BANK PROPERTY

I step through the gate, and walk past the crumpled-face security man.
I greet him. He looks at his watch.
"I hope you know we close in fifteen minutes and that today is Friday," he says.
"Yes sir," I reply. I am sweating, my breathing is labored, and I am
looking ragged. I can't help wonder who got the sun so upset that
resulted in such hot weather. But at least, I'm here. Oga would have
my brains for dinner if I do not make this transaction.
I arrive at the bank threshold and the security man there looks at me
with suspicion; the kind that shares the same room with disgust. My
face and shirt are sweaty, my dirty jeans are dirtier, my feet and
leather slippers are dusty. In my hurry from the office, I have
forgotten my money in my desk drawer. When compared with those around
with their starched clothes, designer suits and polished shoes, I look
like I have mistakenly stepped through a time portal from the past to
the present.
"Bring out your phone, your key, every metal object with you," he
drawls, as if he is challenging me to a fight. His eyes appear
bloodshot and his arm muscles threaten to tear his shirt with every
movement he makes. Is it the stress of the work or…? Security man or
not, bank worker or not, he has the looks of a hustler.
His voice sounds akin to that of a man on marijuana rehab. The
throaty, guttural, give-me-money-for-a-fix-or-I-break-your-neck voice
is evident. It would make absolutely no sense to upset him. A tiger is
a tiger, whether in the jungle, or in the zoo. Just the smell of blood
sets off its predatory instincts. If he had asked for my balls, I
would gladly oblige. Better to be ball-less, than lifeless.
I finish with him and walk past the foyer, through the vault, into the
banking hall. The cool air rushes over me, and for a brief second, I
feel a benevolent angel has pulled aside heaven's curtain and I've
stepped into paradise. I close my eyes for a short while, waiting for
the angels to welcome me. My hands are lifted high. I feel the cool
air on my wet clothes, my armpits. It's exhilarating. Then I remember
I'm in a bank, making a public spectacle of myself. I open my eyes,
and I'm glad everyone is minding their business – whatever that may
be.
The theme song of the bank plays softly in the background. Security
men are milling around, searching, checking, and acting like sniffer
dogs. What they are doing inside the bank? Aren't they supposed to be
outside? I walk up to one of them; he looks at me, forces a smile on
his wrinkled face.
"How can I help you?" he asks.
I suspect that he considers me an intrusion, and would rather gladly
wipe the shoes of the madam that just walked into the banking hall,
whose perfume is filling every available space. He keeps on gesturing
at her. He would rather do that than be cursed with me.
"Please, where can I deposit?" I reply.
"Upstairs," he says without bothering to look at me, and walks away.
He jogs in her direction to say hello, like a dog welcoming its
master. Good riddance to bad rubbish, he must have said to himself. He
didn't even bother showing me where the stairs are.
I sigh. Stupid is the man that inspects the saddle instead of the
horse, but more stupid is the one who thinks to ascertain the value of
a man by his appearance. I don't blame him. He doesn't know how much
my transaction is worth.
I consider asking another security officer for the stairs but change
my mind. I will find it myself. Just then, I see it and make towards
it.

03:52pm.

I get to the first floor. I see a young cleaner. She's singing Adele's
Set Fire to the Rain as she mops the floor. Her voice is as great as
the croaking of a frog. If Adele ever gets to hear this cleaner, I bet
she won't recognize her own song.
"Please where is the deposit room?" I ask.
She looks at me, still singing. She seems to make up her mind that I
don't deserve to interrupt her vibe, and with her left thumb, jabs
upward at the air.
"Thank you," I say. She just nods and continues singing.
I get to the next floor and at last, my expectation isn't cut short.
There are rows of cashiers seated at their desks, collecting cash,
cheques and deposit slips; murmuring questions and mindlessly saying
"Please, do have a nice day".

03:55pm.

