My name is Osondu. I’m a POS attendant, and I’m on the run for my life.
…
On Tuesday of last week, my birthday, the trajectory of my life changed.
Mr Njoku had come, a perpetual smile etched on his face. He wore a childishly ironed shirt (lines made to form an enlarging kite at the back), black trousers, and pastor shoes. He was laden with his phone prizes and cards for betting. A carton of Indomie noodles balanced on his head, tins of milk and Milo clacking in the nylon bag he was carrying as he trudged on.
I had never patronised Mr Njoku. If he was looking this way, my gaze was fixed on the other. Why? My father died from a sports betting-induced heart attack. Sins of the father, you know what they say. . . He had been holding what was a winning slip until Crystal Palace scored against Arsenal in the Premier League finals of 2017. It was said that he looked at the slip, the long printed paper kissing the cracked palm kernel shell on the floor of the bar, tears streaking down, and just fell off the chair.
But it was my birthday, and I felt some luck around me. I knew I shouldn’t have. Still, on that slow Tuesday evening, I did.
I called Mr Njoku, and his face on seeing me crumpled into a crooked smile, showing fine dimples and kolanut-stained teeth. He drew closer and explained the rules: ₦500 for two cards, and get anything on the randomly picked card — phone, money, Indomie noodles, anything the card said. It was my turn to smile.
I brought out the ₦500 note tucked into my record book, my transport fare for the week. A generous customer had paid the okada man for me on Monday. So, my fare was still whole, untouched.
I picked the first card, then the second. I held them in my balled fist and shook them, muttering prayers. I passed them over to Mr Njoku, who stood and waited as the sun glistened on his bald head. He took the cards and opened them one after the other. The first one said, “Try again.” He opened the second, a smiley face. He looked at me imploringly, with a look that said You have to try again.
Who wins on the first try anyway? I dug into my pocket and pulled out a ₦1,000 note, my lunch money. Extending the crumpled note, Mr Njoku said it was better to do ₦2,000, the bigger the better. I would get eight cards, but he would give me ten because “Nwannem ka I bú.”
I pondered his suggestion like I would a mouth-watering plate of nkwobi. Certainly, my brother wouldn’t cheat me. My brother wouldn’t lie to me or deceive me. But I only had ₦1,000 for lunch. So, I put my hands into the drawer on my right, where I kept funds for business.
Only ₦1,000. I would return it. I could even get tipped and not have to worry about returning it. Moreover, it felt like a good investment. I could have lunch money for a whole week, maybe even get a brand new phone and be rid of my itel phone held together by a rubber band that always needed to be charged every night, only for the phone to stay on for less than two hours. I pondered as I slipped out the note.
I picked at random from the one at the far end to the one in the middle, the one to my far left, and the one even farther right. I did tum bom tum bom and picked, till I picked ten cards.
Mr Njoku began opening the cards:
Smiley face.
Blank.
Blank.
Five hundred naira.
Try again.
Smiley face.
Blank.
Blank.
One hundred naira.
Try again.
He brought out a wad of small-denomination Nigerian currency, pulled, and handed me ₦600.
I checked the time: 1:34 p.m.
With just ₦600, I planned to make do with a lunch of shelled groundnuts and walk part of my way home to reduce my transport fare. I would also have to tell my boss something about the ₦1,000, and stomach the abuses he would rain on me. Anything other than that would mean walking home for the better part of the week, leaving me and the money I carried home every day at risk. That was certainly not an option.
…
Still deep in the murky waters of my thoughts, I hadn’t noticed Mr Njoku packing up. With the threadbare strap of his backpack hanging on for dear life, he trained his gaze on me. When I came closer, I heard him say, “When it says ‘Try again’ last, I always tell people to try again.”
I only stared, as though in a daze, drowning in the murky waters of my thoughts.
He went on like I had answered. “No, I’m not forcing you or anything like that oh. Mana nkè bú eziokwụ bú na, since I don dey for this business, if person get that ‘Try again’, the person luck dey shine if him really try again… That guy wey dey roast fish down there, him spend up to ₦15,000, but if you see as him win, no be small. I dey tell you. Believe…”
I looked at him with renewed interest, taking him in from head to toe, like he was the newly laundered cloth I was looking to find blemishes on. That was when I noticed a tiny hole in the small toe of his left shoe and the seams that were very slowly unravelling on his trousers. But before he had spoken, I knew within me that I would try again. I couldn’t just lose out like that. There was something there for me. There had to be.
“Nwanne, bring ₦5,000 make I give you twenty cards. No how, no how, something go show. ”
Mr Njoku was still talking, offering me an irresistible offer, when I heard a knock on the window by my right. I raised a flat palm, signalling him to wait, and faced Kosi, my tall, light-skinned coworker.
