The old man at the lotto shop greeted Ofonime with a smile whenever he returned. This smile often seduced him away from the dusty path that led home. He usually veered off the street onto the gravelled ground that led to the small structure at the side, a narrow caricature of cinder blocks and concrete covered with a tin roof that shuddered every time a breeze came by. Initially, it was about honouring the man, but then that place, with its red Baba Ijebu machine and stained walls, became a place of respite.
As his boots landed on the concrete slab in front of the shop, a bulb lit up and a siren blared in the next building. Children shrieked with delight. One did a cartwheel and landed on a small hill of sharp sand that indicated an intent for construction nearby.
“Ofonime. The light man! See as you carry light come,” the old man said. He laughed and reached for a charger that jutted out from a wall socket behind him. The end of the cord, the part that went into his rugged phone, had exposed wires that made Ofonime squirm.
“Yes, sir. Good evening,” he replied. His smile was forced.
He didn’t like it when Obong called him “the light man”. He didn’t hate his job, but anyone in Nigeria knew that a power-holding official wasn’t the most loved person. He didn’t want to wear that label with pride. That was why he tried to disappear whenever he returned in his overalls, the deep blue ones with orange accents and a bold inscription behind: PHED. That was why, despite Obong’s declarations, he liked to stop at the lotto shop before going home. He liked to catch a break, wait till the cover of darkness, before going home. There was a kiosk nearby where he liked to get groundnuts to munch on while talking to Obong.
Ofonime never punched in numbers. He barely had any money to stake. He preferred to just chat with Obong and observe the unhinged greed that many men from the street manifested as they trooped in and pointed at the numbers scrawled on the blackboard outside in hopes of a bet that would change their lives. A minute of chatting usually turned to twenty, and Obong would shift in his seat and remind him where he was going.
Today, he turned to Ofonime and pointed to his wrist as if to say, “It’s late.”
“Obong, I know. Let me just rest small…”
“Rest? Na wa. You’ve been here for a while now. Ehn, Ofon?” Obong never got the pronunciation of his name right. He usually turned the stresses upside down, making the name sound like a confused question every time.
“You know how it is,” Ofonime said. “That place is killing me.”
“So, you’ll keep running away. Or is it that you’ll never return home? Ofonime, go to your family.”
“I’ll go.”
He stayed another thirty minutes and only dragged himself out when the sun was alive somewhere else, when he was sure leaving at that time was the only way he could reach home before his wife started panicking about his absence.
…
On the other side of town, she stumbled over a pavement. She groaned. These worn sandals were all she had to wear. She didn’t want to ruin them. Her other pair was deformed and dusty, squeezed into a small black polythene bag at home. She didn’t fear for the child that clung to her back, held in place with a faded ankara wrapper. She stopped and looked down at her toes, which were long and dusty. The nail polish was nearly gone. The purple had given way at the edges, revealing her browned nails.
She stamped her foot and listened for her son’s breathing. The boy was still asleep. He didn’t stir, not when a horn blared or when one of the agberos bellowed: “Etinan Afaha Nsit! One lucky chance!”
Where she was going, she had no business with, not at this time of her life. If she had a family — the ones old enough to speak — they would call her aside, maybe scold her, shout at her, and tell her that this thing didn’t make sense and that it could kill her. Maybe they would remind her of her one-year-old son, of the seeming mistake that gifted her with this burden.
Right now, the only person who tried to talk sense into her was the one who facilitated her addiction. He was a fair, tall man who liked to call her Mama Bom-Boy. Now he stood in front of his store, a nameless liquor store, as she approached. She couldn’t decipher whether his face was a smile or a grimace.
“White Man,” she started, “good evening.”
“Good evening,” he replied, his face turned into a frown when he saw the boy strapped to her back.
The boy was awake now, punching the air and cooing. Mama Bom-Boy knew why White Man was upset. He had told her before to stop exposing her child to the rancour of these streets. He had talked about secondhand smoke and car fumes.
“Go inside,” he said. “Person dey.”
As she turned to enter, he wondered what exactly was wrong with the woman. Mama Bom-Boy stepped into the shop, releasing her son from behind as she moved. There was a spring in her step, an awkward lightness that suggested that she was a bit tipsy. This part of the shop was floored in a chaotic collage of broken tiles, bearing the weight of wine cartons and soft drinks. She advanced into the inner court where fruit wine, brandy, whiskey, vodka, spirit, and rum bottles reached the ceiling on yellow shelves. She arrived at a showcase that divided the customers from the private area and smiled down at a boy.