I slip into the queue of the first cashier. He is a middle-aged man
with a handsome face, a receding hairline and a bald spot right at the
center of his oblong head. We all can see it whenever he bends his
head to write on anything.
He flashes me the banker's smile. The smile says I'm only smiling at
you because I have to, not because I want to.
I smile back at him, and then he continues his job. And I, my musing.
I grab two deposit slips and fill in the required information on both
of them. When I am through with the first one, I start on the second
one. This bears my account name and number. I can't help feeling good
as I write the amount. One million naira! I bring out the two cheques.
One for my boss. One for me, his boy. His is twenty-five million, mine
is…well, I've already said it. What kind of boss pays his employee a
million on a job? Well, the kind that doubles as his employee's
generous father. Well, you need not believe me if you don't want to.
But I want you to.
My dad is a big boy. Sorry, a big man. A chartered accountant. Not
just any chartered accountant, but an ICAN fellow. He has just hit
jackpot in his auditing and consultancy practice. As I think about the
good fortunes of my boss-cum-dad, and how I hope to take over his
prospering accounting practice, I see her. On the edge of the vision
of my right eye, I catch a glimpse of her looking at me. I turn my
head a little to the right.
I see her and her beauty stifles my breath for the longest second of
my life. She's smiling at me. This is no banker's smile. It is
genuine. I can feel it.
"Oga, give me your slip."
No reply.
"Oga."
I notice someone is calling me. It's the cashier whose queue I am
delaying. His smile has disappeared and in its place is a growing
irritation.
"Eh? You…you said?" I stutter.
"Your slip," he replies, and then hisses.
I stretch my left hand – with the cheques and deposit slips – toward
him. As he makes to collect them, I withdraw my hand.
"Sorry, sir," I apologize. "I omitted something."
He simply nods and says, "Next."
I step out of the queue. The obese man behind me is glad to take my
place. I don't mind. I have better plans. I search for the smile that
made me step out of the queue. And it is still focused on me. She's
behind the counter, four cashiers away to my right, but she isn't
collecting deposit slips. Her gaze follows me as I move to the queue
of the fifth cashier. When I get there, she's directly behind her (the
cashier), and there are only two persons on the queue. Now we are
staring at each other. My breath quickens as we look at each other.
Her blue and yellow flower Ankara dress sets her apart from the bank
staffs – with their corporate wears – that back her.
"Chinedu, how far?"
Who is calling my name? Who is interrupting this glorious moment? I
turn around. It's Reuben, an old school mate. He is on the next queue.
Wrong timing.
We shake hands. His palms are still as tender as that of a child.
"Ah, Reuben, I dey o. Long time. How far? What's happening?" I ask.
"I just dey, my brother."
"Hmmmm. Okay."
With that, I say no more and look away from him. End of discussion. He
gets the cue and doesn't bother me again.
I turn to my prospect once again, just in time to take in the sight of
her light brown eyes still focused keenly at me. A black shawl is
draped over her head, neck, breasts and upper body. But the innocence
of her oval face, the fullness of her slightly open pinkish lips and
her petite nose makes me want to take her with me. But will she? I
want her home with me. Forever.
I can't see the contours of her youthful body, but I believe they must
be curvy. Her creator must have ensured that. Her fair Fulani skin is
aglow. I don't know if my eyes are playing tricks on me or if it is
just the lighting in the banking hall.
I wish she will speak to me. I want to know what auditory treasures
that supine neck conceals within it. I want to be charmed by her
voice, to drink the pleasures of her countenance.
"Hey, can I have your slip, please?" a shrill voice snaps me out of my daydream.
It's the pimpled face, dark-skinned, female cashier in a black suit
sitting on the desk before me, who I am shocked to find has a ring on
the fourth finger of her left hand.
"I have," she says, "been calling you since. Where did you keep your mind?"
"Sorry," I reply. I hand over the slips and cheques to her and return
my attention to the pretty lady.
The cashier starts registering my transaction, pauses, and asks me a question.
"I beg your pardon. What did you say?" I inquire with my mind still
focused on the image of the beauty behind the cashier. I wish to see
her teeth.
"Is this your account?" she asks me, with the infamous cruel look of
an ancient inquisitor.
"Yes, one of them" I reply, absentmindedly. "Why do you ask?"
"You are a big man o," she remarks, with a big smile. Her smile
reminds me of how Death must smile whenever he comes to claim his due.
I know she seeks a reply from me but I have none for her. Not even a
gesture or a grunt. I just turn back to the object of my obsession.
One of her silver pick-and-drop earrings dangling from her left ear
and nearly touching her shoulder, shimmer in the light. Oh dearie,
speak to me. Please!
"Please, stand that way let me take your picture," the cashier says
with her left hand pointing to a spot on my left, few paces backward.
Just as I step to that spot, with my eyes still basking in the
euphoria of that unending smile, I wonder if that is the way she
appoints portions of hell to damned souls.
"Haba, look at me na!" the cashier explodes. I bet her patience hangs
by a thread. I do as she says. She snaps me twice. One for each
transaction. I can't help wondering what she plans to do with my
pictures, aside banking work.
As she does the final documentation, she asks me, "Do you like her?"
"You mean her?" I say, subtly pointing to the pretty lady with the
killer smile behind the cashier.
"Yes," she says and laughs. Her laughter sounds mirthless, soulless. I
simply nod my head. I fear she wants to offer me the pretty lady in
return for my soul. An unfair bargain.
"You are not the first," she continues. "And you won't be the last.
Before you, many have desired her. But none got her. And none ever
will. She's been here for a very long time. Longer than the governor's
own that is over there." While I turn to take note of the governor
down the hall, she continues with the glee of a mischievous sister who
is telling her kid brother that Christmas has been cancelled. "Even
before I joined the bank, she was here. And I've been here for ten
years. She's bank property." The cashier hands over the control copy
and the customer copy of my deposit slips to me. "Do have a nice day.
Next!"
But there is nobody else.
As I step out of the queue, I take one full look at that never-dying,
never-aging smile. Before I leave the banking hall, I look at that
beautiful lady caught in canvas and say, "We'll see again soon."

04:15pm.

