Relief flooded Furo’s guts. ‘Thank you,’ he said quickly, and then stood waiting, uncertain of how to take his leave. He wondered if he should shake hands to show his gratitude and dispense the man’s assumptions about his feelings towards black people, but the handshake it turned out wasn’t needed, as the man seemed to have forgotten the grudge he held. He grinned at Furo, placed a hand on his shoulder in a gesture of affability, then bent his face close and said, ‘I like you. You don’t talk through your nose like other oyibo.’
Furo forced a smile. His face itched from the flying spittle.
‘Black and white, we are all brothers,’ the man continued. ‘We should support each other, you know, like Bob Marley, one love.’ He held up his free hand with the middle and index fingers entwined, and waved these under Furo’s nose. ‘We should be like one. I plan to marry oyibo when I reach your country. My brother’s wife is oyibo. She’s the one inviting me—’
Furo interrupted him. ‘I have to go and put my name down.’
‘Yes, go and write your name,’ the man agreed, and nodded vigorously, but did not release his grip on Furo’s shoulder. ‘You will get the job, for sure. Me and you have plenty things to talk about.’ His eyes bored into Furo’s, and his face hardened, shed its friendliness, twisted into a scowl. ‘Watch out for Obata!’
The vehemence of his words spattered Furo with spit, and this time he couldn’t help it, he raised a hand to wipe his face before muttering, ‘OK, thanks.’ He shrugged off the man’s hold, drew away from him, and ran the gauntlet of hostile faces towards the building entrance.
The receptionist smiled at Furo from her chair. The push-button phone on her desk had started ringing as Furo entered, but she ignored it. She gave him her full attention.
‘Are you Tosin?’ Furo asked.
‘Yes, I am. How may I help you, sir?’
‘Someone told me to come in here and collect a number from you.’
The puzzled expression that leapt into the oval of Tosin’s face was quickly replaced by a smile of apology. ‘I’m sorry about the mix up,’ she said. ‘You must have spoken to one of the applicants. We’re interviewing for a vacancy.’ She flipped open the visitors notepad on her desk and picked up a biro. ‘Who are you here to see?’
The phone had fallen silent, but the air vibrated with anticipation of its next ring. The Haba!-branded clock on the wall above Tosin’s head pointed to nine minutes past eleven.
Furo said, ‘I’m here for the eleven o’clock interview. I’m really sorry I’m late, but I’ve been here – I’ve been outside for the past fifteen minutes. My name is Furo Wariboko.’
Tosin’s eyes widened. ‘You mean the interview for the salesperson job?’
‘Yes,’ Furo said.
The biro slipped from Tosin’s fingers, clattered on the desk, and as if to complete her embarrassment, it evaded her scrabbling hands and rolled to the floor. She was bending to pick it up when the phone rang. She jerked upright in her seat, snatched the receiver from its cradle, and pressed it to her ear. Her eyes avoided Furo all through her low-voiced conversation, and by the time she replaced the receiver, she had regained composure. ‘OK,’ she said with a light clap of her hands, and rising to her feet, she looked at Furo. ‘Please come with me.’
He followed her up a staircase that ended in a hallway lined on one side with doors. Each door was fitted with a copper-coloured plaque announcing function. SALES. MARKETING. IT. LAVATORY. The last office, the door closing the hallway, bore a plaque that read, AYO ABU ARINZE. Tosin halted in front of the second-to-last door. HUMAN RESOURCES.
‘Yes?’ a surly voice responded to her knock, and she cracked the door open. ‘I’ve brought one of the candidates for the salesperson job. I think you—’ A cough cut off her words, followed by the abrupt clatter of cutlery. The man spoke, his angry words slurring through a mouthful of food. ‘But I told you to wait! Is something wrong with your ears?’ Tosin shot back, ‘Just stop there, Obata, I don’t have time for your rudeness this morning.’ Throwing open the door, she waved Furo in. As he stepped forwards there was a gasp, and the man seated behind the desk leapt to his feet and spilled his plate of stewed beans. ‘
See now!
’ he snarled, staring down at his shirt, and then he looked up at Furo and stammered out, ‘My apologies, sir, but … surely …’ he swung his gaze to Tosin and a furious note entered his voice, ‘you’ve made a mistake!’
‘No mistake,’ Tosin replied, her tone impassive. ‘His name is Furo Wariboko and he’s here for the salesperson job.’ Without another word, she pulled the door shut behind her.