“Oya, gimme the normal.”
The boy, who was eleven and White Man’s oldest son, understood. He reached inside the showcase, pulled out two sachets of dry gin, and handed them to her. She received them and bit into one before diving into her tattered handbag for the bill. After collecting her change, she stood by the showcase and sipped some more. She closed her eyes and kicked her head back. This was her happy place. In this brief moment, when the liquid burned the inside of her mouth before descending through her throat, she had freedom from all the wrongs in her life. She forgot all her mistakes, and it was only now that mattered. She forgot him.
The first sachet lay on the floor. She went for the second. Here, in the inner part of the store, the tiling was the plastic kind, a faded red, chipped and cracked, and contrasting sharply against the crinkled cellophane sachet. This time, after her first sip, she turned to her son and guided the sachet to his mouth. She smirked while she did that as if she was happy that she finally got to initiate someone into the inescapable clutches of her misery. The boy gurgled and stretched his hand for another sip. She laughed.
“Wetin you dey do!” White Man was booming through. He walked past her and stood behind the counter. His face burned red.
“Nothing.” She shrugged. “Him never chop since.”
“So na this one wey go make him dey alright?”
“White Man, you no go understand… Him dey okay,” she replied. “Make I come dey go.”
She bit on the sachet and retied the boy to her back. Some drops fell on the floor as she bent to position her son well on her back. She secured the wrapper and walked out of the store, her steps more wobbly than before.
…
Climbing up the uneven steps that led to his home, Ofonime could already envision a thousand ways he would lose his sanity that evening. He thought of the things his wife could complain about — their dwindling finances, their children, her regrets.
Sometimes, he didn’t blame her. He had made so many promises, most of which he could only now fulfil with a year’s salary. When he met her, his electrical engineering degree was a green flag. Now, it was a jaded glory. His optimism and dedication to the system had landed him a job miles away from his dream. It had given him this apartment that he was sure the landlord felt was unsafe.
His apartment was a two-bedroom on the second floor of the building. The wooden door was sandwiched between the netting and an iron burglary-proof. His feet scraped against a doormat that attempted to say Welcome.
He knocked.
“It’s me,” he said when he didn’t hear any stir from inside.
It was he who had taught them to keep quiet until they heard the voice of whoever was at the door. The neighbourhood was no longer peaceful.
A voice boomed from inside, in that tone that made children squirm. “Grace! Go and open the door for your father!”
Grace smiled in the doorway some seconds later. “Daddy, good evening.” She jumped into his arms.
“My partner! How are you? How was today?”
Grace launched into a story about her lunchbox and being late to school as her father locked the door with his free hand. He kicked off his shoes and moved to the couch. His wife was in the opposite chair, her eyes on the TV.
“Good evening,” she said.
“Evening o. How everything?”
“Fine.”
Grace sat on his lap, her eyes on the TV too. Soon, Ofonime shooed her away.
“Landlord come today?”
“No.”
“Food dey?”
“Food dey.”
“So, why you come frown face?”
“Na who say I frown my face?” She spoke these words through upturned lips, and her jaw was as solid as granite.
“It’s okay. Where are the other two?”
“Their room.”
He took off his socks and turned towards an adjoining corridor. It was almost a tight squeeze. Boxes and crockery lined the sides of the corridor, and if one wasn’t careful, a pot could clatter or a toe bumped against something on the floor. A cheap 20-watt bulb hung from the ceiling, held in place by tight strings of cobwebs. The two bedrooms squared off against each other towards the end of the corridor. He turned into one. Grace was on a mattress. There was no bed sheet, and bits of foam dotted the area.
The two people Ofonime sought were on a bigger mattress. One of these two was a teenage boy with wild hair and slender limbs like his father’s. He was listening to something through headphones that he hadn’t bothered to ask his father for. The other was a girl, older than Grace, younger than her brother. She sat up in bed, engrossed in her phone.
“Grace, you didn’t tell them I came back?”
“Daddy, I told them o.” She lifted her hands in surrender.
“Good evening, sir,” they chorused. The boy got up but the girl only lifted her eyes slightly.
“Good evening,” Ofonime replied, shook his head, and walked out.
He wasn’t going to say any other word. As he took his bath later, he thought of the widening gap between him and his children. He didn’t want to point fingers, but he knew his wife had a hand in their poisoned minds. He was trying so hard to provide. Why couldn’t she see that?