P.S. This story has been featured in Kalahari Review

A TIME TO DIE (NON FICTION)

I sit up, tired; the worms in my bowels are staging a labour protest.
I get up, switch on the light and gaze at the silver-rimmed wall
clock. 9:15pm. I yawn and stretch like a lazy cat.
There is food in the kitchen but I will rather starve than eat another
plate of it. It now tastes like rubber.
I stand up, stretch again, put on a black tank top, my leather
slippers and make for the back door.
"Where are you going to by this time of the night?" her voice halts
me, just as I walk past her room door.
"Mum, I want to go buy indomie," I say.
"By this time? Is there no food in the--"
"I don't want to eat rice."
She pauses for a while, rummages in her leopard-skin handbag and
fishes out a thousand naira note.
"Take. Buy me bread. The big round one. And be back fast."
I stretch out my hand, she places the money there. I make to leave,
she holds on to my fingers and say in our Owerri dialect, that sounds
like French sometimes, "Be careful. Night is evil."
She releases me. I walk out of her room, past the kitchen, through the
termite-infested door and into the moonlit, starry night.

The sounds and sights of the windy night rush over me, enveloping me.
The euphoria I feel make me miss the nightly jaunts of my
undergraduate days. I sigh. Everything seems so right.
There is no one on the street. I sight a shop still open and walk
briskly toward it.
I get there and walk into it. The yellow bulb dangling from the high
cobweb-filled ceiling casts a gloomy depressing atmosphere in the
shop. The attendant stands up from a low seat just as I'm about to
call out. She is not beautiful. She looks groggy, enhancing her
unattractiveness. I make my orders, give her the money and wait, my
right foot tapping the floor - my normal venting whenever I'm
impatient.
She's efficient. Very fast. She puts all I requested into a green
nylon bag and hands it to me, just as she offers me my balance. I
collect them and thank her. As I turn to leave, Amobi, my friend walks
in.
"Guy, how far?" he says. I smile. He has forgotten my name...again.
"Amobi, I dey. Sup na?" I reply.
"I dey, my man. I just dey jare."
I look at him. He is here. But he is not here. His eyes are drear,
like a smile had passed.
"I'm going. Goodnight."
"Wait. Did you hear?" he asks, recovering his mind from whatever chasm
he had cast it.
"Hear what?"
"Somebody died."
"My man, I heard o. The cousin of that guy that sells fake films,
right? He's even owing me, I just don't know how to go and meet him
now his cousin is dead. I'll appear heartless."
I sigh and scratch my afro-cut hair. His face wears an incredulous look.
"What are you saying? You're talking of something that happened some
days ago, I'm talking of something that just happened twenty minutes
ago."
"How? What happened?"
"Accident. Somebody died---"

He keeps talking while I give the attendant the nylon bag to hold for
me, that I will soon be back.
"---the small boy. Even the driver don run," he finishes.
I grab his arm. "Guy, come show me."
He agrees, reluctantly.
We enter the road where PZ Company is situated. He points to a crowd
down the road and says, "There. Jus go. I nor wan see am again."
He sits on the raised sidewalk, his countenance resolute.
I walk a bit, and then run toward the point of attraction. I get
there. People are clustered in groups, blocking the road. I join one
of the groups where a middle-aged woman, with
Christian-mother-kind-of-arms with stretch marks that look like angry
tattoo, summarizes her story and starts over again. Like a professional

raconteur.
In less than twenty minutes, I get the gist. A luxury bus driver,
while trying to navigate the small space left on the road as a result
of 18-wheeler trucks parked on the same road, had killed a 10-years
old boy, crushing his skull in the process.
People cry out at this point as if they don't already know the story.
I feel numb. I look further down the road. I see the back of a
multi-coloured luxury bus parked at the road end. On the tarred road,
some feet before the bus is a burden on the ground, covered, just
beside the gutter. I walk up to it. It is the corpse, covered with a
blood-stained white long sleeve shirt. Two child-like legs stick out
from under it. Blood and things that appear as chunks of meat
everywhere. Brain matter. I shudder.
I cross the gutter and look down directly at the corpse.
Then I feel that part of me that looks for a story in everything kick
in. Suddenly, I feel cold, indifferent. I'm suprised and ashamed at my
reaction. I do not want to be squeamish, but callousness is worse.
There are worse ways to die, my muse says, this one is terrific
nonetheless. I shake my head.
"Is this my brother?" a male voice cries behind me, "God forbid". I
turn around, just as the screams of the just arrived young man tears
the tension.
I hear police sirens. I remember mother's warnings. I'm late. The
crowd begins to disperse.
I shake my head and jog back home.
Adieu, Unknown.

MUSINGS

When the aim is lowered,
or their heads raised,
the grim reaper will earn his prize.

I don port blog.

Dear friends, I really don't know how to make a speech but I'll try to manage. I just want to thank everyone who has read, liked, commented, critiqued, and encouraged any of my stories. On facebook and on my former blog addresses. I want to say a big thank you. In order to appreciate you all better, I had to move house from blog.com to blogger.com. The reason is because many folks who wanted to comment on my ex-blog couldn't for reasons unknown to me. The complaints got so much that I decided after diligent soul searching to move house. And here we are. Looking forward to a wonderful relationship together. Emmmmmm...I don't think I know what else to say at this point, so I'll just say WATCH OUT! Chijioke!