Obata was still on his feet, one hand gripping the desk and the other his plate. His mouth hung open, and in his face irritation and disbelief mixed like the mess of beans in his cheeks. He noticed the direction of Furo’s gaze, and closed his mouth, then bent down and pushed his plate under the desk. Straightening back up, he swiped his hand across his lips. With the same hand he jabbed a finger at Furo and said in a voice gruff with challenge, ‘
You are Furo Wariboko?
’
Furo nodded yes. In the wall behind Obata an ancient air conditioner hummed, rattled, regained its rhythm, and dripped water into an empty paint tub placed underneath.
‘That’s impossible!’ Obata burst out, and dropped into his seat. ‘I saw that CV with my own eyes, I have it here.’ He swept his hands through the papers on his desk, plucked up two stapled sheets, held them close to his face and ran his finger along the script. ‘See here, it says that Wariboko is Nigerian! And … and … attended Ambrose Alli University!’ He flung down the résumé and glared at Furo. ‘Come on, you – a white Nigerian? That is just not possible!’
‘But it’s my CV—’
Obata cut him off with a shout. ‘I say that is not possible!’
Despite the chill in the room, Furo felt his palms grow moist with heat, and he resisted the urge to wipe them against his trousers. His eyes roamed the walls, the ceiling … on the ceiling above Obata’s head, a tiny green moth was flinging itself against the glow of the fluorescent tube, over and over again. Obata’s breathing sounded like beating wings.
‘I say that is not possible!’ Obata repeated.
In a cowed voice, Furo started, ‘Excuse me, sir,’ but Obata interposed with a raised arm and flattened hand. ‘Hold on,’ he said, and took his own advice. Arranging his features into a parody of calmness, he inhaled deeply and exhaled through his mouth. ‘Listen carefully before you say anything,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what your mission is, but I advise you to give it up. We’re a respectable company. You can’t just walk in here and tell me some cock-and-bull story. I will investigate everything to the very last! Secondary school, university, even youth service, all those places have records. I will personally contact the registrar at Ekpoma—’ He picked up the résumé and waved it at Furo. ‘So just think very well before you talk.’
As Obata spoke, Furo began to see that he had no past as he was and no future as he had been. His folder of documents now felt useful only as fuel for Obata’s anger. He had no hope of getting this job, any job at all, not as long as his own credentials proved him a liar. He felt bone-tired, hope-weary. He had wasted his efforts chasing after the same thing he was running from. There was nothing left to do but turn back home. It was time to face his family with the truth.
And yet he said, his voice shaking with conviction, ‘I am Furo Wariboko.’
Fury contorted Obata’s face. ‘Look here,’ he said in a voice as deep as a shout in a well, ‘do I look like a fool?’ He stood up and strode around the desk towards Furo. The résumé, folded in his hand, was raised above his head as if to swat an insect. ‘Do I look stupid?’
The squeak of hinges stopped Obata in his tracks, and after he lowered his arm, Furo looked around. Standing in the doorway was a man of average height. His frail shoulders, slim arms, and small feet – which were laced up in blue canvas sneakers – gave him the look of a bully’s punching bag. But his forceful features put the lie to first impressions: bushy eyebrows set in a straight line over big-balled eyes, his forehead broad and high-domed. Between wide nose and pointed chin, a thin-lipped, stubborn mouth. And an aura of power that he wore as lightly as his stonewashed jeans and green-striped batakari.
Obata found his tongue. ‘Good morning, Arinze,’ he said in a civil tone. The man nodded acknowledgement, and striding into the office, he held out his hand to Furo. His grip was strong. ‘I’m Ayo Abu Arinze,’ he said.
‘Good morning, sir,’ Furo dipped his head in respect.
‘Please, call me Abu,’ Arinze said with a quick smile. Breaking the handshake, he turned to Obata. ‘I thought I heard shouting.’
Unease flickered in Obata’s face. ‘It’s just a small matter, a misunderstanding,’ he said, and cleared his throat. ‘I’m handling it.’
Arinze nibbled on his bottom lip, and stared steadily at Obata, a speculative light in his eyes. ‘What happened to your shirt?’
Obata glanced down, and began brushing off his shirt with his left hand. ‘I spilled some food,’ he muttered without looking up.
Arinze turned back to Furo. ‘If you don’t mind my asking, why are you here?’
‘I came for the job interview.’
With a lift of his eyebrows, Arinze asked, ‘The salesperson job?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘So what’s the problem?’ Arinze’s gaze was directed at Obata.
‘This man is lying. He’s an impersonator. He claims his name is Wariboko!’ Obata’s tone was affronted. He drew closer to Arinze and extended the résumé to him. ‘See the CV he sent.’
Arinze scanned the sheets in silence, and then he said, ‘Mr Wariboko?’