…
The job came with its hazards — gravity, electrocution, and more electrocution. What Ofonime considered to be the most terrifying part was the people he had to speak with whenever he was on duty. Some of their faces carried a subtle hostility, shrouded in a plea for a deadline extension. Other faces were upturned brows and lips that pronounced threats. Once, a group of guys, young men like him, charged at him while he tried to disconnect the supply cables to their apartment. He had to jump down from the ladder. He sent his colleague to retrieve it later.
The team was going to one of such areas today. It was a small enclave of one-bedroom apartments, face-me-I-face-yous, amateurish laundromats, and, of course, kiosks that made area boys and agberos giddy. Ofonime liked the new marketer assigned to their team. She wasn’t too brash like the previous one. She didn’t bang on people’s gates and threaten to leave with their cables. Her name was Uduak. She walked in front of the team, always the first to establish contact with every house and ask, “Please, where’s your bill?” The previous marketer, David, would have started with, “Go and bring money for me.”
This area could make even David humble, though. It was a descent from the popular bus park at Abak Road. The entrance was a muddy slope between an old pharmacy shop and a stationery shop. Cigarette stubs were piled at various corners, and many more dotted the narrow pathways. Ofonime watched in disgust as young boys catcalled a girl who balanced a transparent bucket of stewed yams on her head. Occasionally, a gust of wind relieved the team of the intense heat and filled their noses with the smell of urine from somewhere.
Soon, Ofonime stopped following. He leaned on a wall and played with the safety ropes that hung from his waist. He was sure of the replies most of the people here would give. Anything from “Mbọk, don’t cut me off…” to “All of you are mad!” He had seen it all. Some guy had come out in his towel one time and shrugged when they threatened to disconnect him. “Cut am now. No be like say we dey even get light sef. I don late. Keep my cable well.” The guy turned, adjusted his towel, and retreated.
Ofonime wished he could be nonchalant like that. He was getting there, but wasn’t brave enough to show he was. He wanted to be numb to his family’s destruction of him. He wanted to hear their insults and not feel angry or frustrated. He wanted to walk straight from work to his house without having to branch by Obong’s place in search of refuge.
“Ofonime!” Uduak called from behind a block of flats.
“How far?”
“Bring ladder o!”
He knew what was next, and he hardened his jaw. He had to be indifferent. He was doing his job now. Why should he feel guilty for this? They didn’t pay. So, why should they expect to have electricity?
He meditated on these lines even as he went to the entrance of the neighbourhood where the white Tacoma was parked. Minutes later, he was hefting the ladder towards the pole that supplied their first victim. Uduak stood by with her hands akimbo, an electric bill fluttering wildly, trying to escape from the pinch of her fingertips. The woman was in peak begging pose, the back of one hand slapping hard against the inside of the other, her wrapper coming loose, her child pulling at the edges. The child was naked save for a pair of white crocs that looked new.
“Madam, e no get as I wan do am. Honestly. Five months!” Uduak said to the woman.
“I go pay. Make I give you…” The woman snatched her wrapper from the child’s grip and dashed into her room.
Her room was something that lay beyond a flimsy plywood door that was part of a bigger plywood structure, which was supposed to be a veranda of sorts. She didn’t bother to close it, and Ofonime could see a small gas cylinder, orange and alight. A small pot chattered on it.
She returned with a ₦1000 note. Her wrinkles were more defined now.
“Ah.” Uduak looked at the bill again. “E no go do o. E no reach o.”
“That’s all I have.”
Ofonime bit his lip. This was the moment that defined everything — whether he would be the evil NEPA guy or the bad NEPA guy, who just decided to help them out today.
“Aunty, your outstanding is about ₦35,000. What’s it with ₦1,000?”
The woman looked away. Ofonime knew that she was in that zone where pleas morphed into sighs and then into irritation, and maybe, if David were in charge, anger. Still, he hoped that it wouldn’t escalate. The woman maintained silence.
“Ofonime, disconnect,” Uduak ordered and returned the money to the woman, who already had her palms open.
As he reached the tenth rung, he could feel the woman glare at him, he could predict the many ways the woman would or could break down after now, how darkness would swallow her whole, how her phone might journey from one neighbour’s house to the other, even though, considering the way Uduak had started, there might be no neighbours to charge her things at.
Each untangle with the pliers made the next one harder. He didn’t know why it felt the way it did. He wondered how other people at work, especially those in David’s team, cut the lines effortlessly. They didn’t bother to untangle the coiled wires like he did. They just allowed their pliers to gnaw through the rubber and then the metal, and then the serrated blades would click together before the wire would fall to the ground, curled up awkwardly like a malformed spring.
