In an effort to get away from these insoluble worries, Furo returned his gaze to the table, and narrowed his eyes at the book across from him. Fela: This Bitch of a Life – the words on the front cover. The man’s short-nailed hands gripped the book cover, pinning it open. Head cocked to one side, eyelids lowered, face expressionless, his lips moved silently as he read.
This bitch of a life indeed , Furo thought. There he was, living his life, and then this shit happened to him. He had always thought that white people had it easier, in this country anyway, where it seemed that everyone treated them as special, but after everything that he had gone through since yesterday, he wasn’t so sure any more. Everything conspired to make him stand out. This whiteness that separated him from everyone he knew. His nose smarting from the sun. His hands covered with reddened spots, as if mosquito bites were something serious. People pointing at him, staring all the time, shouting “oyibo” at every corner.
And yet his whiteness had landed him a job.
Furo blew out his cheeks in a sigh. Dropping his hands to grasp the table, he pulled in his chair. The metal legs screaked on the floor tiles. At this sound his tablemate looked up, and Furo, seizing the chance, said to him, ‘Sorry to bother you, but can you please tell me the time?’ The man nodded yes, put down the book, reached into his trouser pocket, and pulled out a phone. He said, ‘It’s almost five thirty,’ to which Furo responded, ‘Thanks.’ As the man returned the phone to his pocket, Furo said, ‘Funny how time drags.’
‘When you’re bored,’ the man said. He smiled and added: ‘And when you’re waiting.’
Furo forced a laugh. ‘Also when you’re in trouble.’
‘That too,’ the man agreed. He waited a beat. ‘Do you mind saying what the trouble is?’
‘Ah … no,’ Furo said. ‘It’s not something I can talk about. But thanks for asking.’
The man leaned forwards in his chair and crossed his hands over his book. ‘But we can talk if you want. To pass the time.’ He tapped the book. ‘That’s one good thing about books. You can always pick up from where you left off.’
‘I have to confess I’m not a big fan of books myself,’ Furo said. He thought a moment, and then chuckled. ‘I shouldn’t say that in public. I just got a job selling books.’
‘What sort of books?’
With a glance at the man’s shock of hair, Furo said: ‘Probably not your type. Business books, that’s what the company sells.’
‘What’s the company’s name?’ As Furo hesitated, the man said, ‘I ask because I used to work for a publishing house. I might know your company.’
Furo nodded. ‘Haba!’
‘Excuse me?’ The man’s puzzled expression deepened as Furo raised his hand, but when he drew a line in the air with his forefinger and jabbed a hole under it, saying at the same time, ‘Haba with an exclamation mark, that’s the company’s name,’ the man’s face brightened with comprehension. Furo finished drily: ‘I can see I’ll have trouble telling that name to people.’
The man snorted in laughter. ‘Yah, they’ll be surprised hearing haba from your mouth. Which is a good thing for a bookseller, I suppose. It will leave an impression.’ After a pause, he said, ‘I haven’t heard of that company.’
They relapsed into silence. The air in the food court was thick with aromas from the quick service restaurants, and Furo felt his stomach stirring in response. He’d eaten a large meal barely two hours ago, and his belly was still tight with undigested starch, yet the smell of food, the sound and sight of others eating, tensed him with craving. He was grateful for the distraction when his companion said, ‘I haven’t introduced myself,’ and held out his hand. ‘I’m Igoni.’
Furo’s brow puckered as they shook hands, and he repeated: ‘Igoni?’
Igoni nodded yes.
‘ Tobra? ’ Furo said.
Igoni’s eyes widened with
This bitch of a life indeed , Furo thought. There he was, living his life, and then this shit happened to him. He had always thought that white people had it easier, in this country anyway, where it seemed that everyone treated them as special, but after everything that he had gone through since yesterday, he wasn’t so sure any more. Everything conspired to make him stand out. This whiteness that separated him from everyone he knew. His nose smarting from the sun. His hands covered with reddened spots, as if mosquito bites were something serious. People pointing at him, staring all the time, shouting “oyibo” at every corner.
And yet his whiteness had landed him a job.
Furo blew out his cheeks in a sigh. Dropping his hands to grasp the table, he pulled in his chair. The metal legs screaked on the floor tiles. At this sound his tablemate looked up, and Furo, seizing the chance, said to him, ‘Sorry to bother you, but can you please tell me the time?’ The man nodded yes, put down the book, reached into his trouser pocket, and pulled out a phone. He said, ‘It’s almost five thirty,’ to which Furo responded, ‘Thanks.’ As the man returned the phone to his pocket, Furo said, ‘Funny how time drags.’
‘When you’re bored,’ the man said. He smiled and added: ‘And when you’re waiting.’
Furo forced a laugh. ‘Also when you’re in trouble.’
‘That too,’ the man agreed. He waited a beat. ‘Do you mind saying what the trouble is?’
‘Ah … no,’ Furo said. ‘It’s not something I can talk about. But thanks for asking.’
The man leaned forwards in his chair and crossed his hands over his book. ‘But we can talk if you want. To pass the time.’ He tapped the book. ‘That’s one good thing about books. You can always pick up from where you left off.’
‘I have to confess I’m not a big fan of books myself,’ Furo said. He thought a moment, and then chuckled. ‘I shouldn’t say that in public. I just got a job selling books.’
‘What sort of books?’
With a glance at the man’s shock of hair, Furo said: ‘Probably not your type. Business books, that’s what the company sells.’
‘What’s the company’s name?’ As Furo hesitated, the man said, ‘I ask because I used to work for a publishing house. I might know your company.’
Furo nodded. ‘Haba!’
‘Excuse me?’ The man’s puzzled expression deepened as Furo raised his hand, but when he drew a line in the air with his forefinger and jabbed a hole under it, saying at the same time, ‘Haba with an exclamation mark, that’s the company’s name,’ the man’s face brightened with comprehension. Furo finished drily: ‘I can see I’ll have trouble telling that name to people.’
The man snorted in laughter. ‘Yah, they’ll be surprised hearing haba from your mouth. Which is a good thing for a bookseller, I suppose. It will leave an impression.’ After a pause, he said, ‘I haven’t heard of that company.’
They relapsed into silence. The air in the food court was thick with aromas from the quick service restaurants, and Furo felt his stomach stirring in response. He’d eaten a large meal barely two hours ago, and his belly was still tight with undigested starch, yet the smell of food, the sound and sight of others eating, tensed him with craving. He was grateful for the distraction when his companion said, ‘I haven’t introduced myself,’ and held out his hand. ‘I’m Igoni.’
Furo’s brow puckered as they shook hands, and he repeated: ‘Igoni?’
Igoni nodded yes.
‘ Tobra? ’ Furo said.
Igoni’s eyes widened with
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