One Friday Evening

Clouds of dust rise to the sky. Tall buildings collapse under the weight of the bulldozer, the ensuing thud drowning out the voices of the fleeing traders. Hardware, plates, pans, spare parts, and different items that were once housed in the crushed buildings lay in a muddy mess on the path the heavy machines trailed. Tire marks mar the red soil, still wet from last night's rain, leaving the messenger of doom's temporal imprints as it carries on its frenzy of destruction.

Distant cries of horror follow the sound of falling building, tears flow with muffled cries as the rampage continues, destroying the source of livelihood for some of the men and women scampering to salvage a few items. Feet belonging to men and women of different builds carry them to safety, away from where they once made money. Curses fly in the air, mostly directed at the driver behind the wheel of the bulldozer, the governor who gave the demolition order, and the people who supported it.

Mama Tee's back screams in protest as she bends to pick up another set of stainless plates to dump into the big bag, popularly referred to as Ghana-must-go, sitting in the middle of her dimly lit shop. Her movements slow down as her failing eyes notice the new cracks on her wall. She pauses to regain her strength, her hands on the knot of the green wrapper tied firmly around her waist.

Using the hem of her white polo shirt to wipe the sweat sticking to her forehead, her lips move in unspoken words and she sighs. Her eyes roam the shelves housing the various cookware sets, still in their boxes. She places a hand on her chest, right above the corner of her shirt where the words "Adieu Mama" are stitched in black thread, and her lips move faster.

Resignation hangs in the air as her back hits the unpainted walls. Her gaze wanders to the front of her shop, lingering on the usual swirling patterns her broom creates whenever she sweeps. The whirring of the machine fades as thoughts of impending doom take over. She takes tentative steps towards the entrance, and a low yelp escapes her at the contact of her big toe against the bag.

Rattled by the sound of the pans and pots in the bag, she forgets her pain, and as if in a trance, she resumes packing without her former care. Zipping the bag with a smile, concealing her inner turmoil, her chest deflates. Sweat trickles from her face to create dots on her shirt as she drags the bag along the carpeted floor to place it beside the smaller ones by the aluminium door.

Instead of leaving to save more items, she waits, hands holding her breasts with her eyes fixated in a certain direction, barely processing the destruction going on around her. Her foot drums onto the carpet, her sole connecting with the ground through the holes in her Dunlop slippers. A child runs past her shop, and her neck cranes in his direction. Her eyes narrow and her shoulders sag when she identifies the boy's shirt, which is punctured with holes the size of a baby's fist. 

A young lad bursts into her shop, and she lets out a sigh, her hand coming to rest on his back as he bends at the waist to catch his breath. "Mama," he raises his head, his mouth hanging open, "soldiers are coming."

Mama Tee's eyes widen in fear. More lines appear on her sweaty forehead, masking the thin horizontal scar. She shudders at the implication of her son's words, yanking the satin scarf off her head. The tiny braids, which have seen better days ,cascade down her back. Putting the braids into a loose bun, she uses her scarf as a ribbon to keep them away from her face. Her lips move.

"Can you carry this one?" His eyes follow her index finger. Then, he lifts one of the bags and nods. "Ngwanu, carry it."

Scurrying to the small box under her table, she wrenches it open to retrieve crumpled naira notes, which she tucks into her bra. She casts one look at her shop, and a tear, which she is quick to swipe at, trails down her cheek.

Joining her sixteen-year-old son at the door, a fake smile creeps onto her cracked lips when she sees him with the biggest bag on his head. Her head bobs, and he flashes her a reassuring smile, his lips parting to reveal a side gap tooth, similar to that of his mother. His hand moves to the waistband of his shorts, held together by cable wires, and he folds them once more. He walks out of the shop before sparing his mother a backward glance.

"I'm coming." Taking a step out of the door, she drops the bag in her hand to the floor when her eyes land on a third bag. "Where is your brother?" He spins to face her, the bag on his head almost falling. "Where's Tobe?"

"Tobe? He should be here..." the boy trails off, his eyes scanning the damage as if his brother will mysteriously appear in front of him. "He came back. I told him to call you."