Now, the woman’s wire lay on the ground before her. He watched as she kicked the wires into a corner.
Ofonime climbed down. He left the ladder leaning against the pole and followed Uduak to the next block.
…
Maybe it was what he drank yesterday evening. More specifically, what she gave him to drink. He thrashed across the foam, his eyes brimming with tears, his tiny fists clenched, ready to punch her in retaliation.
Mama Bom-Boy didn’t understand it. She tried the water again. He only sipped some, gurgled, and continued his belting. She knew what the problem was but tried to deny it. She tried to make herself — the fact that she gave him some alcohol — the problem, if it would somehow distract her from the fact that her son was hungry.
She picked him up and rocked him as she moved from one side of her one-room apartment to the other, which wasn’t a lot of steps. The room was small, a nightmare for one with claustrophobia. She had to shuffle past a plaid-patterned bag, the kind people called “Ghana Must Go”, under a wooden wardrobe. The bag wasn’t even full. She didn’t have many clothes and didn’t bother to buy new ones. What was the use of wearing fancy stuff when you were hungry or sober?
As she walked to and fro, she started crying. First, it was a silent stream, and then it devolved into grunts and snorting and curses on whoever had turned her life into a nervous wreck.
She knew the neighbours wouldn’t come to console her. So, she consoled herself. She relapsed into her silence while her son cried some more. She sat on the floor, the child in her lap.
“Daddy Boy, abeg. Abeg, no cry. Sleep. I go find you food.”
He seemed to listen. She sobbed again. It hurt her that she couldn’t give her child a meaningful life. If she had ruined her life, she was about to ruin his, and it broke her in irredeemable ways.
She looked at him, the tears drying on his cheeks, his soft curly hair snaking between her fingers, his pinched nose that sometimes made her wonder how he got any air in. The poor boy’s problem wasn’t air, though. The air was free. Cerelac wasn’t. She didn’t bother about the whitish liquid that was supposed to pool at her areolas. That had dried up a long time ago. Her love for liquors and spirits had robbed her of one of the beauties of motherhood.
Eventually, he fell asleep. She tied him to her back. She was going to go out. She would find money somewhere, somehow. Six months ago, money wasn’t something she went out to find. It came through Aniekan’s oil-stained hands. It came with kisses. It came with promises of more. It came. After they found him in a gutter, his hands tied, congealed tunnels in his head and chest, she went back to her drinking, and whenever she had some extra cash from picking up plastic bottles at the refuse dump at Ibom Plaza, she bought some Rothmans.
She never saw his body, but she figured it must have looked like the body of a thief she had seen years back when jungle justice was prevalent. She imagined that she wouldn’t have recognised him. She imagined that his face would have swelled in the wrong places, that thick films of blood would hide his true complexion. Many nights passed, and she forced herself to forget about Aniekan. She found solace in those drinks, she found peace in the way the cellophane sachets threatened to cut into the edge of her lips when she sucked the liquor up. Most of all, despite what people thought, sometimes, when she was sober and it was quiet, she found hope in her son.
She didn’t have a mirror, so she didn’t know that her scarf cut across her forehead awkwardly or that her eyelids still bore testaments of sorrow.
She was about to step out when she saw them through a window. It was annoying that they would always come to get money when they didn’t even give the service they claimed to offer. No way. She was going to tell them something today.
…
Ofonime noticed that Uduak had begun to slack.
“Ah ah, Adodie? What’s it?”
“I don tire.” She contorted her face and placed her hand on her waist.
Ofonime knew this was a ruse. “You dey fear?”
He looked at the peeling walls, the dilapidated fences, shady corners and alleys that he was sure were havens for salacious activity.
“Before nko?” Uduak turned around sharply as if his question was a sting. “You want make person come borrow my phone?”
She stepped aside and signalled him to lead. He obliged.
Most of the doors were wooden and shut. He tried the first one. No answer. A plastic bottle filled with electricity bills hung in front of the door. Ofonime looked up. Of course, this flat had been disconnected already.
The next door had some semblance of activity. He was about to knock, just as the door flew open. A woman with a badly tied scarf stepped out. A baby was tied behind her back. She was tall. She glared at Ofonime.
“Good afternoon, ma. Your bill?”
