtain my demeanour.

My phone has rung several times—work related—since my last exchange with the voice, and each time I nearly jump out of my skin. Still, I’m sure I perceive the ringtone to be different, to sound more ominous, even before I check the screen. It causes all my short hairs to rise even before I recognise the arcane number on the screen.

It sounds mellower now, almost friendly. “Steve my man, the clock is ticking, and the day is half dead. I don’t want to do it, but if you fail to give me an option, I will. It’s not personal, I promise, just business, and I think I’ve been very fair. To be honest, I’ve never given any target this much extension before—never even spoken to them beforehand. Usually, I just do the thing and then take a two-week vacation. I used to go to that Obudu resort before it fell apart… you know it? Man, that place was great around June, a place one could take the whole family, even if you’re one of those ‘travel abroad’ types...”

His droning voice is a hacksaw cleaving my brain matter. I cough gently, and the awful monologue falters, then stops.

“Please… please sir,” I begin, “can I… can I ask something?”

There is a slight pause before he responds. “Sure, okay.”

“You… you said I can ask who wants this done to me…”

“Yes?”

“Could you possibly tell me—I mean, let me know? Is that possible?”

He hesitates a little longer before speaking. “I operate a call–sign. The client has a sign attached by my go-betweens. I cannot divulge the go-between but, hey, since we’re working together now, I can give you the call-sign. It’s ‘Falcon’.”

“Oh.”

“Not very helpful, eh? It’s why I said it didn’t matter before. But tell you what, if you make this happen, I might even cut you in on my own deal… only if you succeed of course.” He stops again. I can’t be certain, but there seems to be some air of self-consciousness emanating from him; a hint of discomfort at our sudden civility, if something this blackly bizarre could be called that.

Voice gruff again, he demands to know if I have found a way round the problem with completing the system entries. I tell him I think I have and he demands details, which I reluctantly provide.

He listens until I’m through, then says he is rooting for me.

As if to remind me of the real dynamics of our relationship he goes on to describe the way and manner my bedroom furniture is arranged, as well as the precise time my fiancée goes to bed whenever I am late returning from the office. As he goes ahead to list several of the objects currently atop Bibi’s vanity table, I feel my insides churn queasily at the notion of being so closely, ruthlessly, watched.

I keep a discreet eye on the clock as the day rolls on. The usual activities: writing reports, updating activity schedules and having a late review meeting with Mrs. Okoye all happen without incidence; without the slightest hint of what I have planned.

At last it is four p.m. and the branch closes its doors to all walk-in customers. I and the other staff attend to those still inside, and this takes up until about five.

By six forty-five, with the brightness of day replaced by the purpling haze of dusk, most of the non-operations staff on my floor have left for the day. I look around and things are more or less the way they were in the beginning: the bank hall deserted (Folly is gone) with nothing but the low voices of the external auditors parleying with the Branch Manager filtering from behind the shut conference room door.

I leave my desk, descend one flight of stairs and cross the ground floor and main banking hall to end up at the door to Sam’s office.

I step into the closet-size, bright–lit space. As usual, there is a litter of elastic-bound rolls of transaction tickets strewn across his table and spilling over onto the floor like crumpled paper limpets. He is often busiest at this hour—after all operational transactions have been saved in the system—as he sifts through the days’ transaction documentation for any possible errors, omissions or inconsistencies.

He glances up from a sheaf of tickets he is examining. Flashes me a characteristic lopsided grin.

“Almost done, my brother,” he says, then clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “I swear some of our customers write no better than kindergarten students. Look at this,” He hold up a savings cash withdrawal slip with an illegible scrawl across it that shows no respect or knowledge of writing within boundaries, dotted lines or tick box options for that matter. A drawing at the corner of the ticket catches my eye: a rough doodle of a matchstick figure peeing on a dog.

“The cashier who received this mockery and went ahead to post it will have to go find them and get it done right.” He grins with good humour while his head shakes.

I settle in the only other chair in the room: a straight-backed one facing him. It’s something of Friday evening ritual for us by now, my staying behind to exchange idle chat while he rounds up his day’s work before we drive in our individual cars the couple of streets down to the ‘Orion’, a small but well-appointed sports bar. There, in the company of a score or so of similar corporate warrior types, we’ll down a few cold beers while watching championship league football on a 60” screen television. That way we ease the week’s stresses while pleasantly waiting out the duration of rush hour traffic gridlocks on our various routes home.

At the corner of the cluttered desk sits a mini transistor radio, and I listen to the tinny jazz music emanating from it as he turns back to his work. If he finds me unusually reticent, he doesn’t say and we spend the next ten or so minutes in comradely silence.

Me? I’m in no better a state than I had been since first picking up that d@mn phone call in the morning. I feel worse, in fact. Again, I find myself layered by a patina of cold perspiration. My chest feels clogged, spongy. Palpitating.

Christ, is this how a heart attack feels?

Sam’s mobile phone rings loudly—some trending pop tune snippet—and he glances at it with a slight frown. He picks it up, listens for a brief moment, then says, “This is highly irregular,” as his eyes roll at me. After listening for another few moments, he says, “Alright, come on in. I’ll tell the security men to let you in.”

He sweeps some of the envelopes of documents on his table to the floor in an effort to create a semblance of order, sighs and says, “Bro, abeg no vex but you’ll have to excuse me so I can attend to one stubborn customer complaining about a cash cheque under-payment. I need to confirm the so-called proof he says he has.”

This sort of thing that happens sometimes, and customers with such issues are advised by the operations officer to see the internal control officer so as to further verify their claims if cursory system checks on account statements show nothing amiss. 

I say I understand, get up and leave his office.

I dawdle on my way back to my desk, feigning scrolling on my phone, and consequently get a good look at the complaining late customer as he heads across the banking hall towards Sam’s office.

He is tall, at least an inch or two above six feet, and slender-built, with a full head of low-trimmed hair. Wearing a simple short-sleeved blue shirt tucked into black trousers with matching black loafers, he barely spares a glance in my direction but I’m so sure he is aware of me as I stand at the foot of the stairs almost out of line of sight.

I discern a ghost of a smile as his head cocks slightly in my direction before he disappears behind Sam’s door, which closes behind him.

I turn and ascend the stairs in a half run, collapse into my chair, and sit there hunched over like I just received a punch to the solar plexus. My shirt is sticking to my back, and my already loosened tie is still constricting; forming a noose around my greasy neck.

I grab a sheaf of papers from my desk and begin mangling it into moist, corkscrewed tube.

What have I done? Oh my God, WHAT THE H£LL HAVE I DONE?

My thoughts are such a raging bonfire of panic and guilt that I am convinced that I’ve become delusional, for real. I can see it—an image borne out of sheer terror, formed in my hapless subconscious and burnt onto the back of my retinas like an accusing brand. It’s like a serpent in the garden; the grinning demon in the gathering of faithful…!

Heavy all at once, my head plops onto forearms I have crossed atop my desk and I… black out—that’s what it was, I can swear. No mere exhausted sleep could possess the power to fill up the conflicted chasm in my head.