A Basket Full of Spilled Water
Chiemeziem Everest Udochukwu
Chiemeziem Everest Udochukwu
The honk came three hours after Arinze prepared himself at twilight. It was from a tire-clean brown Honda, driven by Egbuna, a jet-black quadragenarian man in flannels with rolled up sleeves. As Arinze entered the car, wistful sorrow bogged down his family's goodbyes. He was leaving for apprenticeship, and they expected him to be away for eight whole years.
Throughout the journey to Onitsha, Arinze contrasted the packed, frenzied air of the city with the ambience of home. The frantic barking of a caged German Shepherd and the spread arms of Egbuna's 5-year-old twin daughters welcomed them home. Egbuna took Arinze to a room in the boy's quarters. The sparse belongings that were already in it fooled Arinze into thinking the room was spacious. He unpacked his belongings and struggled to find any space for them.
Friday returned from the shop and asked Arinze if he had muscles strong enough for bearing burdens. Friday was one year from settlement and Arinze could feel the excitement buzzing around him. Arinze marveled at his free-spiritedness, how unperturbed he was that Arinze had displaced some of his belongings to create space for his own.
"You are the new boy. I hope you are strong because it's going to be haaarrrd," Friday said. But by "haaarrrrd," Friday did not mean the houseboy tasks Egbuna and his wife assigned him and he did not mean the way food was cooked with excess pepper despite knowing it made his body tingle and his bowels run. He did not mean Egbuna's perpetual mistrust that made everyone count their steps either.
"Haaarrrrd" meant life in Egbuna's overstocked spare parts store; the Onitsha Main Market as a whole, its ominous vastness, the bustling sprawl of things, the impatience of the people, the unapologetic touts, the goods that often spilled onto walkways and made movement a chore. Hard was that the market's globe spun so impatiently, so absorbingly, and Arinze would have to spin with it, and fast too.
Egbuna was a carefree man whose diligence came alive with every figure of his investment. He left the practicalities of Arinze's apprenticeship development in Friday's hands, but warned nothing must come at the expense of his daily income. Like an adult taking a kid across a highway, Friday led Arinze through waking earlier than told, through abandoning food when late, and through the shelves and the racks—the batteries, the coils, the pads, the wheels, the tires, the suspension parts. He led him through their labels, their prices, their substitutes, how to record them on the sales book, and how to pass off the inferior ones on naive buyers. But he did not lead him through slipping out notes from a bundle until Arinze caught him pocketing some 3,000 Naira from the 30,000 Naira he received from a buyer.
"Friday, you are stealing," Arinze said.
"I'm not stealing, Arinze," Friday said. "I just add small money to the selling price. It's the only thing helping my family. Oga Egbuna won't give shishi."
"What if he finds out?"
Friday lifted his shirt. Arinze gasped at the whip welts. "This is what he will do if you tell him," Friday said.
Egbuna had told Arinze to watch Friday closely in the shop and give feedback on any instance of underhandedness. Each instance he saw Arinze slip out some notes, the tug of revelation and secrecy warred his mind apart.
The day he let secrecy win Friday had stepped out to make a supply. Arinze sold two car batteries to two chic young men and recorded in his sales book. Friday and Arinze sold and accounted for Egbuna individually. Egbuna counted Arinze's income for the day and picked out counterfeit 1000 Naira notes from a bundle. Friday waited outside for his turn. A rumble of belt-lashes and throaty screams and desperate pleas flew out of the window.
"It's my fault," Friday said, as he ran in to intervene. "I didn't tell him about those wayo boys."
"80,000 Naira," Egbuna said, stressing each figure. "I will deduct it from your settlement money."
"No problem, oga. Just pardon him. Biko."
Friday held Arinze as he whimpered and shivered.
***
Friday's sister's call about non-payment of school fees preventing her semester exams stuck to Friday's mind like nettles on skin. Each time he saw the account number she dropped and said, "broda, anything you can afford." Each time he counted the buyers’ payments, it pricked him. It pricked and pricked until he went to a POS kiosk outside of the market line where Egbuna’s wife spotted him. She waited for Friday to leave and confirmed from the POS agent the amount Friday deposited.
At home, she asked Egbuna when he approved of his boys’ making deposits for him.
“Never!” Egbuna snapped.
"I didn't know he steals from you," she said.
"You see the boy you like to defend?" Egbuna said.
Egbuna called Friday and Arinze early the next morning. His wife refused to join the meeting but recommended sending Friday away.
An omen encircling the rim of his stare, he asked, "Friday, how much have you stolen from me since you came here?"
"Oga, I don't steal your money," Friday said. "You confirmed all the accounts I gave."
"Then where did you get the extra 40,000 you deposited at a POS?"
Friday did not answer. He turned to Arinze, his face an emblem of blame. Arinze was perplexed.
"So both of you know about it?" Egbuna said. "Even you, Arinze. I thought you were responsible."