She allowed the silence to brew for some seconds before answering. “Bill for wetin? You know when last we get light for here? Why una dey always do like this? You think say people go just dey hustle to keep money wey dem go just throw away give you?”
Ofonime noticed that she reeked of alcohol, and the strands of hair that peeked from beneath the scarf were browned and curled. She couldn’t possibly come from around here.
“You get bill at all?” Ofonime tried again.
She paused. “I dey commot.” She was set to leave.
“Madam, bring your money come o! We fit cut your light o.” It was Uduak. Her neck was craned.
Mama Bom-Boy turned. “Cut am!” Her voice erupted through the silence of the afternoon. “I don tire! Cut am, make I rest! Wetin una want make I do? My pikin never chop. I never chop! Wetin I go use una stupid light do? Abeg, leave me!”
Ofonime took a step backwards. He could still smell the alcohol on her. He watched as she locked the door with a tiny padlock. She pushed through and walked towards the main road.
“She no dey alright o,” Uduak started.
Ofonime didn’t answer. He watched as she trudged on, missing a step, steadying herself against a wall, and moving on.
“Make I go buy water. I dey come.”
“Call Frank to come take over.”
“No wahala.”
He headed for the main road. He wanted to see her again. To help her. He scanned right and left. He checked between the agberos that she didn’t look any different from. He hadn’t seen her get into a bus. He was about to ask someone when he saw her under the many umbrellas that littered the sides of the road. Under these umbrellas were tables and benches where street thugs usually smoked and drank.
Mama Bom-Boy sat there now, a cigarette in between her fingers. Her son was asleep. Occasionally, she bit her lip and stifled tears.
Ofonime walked up to her. “You go chop?”
“Oga, I no get bill.” Her speech came out slurred.
“I no ask you for bill,” he said in a louder tone. “You go chop? Come, make I buy something give you.”
She sized him and then followed. They walked to a restaurant, one not too far from the liquor store. He bought her a plate of garri and afang soup. He didn’t ask her anything until she finished eating.
“Thank you.” She tried to smile, but all that came forth were tears. “E don tey since I… Thank you.”
“It’s okay. Your pikin nko?”
“Make him sleep. I go buy pap give am for the other shop.”
“Take.” Ofonime didn’t feel any tug at his heart as he handed over a ₦1,000 note to her. “Buy food give am.”
“Oga. Who you be? Why?” She covered her face with her palms and stifled more tears. Her fingers were slender but tough.
“No worry. I just say make I help you. You no get anybody?”
“My husband don die. Nobody else dey.” She called Aniekan her husband even though he hadn’t married her. Marriage was one of the promises he made. “Na only this boy…”
She loosened the wrapper and bore the child in her arms. Her eyes went wide all of a sudden. She stood up instantly. The plastic table shifted, and the plates hit the floor. Other customers turned, and the street stilled.
“My pikin! Daddy Boy!” she shouted “Wetin do my pikin?”
Ofonime stood up. He watched as she laid the child on the table. His lips were dry and pale. His breathing was a struggle to hear. Mama Bom-Boy tore her scarf off. Her hair jerked up, brown and free in the full glare of the afternoon.
Ofonime touched the child. He was nearly cold. “Quick, quick. Make we carry am to hospital.”
“Oh! Everything wey I get. My pikin!” She cried again.
She sat by the entrance of the restaurant and wailed. She didn’t care that the washing water was creeping into the hems of her dress. Ofonime carried the child in one hand and dragged her up with the other.
They called for a tricycle.
…
She prepared for the end even before she was certain that it would come. As they rode in that tricycle, as the PHED man tried to calm her, she retreated into herself. She began to regret every sip, she began to think of the many ways she would have avoided this. She cried and begged for a reprieve, for another chance.
The hospital was twenty minutes away. They jumped down and made for the gates.
“Oga, my money!” the driver of the tricycle demanded.
Ofonime threw him some notes and steered Mama Bom-Boy in.
“Who’s here? Who dey?” he yelled as he approached the emergency block.
“Yes o!” It was a skinny nurse in Brazilian braids.
Ofonime presented the child before her. “Check him. Check him.”
The nurse shook her head. “Oga, even if I check this child, light no dey to treat am.” ♦
Eduek Moses writes from Uyo, Nigeria. Apart from Quaker Oats and cats, he loves writing. He was longlisted for the 2024 DKA Short Story Competition, and his words have appeared in African Writer Magazine, The Kalahari Review, Erato Magazine, Conscio Magazine, and Fiction Niche Magazine.