When Mr Joe, the squat man with an oblong head, who referred me to the POS business and took a percentage of my first salary, brought her for the one-week formal training, I had thought she wouldn’t be here for long because the POS work wasn’t an easy one. From customers hurling insults at you when their cards get debited at failed transactions to the volatile mood of the boss — one minute he was talking to you as though you were a child for some mistake, the other minute he was buying you an exotic beverage “for doing well.”
Or was it the general anxiety that stayed with you until you got home for the day? There was nothing one wasn’t anxious about. The end-of-day account balancing? Over two years here, and that thing still scared me. Money would just be missing from where you didn’t know, as though your village people were working overtime. And even when it balances, you have to ferry your working money home, guarded jealously. Home safe, sleep, you wake up to a palpable anxiety about the accounts balancing from the boss’s end.
Anyway, here was Kosi, still standing tall, two months later.
“Well done oh, Ndụ. This sun dey reach your side so?” Kosi’s perfunctory question landed as softly as her gait.
“Na so we see am o. A ga emekwanu gịnị? What can we do?” I flailed my arms in exhaustion, giving yet another perfunctory response. The Abuja sun wasn’t for the faint-hearted.
“Sometimes ehh, it just be like say na only this Kuje sun dey hammer like this.”
“I no sure, my sister. E go dey mama them like this for Gwagwalada naa.”
“Even though. At least, things dey happen for there. How them take talk am again?” Kosi asked, thinking of a new show where Gwagwalada was mentioned.
“Gwagwalada pulsates with life,” I reminded her as her face split into a smile.
We had seen the show together on her phone on a remarkable day our boss asked us to take off.
“At least, we too for Kuje get good road.”
“Light kuma de dey. Even if no be this side them dey show for TV, we no dey suffer for here.”
“Abi oo. My own be say if anything dey happen, make e dey do kadan kadan.”
“For here? You never ready oo. Wey if e dey rain, everywhere go be like say God vex wan destroy Kuje.”
“My brother I dey tell you. Sun go hammer. Rain go pepper. Breeze? That one na me especially e wan kill. Imagine the other day, on Sunday. As I dey press my cloth naim breeze come. Waa! Waa! Carry curtain throw way. E for carry me if no be say I hold wall.”
“No be small thing oo.” I was struggling to hold in the laughter, imagining the wind ferrying Kosi’s petite body, her angular face screaming in fear.
“Na laugh you dey laugh me, abi? Oya collect your money abeg, before them go come my shop say them no see me.”
Mr Ekwempu, the boss, had brought some cash — ₦300,000 for me and ₦200,000 for Kosi. As I counted, Mr Njoku stood, shifting his weight from one side to the other. I confirmed the amount, deftly held them all together with a rubber band and secured the bundle of cash in a black nylon bag.
“Bros, I still dey here o,” Mr Njoku said, reminding me of his conspicuous presence.
“Baba, I dey come, abeg. Nwe tu ndidi.” A confetti of images assailed me as I replied, telling him to exercise patience. Images of me holding a brand-new phone I didn’t pay for, taking those mirror selfies where you stick your tongue out while holding the phone with one hand.
I tied up the nylon bag, opened the wooden drawer on my left, shifted the pieces of rubber band strewn around there, and placed it neatly. I made sure I didn’t keep it in the same drawer with the money I was already working with.
“Ndu! Ndụ!” Kosi called out, cocking her head towards Mr Njoku, eyes brimming with questions.
I smiled and reassured her that there was nothing to worry about.
“Hmm, uche gị dị kwà yá,” Kosi said, concerned.
This time, I smiled to embolden myself, to assure myself I had my head in the game. “My mind dey. No stress,” I said, more to myself than to Kosi.
She nodded uneasily, straightened up, and got ready to leave. “Ka ọ dị zie. I go come back when I close, make we balance account,” she said, darting suspicious glances at Mr Njoku.
“Bye bye!” I wiped off the beads of sweat that had gathered on my forehead and waved Kosi goodbye.
Just before she was out of earshot, “Gbadokwa anya. Be careful,” her voice laced with concern, fear, even.
…
I turned back to Mr Njoku, “Oya, make I try this one.” God, abeg, I prayed. I slipped five old ₦1,000 notes from the drawer and asked him to bring out the cards so I could pick.
“You have to pay first,” he said.
I hesitated momentarily and said the hundredth prayer. I needed this win. I needed something momentous. I wanted this birthday to take leaps away from the monotonous crusade that had been my birthdays through the years. This year had to be different.
I remembered Kosi’s words, “Gbadokwa anya.”
The words of risk-takers also played in my head: “The biggest risk is not taking risks at all.” “He who is not courageous enough to take risks will accomplish nothing.” “Living with fear stops us from taking risks…”
I had to fight fear. I said yet another prayer, counted the money again, and handed it to him. He brought out the pack of cards, and I began picking. I picked and picked, tum bom tum bom, till I picked twenty. As he was beginning to open them, I felt a discomfort in my bladder. I told Mr Njoku to wait, so I could relieve myself.