Gunshots pierce the unusual silence; they both jump. Fear flashes in his big eyes, tinges his voice when he says, "Mama."

Mama Tee's heart hammers as her eyes dart in the direction of the loudest shots. Her lips quiver, and she shakes her head, refusing to succumb to the plea in her son's eyes.

"Somtochukwu," she stalks over to him, heart in her mouth as she rids him of the bag still on his head, "where's your younger brother?" Dread seeps into her voice, her eyes glossing over with unshed tears. "Where's Tobenna?"

*   *   *

The theme song of the broadcasting station NTA rends the quietude after Sullivan taps a button on the black remote. Letting the remote drop to the brown leather sofa he is seated on, Sullivan spreads his arms on the couch, revealing the scanty grey hairs of his armpits, and crosses his legs at the ankles.

He licks his lips, a line marring his forehead as the broadcaster's voice comes on.

"News at eight. Today, we bring to you..."

Tuning her out as she rambles on about the latest developments in the country, he allows a smile to crawl onto his face when a woman saunters in to join him on the sofa. Pulling his head down for a brief kiss, her fingers linger on his jaw, full of grey hairs that have been dyed black. Their noses touch, and they chuckle, her head coming to rest on his shoulders.

"Were they able to finish today?" she asks.

He strokes the side of her face, the diamond in the ring on his fourth finger glistening under the bright lights of the ceiling. Love dances in his eyes when he finally replies, "Yes."

She reaches for the remote. The matching band on her wedding finger catches the light, and he screams, "Wait. One minute."

The topic on the television changes. His wife slides the remote onto the stool at the edge of the seat and rubs his potbelly. His ears perk up as the newscaster's eyes lower briefly to the paper in front of her. She starts in a dry voice, "Following the demolition at Ogige..."

His wife tickles him in the armpits, and his lips press into a thin line as he tries to process the words of the presenter, "No lives were lost."

"I'm at an all time low, low, low..."

The shrill sound of my phone's alarm jolts me awake. I stifle the yawn threatening to escape and reach for the device close to my pillow, which stops ringing the moment my fingers connect with it.

My blanket falls from my chest into a heap at my waist when I switch to a sitting position, and the harsh rays pouring out from my phone's screen make me squint. With the back of my left hand, I cover my mouth, but the rebellious yawn still escapes.

Aish! I am going to be late again.

A groan slips from my lips as I glare at the time staring back at me. I had set the alarm for five-thirty, and when it rang, I put it on snooze. Today is not the first time I've done that, and as my feet find their way into my bathroom slippers, I know that I will repeat the same thing tomorrow and the day after.

It is 7:30 am on a Friday, and my work demands my presence in the office by 8:00 am. The traffic in the city of Calabar, where I live, is moderate, but with everyone struggling to get to his or her workplace early, it can become static and frustrating.

I don't need an angel to tell me I will receive a query from the Second in Command (SIC), who doesn't particularly like me. The dislike is mutual and is due to no fault of mine.

The day I came for my job interview, he brushed my ass slightly then followed the unwarranted touching with an insincere apology, going on to tell me all about how I only had to allow him to have his way with me and the job would be all mine. The nerve of him to think I would stoop so low as to sleep with any staff member just to get a job I'm already qualified for.

I laugh as the image of his face comes to mind, his facial expression when his boss came out of the interview room and I rushed into his arms. He looked at us, me especially, like I had grown two heads, and my childish self had winked at him. I should have also stuck out my tongue.

His boss, now also my boss, is an old family friend of ours, whom we refer to as uncle. He was doing us a favour by offering me a job, which I rightly deserved by the way, as my university degree, numerous awards, work experience, and customer representative and project management skills had shown.

The interview was to maintain protocols, which I didn't mind. It also showed how deserving of the job I was, connection or no connection, when my boss told me I had the best application among the other candidates.

That didn't mean that the SIC stopped bothering me though. Well, he did. After I gave him a kick where the sun doesn't shine, he was off my case, for good. Bye-bye to movies, dinner dates, and other invites he tried in the past. Not like I accepted any of his invitations, but he continued sending them until I violently put him in his place.