‘Yes,’ Furo answered.
‘What’s your date of birth?’
‘Sixth of May, 1979.’
‘Your secondary school?’
‘Baptist High School.’
‘Where?’
Furo stared at Arinze. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘What town is the school in?’
‘Oh,’ Furo said, relief washing through his voice. ‘Port Harcourt.’
‘What are your hobbies?’
Furo thought a moment. ‘Swimming, travelling and reading.’
‘And your mother’s maiden name?’
‘Osagiede.’
‘That’s not what it says here.’
Furo’s brow creased in perplexity; he raised his hand to massage his nape. ‘My mother’s maiden name is not on my CV,’ he said at last.
‘It’s not,’ Arinze agreed, and lowered the résumé. He spoke to Obata. ‘I would like to interview Mr Wariboko myself. Is that OK?’
The stain on Obata’s shirt rose and fell with his breathing. ‘I guess,’ he said, and averting his face, he added tonelessly, ‘What about the others? Do you still want me to interview them?’
‘By all means do,’ Arinze said. ‘We still need a salesperson.’ He walked to the door, pulled it open, and stood to one side. ‘After you, Mr Wariboko. Let’s finish this in my office.’
The stuffiness of Human Resources had left its impression on Furo’s mind. So much so that when Arinze opened the door to his office, Furo, disoriented by the burst of daylight that lit up the room like a terrarium, hesitated so long on the threshold that Arinze touched his elbow to urge him forwards. Leading Furo to a glass-top desk the size of a ping-pong table, Arinze said, ‘Please have a seat,’ and inclined his head at two soft-leather chairs arranged in front. ‘Coffee?’ he asked after Furo was seated, but Furo shook his head no. While Furo cast furtive glances at the room’s decor – the window ledges decorated with a plethora of bric-a-brac, the white walls adorned with colour-splashed paintings and brooding masks and a samurai sword in its wooden sheath: ornaments announcing a moneyed, well-travelled life – Arinze strode to the coffee table beside the open French windows and poured a mug of coffee, its woodlands aroma rising with clouds of steam. Returning to the desk, he set down the mug and sank into his swivel chair. A shellacked bookcase covered the wall behind the desk from floor to ceiling. To Furo’s bemused gaze it seemed about to topple from the weight of books.
‘Mr Wariboko,’ Arinze began, and rested his elbows on the desk with his hands cupping his mug. He pinned Furo under the force of his stare. ‘I’ll be frank with you – we need a man like you on the team.’ He paused for his meaning to sink in, and then said, ‘I’m about to offer you a job. But first of all, I need you to answer three questions. And I expect the truth.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Furo responded in a too-loud voice. He struggled to keep a straight face, tried not to grin with pleasure, and failed. His mouth felt full of teeth.
‘Another thing,’ Arinze said, smiling back. ‘Please don’t call me “sir”.’ He took a sip from his mug, set it down, and rubbed his palms. ‘First question. Is your name really—’ he glanced down at the résumé on his desk, ‘Furo Wariboko?’
‘Yes,’ Furo said fiercely. ‘Yes, it is.’
Arinze gave a slight shrug as he spoke his next words. ‘Second question then. Do you have any ID that confirms you’re Nigerian? Like a passport or driving license?’
‘I don’t,’ Furo said, relieved it was the truth, and as Arinze watched him in silence, he added, ‘Actually, I have an old passport, but I left it in a place I can’t go back to.’
Arinze took a long drink of coffee. ‘We can’t risk any allegations of illegally employing a foreigner, so you’ll need to get a passport before you start with us. Is that OK?’
‘Yes,’ Furo answered. He hadn’t the faintest idea of how to go about getting a passport, but his joy would not be spoiled by a predicament in his future. A future that hadn’t existed just minutes before. A strong breeze from the open French windows fanned his excitement, gave him the courage to ask, ‘And your third question?’
Sip, replace mug, and rub hands together. Arinze was a creature of methodical action, Furo could tell. Already he felt his heart filling with respect for the man he would soon call boss.
‘When was the last time you read a book?’
At this question, Furo’s heart skipped, and he strained to keep his disappointment from showing. The truth had served him thus far in answering Arinze’s questions, but the truth this time was inimical to him. And what was the truth? He read newspapers for job announcements. And on his smartphone he read Facebook and Twitter, blogs and news websites, ephemera of the World Wide Web … and not forgetting the countless rejection emails from all the companies he had applied to for jobs. The whole truth and nothing else was that he’d read no books since 2007, not since he got the pain in his neck from studying for his final examinations.