When I was done, I sat quietly, eyes closed, waiting to receive my shocker of a prize. Images of a new phone swimming across my vision, a winner’s smile tugging at the edges of my lips.
He began opening. I kept my eyes closed. Papa God, dozie. Please, Daddy, I’ll go to church every Sunday. Nnam biko, even as a birthday gift. Ebubedike, make this the best birthday of my entire life.
Mr Njoku tapped me. My eyes danced open, each in its own time. When I saw his face bereft of that smile, I knew Papa God didn’t answer. I knew I had spent half my salary on nothing. Hei! How I go do am? Nkem ayasa go kwa.
Mr Njoku started on the calmest, most consoling voice he could muster, “Nwannem, e be like say today dey somehow. Nothing come for this ones o. Not single one. M ga eje be ezi nu, ụbọchị ozo.”
What was he saying? That he would go? With all my money? And I would be here, left empty-handed?
I didn’t utter a word. I wanted to say something, but my mouth was just opening and closing, and words weren’t coming forth. Tongue-tied, I watched Mr Njoku pack up.
“Bros, o ga adị zi nu,” he said, head bowed, and walked away, the clacking sounds echoing his exit, the finality of my loss. I kept gaping until all I could see was a comma in the distance.
I didn’t want to stand up, but my legs were working of their own accord. I picked up a sachet of water and poured it on my head till the very last drop. The water seemed to help me regain control. I walked back inside, sat down, and began staring at the distance Mr Njoku had walked again.
I turned, returning my attention to what my situation had become. How could I explain how over ₦5,000 was missing to my boss? Say the money fell out? Or feign ignorance like I hadn’t noticed? Or say I was robbed? Or maybe I overpaid a customer?
My thoughts spiralled to the police station. Would I be pushed behind bars? Within those ironically cold walls and hot floor, like food from the fridge, smoking hot, yet frigidly cold.
The first and only time I had been to the police station was when Mr Ekwempu, the boss, had called as I was balancing the end-of-day accounts. He asked that I come to the police station opposite Sajuma Plaza, Kuje. I remember a police officer pointing a gun at me for the first time too.
The police officer had commanded, continuously, “That boy, stop.” I hadn’t known that “Boy” was me, until I saw a cocked gun pointed at me.
Everywhere had seemed too small. I became the unbending body of an iced fish, rooted at a spot, waiting for the object of violence to slice through me like a kitchen knife on Sunday mornings. The slicing hadn’t come. Fortunately, my boss did. I apologised and was warned, veins appearing and disappearing like apparitions on the officer’s forehead, cocked gun, lowering.
We were at the police station to lay claim to items that had been pried from the hands of a young man, a former employee of my boss. He had been owing money from unbalanced accounts and decided to leave the job altogether. It probably got too much to bear. Well, Mr Ekwempu didn’t agree to being paid from a distance. The boy was found and arrested.
As we loaded my boss’s new belongings into the car, the silence was palpable, the thuds alone bearing witness to human activity. I knew he wanted to make a statement, if I dared lose his money and decided to run off and “pay from a distance.”
My boss liked doing things this way, making statements without actually saying anything. Like how he let me into his home after two months of working with him and a streak of balanced accounts, to show he now had a degree of trust for me. And when, after six months, he started sending me to get bundles of cash myself, to show the trust had grown deeper, the woman at the cash station was shocked and had to call my boss on different phone numbers to confirm that he had actually sent me.
Apparently, no other person had come in his place as he zoomed off on that day at the police station. “The boy will be released tomorrow,” my boss said, the car shrouded in a halo of words unspoken.
…
I opened the drawer to take out my phone. Kosi might have a solution. I could check out one of those loan apps. As the drawer by my left revealed its contents, I swallowed and blinked twice. It had to be a joke. I had to be mistaken. I bolted up and lumbered out. I walked around the kiosk three times.
I could see my neighbour, a bespectacled maishayi, whose glasses I had always thought odd. He peered at me through his lens, giving me a face that said What’s this one doing now?
I went back in and opened the drawer like a snail coming out of its shell, trying to delude myself.
Beads of perspiration gathered at my temples, and as I flicked them away, my fingers quivered. When the drawer yielded and the hinges made slurring noises in protest to my sluggishness, rubber bands stared open-eyed. Temper off the roof, I snatched open the other drawer, and printing papers glared at me. I looked under the table, and the POS machines gawked in disbelief.
The ₦300,000 Kosi had given me wasn’t there! ♦
Azubuike Samuel Obi is an Igbo storyteller who believes in the transformative power of language. His works have appeared in The Republic, Efiko Magazine, African Writer Magazine, and elsewhere. Longlisted for the HG Wells Short Story Competition (2024), he was a fellow of the inaugural Ibinabo Writers’ Residency (2024) and The Idembeka Creative Writing Workshop (2025). Obi aspires to live a “life of the mind and a life of imagination.” He can be found on X and Instagram @SamExistingg.