I try to redirect my thoughts back to the present so I can hurry up with my preparations. I am already late. Late means query, and query means chances of being sacked. I don't mean the sack part though.

Rushing into the bathroom connected to my room, the nightgown that I shrugged off dangling from my feet, I stop at the entrance of the shower. I shoot my leg forward, shaking it furiously like an athlete before his first race, but the stubborn satin material remains attached to my feet.

The perky mounds on my chest jiggle as I hop on one foot to access the strap wrapped around my other ankle. It comes off shortly, detaching from the other parts of my gown. No time.

I don't allow myself to admire the personal touches I added to the walls late last night in a bizarre moment of creativity before jumping into the shower. The cold water hits my face first, sending my teeth into a crazy chattering dance. I brave through it. Well, I don't have much of a choice.

Twelve minutes. My new personal record for brushing my teeth, taking a bath, and getting dressed. The last time it was fifteen.

As I glance at the black clock hanging from the pale blue walls in my room, I know that like every other day in the past, I will reach the office by nine. I curse the fact that the women at my workplace are competitive about their looks and that I care about what they think or say about my appearance.

My job requires that I look good as I always meet new people on behalf of the company. With all the self-proclaimed makeup artists in the office, I will not be left out. Not after painstakingly watching YouTube videos and attending makeup classes that cost a few nairas. I don't mind it anyway; I'm a makeup freak who loves to play with colours—bright, bold colours for my lips and subtle, more natural colours for my eyelids.

The first and only time I decided to look 'natural,' I was greeted with questions like "Are you okay?" and "Are you sick?" A bolder person had even gone on to say, "you look different," with a grimace and a scrunched-up face that left me wondering if she had eaten spoilt food.

I am done with my eyebrows, eyeliner, and a hint of mascara when I chance another look at the wall clock. I shouldn't have done that. One word. Okay, maybe more than one: I'm fucking late.

8:15! I scream in mock alarm and my foot taps an uneven rhythm on the ground. I skip the foundation, applying red lipstick and, of course, my brown powder. It completes my businesswoman look with my black pencil skirt and chiffon see-through white blouse, which gives a glimpse of the white camisole I have underneath. I'm good to go.

With my black pumps in hand, slippers on my feet, I hurry to the car—a graduation gift from my father—parked in the garage. The house I live in comes with the job, one of the perks of working with an old family friend.

I am where I am today because of your dad. My boss's words, not mine. I had refused the house at first, but my heart somersaulted so hard I was scared I wouldn't be able to breathe. My heart did calm down when he insisted; I dared not refuse the offer a second time, my worry about what my fellow workers would say long forgotten.

So, here I am in my office, more like about to enter my office, after tiptoeing past the elderly receptionist, who has gotten tired of my lateness. In my defence, sleep is life.

"Pauline Ifunaya Eneh!" The booming voice of the Second in Command resonates in the near-empty corridor. "You are late. Again."

I really should stop calling him the Second in Command or SIC for short; it is way too long. But his name sounds too majestic, too royal for someone as evil as he is.

I take one step inside my office, pretending not to hear him, and I'm forced to give him a listening ear when he calls me again.

"Sir?" I say with false enthusiasm. With my palm pressed against my chest and a wide smile, I ask, "Did you call me?"

He frowns. This is not the first time I've done this. I'm sure that if he could, he would fire my sorry ass right this moment, but no, he cannot. He has to have a solid reason. Plus, everyone knows I do my job well.

"You are late. Again," he reiterates as if I didn't hear his annoying voice the first time.

My fake smile widens. His frown deepens and he inserts his hands into his pockets. He is a tall, handsome man with a great fashion sense and the hormones of a horny teenager.

"Traffic," I say, "I was held up by traffic."

"Whatever. Get to work."

Well, I was going to my office until you stopped me. His back is now turned to me, so he doesn't see my red lips mouthing the words.

I make my way into the empty, spacious office, dump my handbag on my table, and lower myself onto the swivel chair. Like a queen on her throne, I command my invisible subjects to chase down the Second in Command and do with him whatever they wish, all of which must be painful.