Egbuna marched to the boy's quarters. As Friday and Arinze pleaded, he flung everything out through the door and onto the flagstone pavement. A digital wristwatch fell out of a shoe. He picked it up and pocketed it. Arinze ran to him, knelt and held his left leg. He kicked him off with his right.
"Criminals. Leave this place before I call the police."
Friday couldn't plead further. Though looking quite young, he was two years away from age thirty, with a striped body and no ready grounds for a fresh life. He had not spent seven hard years out of eight to be tossed back home without the pre-agreed millions.
"Oga, I am not going anywhere," Friday dared.
Arinze's groveling paused.
"What did you say?" Egbuna asked.
"Oga Egbuna, I said I am not going anywhere. Take me where you want. I didn't steal your money."
Egbuna unbuckled his belt and struck. On the third strike, Friday, with feline instinct, seized and punched him to the ground with the weight of everything that was about to slip away. Egbuna spat out blood and chips of teeth. His wife ran away and screamed for a prompt intervention over the phone.
A Toyota Hilux Patrol Jeep arrived and four policemen pushed through the gate. The first yanked Friday off, the second slapped his face and kicked him on the shin, the third fettered his wrists, the other grabbed Arinze. They shoved the two into the boot containing two other young boys. Arinze whispered to Friday, "True to God, I wasn't the one that told him." Friday didn't look his way.
Throughout the journey to Onitsha, Arinze contrasted the packed, frenzied air of the city with the ambience of home. The frantic barking of a caged German Shepherd and the spread arms of Egbuna's 5-year-old twin daughters welcomed them home. Egbuna took Arinze to a room in the boy's quarters. The sparse belongings that were already in it fooled Arinze into thinking the room was spacious. He unpacked his belongings and struggled to find any space for them.
Friday returned from the shop and asked Arinze if he had muscles strong enough for bearing burdens. Friday was one year from settlement and Arinze could feel the excitement buzzing around him. Arinze marveled at his free-spiritedness, how unperturbed he was that Arinze had displaced some of his belongings to create space for his own.
"You are the new boy. I hope you are strong because it's going to be haaarrrd," Friday said. But by "haaarrrrd," Friday did not mean the houseboy tasks Egbuna and his wife assigned him and he did not mean the way food was cooked with excess pepper despite knowing it made his body tingle and his bowels run. He did not mean Egbuna's perpetual mistrust that made everyone count their steps either.
"Haaarrrrd" meant life in Egbuna's overstocked spare parts store; the Onitsha Main Market as a whole, its ominous vastness, the bustling sprawl of things, the impatience of the people, the unapologetic touts, the goods that often spilled onto walkways and made movement a chore. Hard was that the market's globe spun so impatiently, so absorbingly, and Arinze would have to spin with it, and fast too.
Egbuna was a carefree man whose diligence came alive with every figure of his investment. He left the practicalities of Arinze's apprenticeship development in Friday's hands, but warned nothing must come at the expense of his daily income. Like an adult taking a kid across a highway, Friday led Arinze through waking earlier than told, through abandoning food when late, and through the shelves and the racks—the batteries, the coils, the pads, the wheels, the tires, the suspension parts. He led him through their labels, their prices, their substitutes, how to record them on the sales book, and how to pass off the inferior ones on naive buyers. But he did not lead him through slipping out notes from a bundle until Arinze caught him pocketing some 3,000 Naira from the 30,000 Naira he received from a buyer.
"Friday, you are stealing," Arinze said.
"I'm not stealing, Arinze," Friday said. "I just add small money to the selling price. It's the only thing helping my family. Oga Egbuna won't give shishi."
"What if he finds out?"
Friday lifted his shirt. Arinze gasped at the whip welts. "This is what he will do if you tell him," Friday said.
Egbuna had told Arinze to watch Friday closely in the shop and give feedback on any instance of underhandedness. Each instance he saw Arinze slip out some notes, the tug of revelation and secrecy warred his mind apart.
The day he let secrecy win Friday had stepped out to make a supply. Arinze sold two car batteries to two chic young men and recorded in his sales book. Friday and Arinze sold and accounted for Egbuna individually. Egbuna counted Arinze's income for the day and picked out counterfeit 1000 Naira notes from a bundle. Friday waited outside for his turn. A rumble of belt-lashes and throaty screams and desperate pleas flew out of the window.
"It's my fault," Friday said, as he ran in to intervene. "I didn't tell him about those wayo boys."
"80,000 Naira," Egbuna said, stressing each figure. "I will deduct it from your settlement money."
"No problem, oga. Just pardon him. Biko."
Friday held Arinze as he whimpered and shivered.
***
Friday's sister's call about non-payment of school fees preventing her semester exams stuck to Friday's mind like nettles on skin. Each time he saw the account number she dropped and said, "broda, anything you can afford." Each time he counted the buyers’ payments, it pricked him. It pricked and pricked until he went to a POS kiosk outside of the market line where Egbuna’s wife spotted him. She waited for Friday to leave and confirmed from the POS agent the amount Friday deposited.
At home, she asked Egbuna when he approved of his boys’ making deposits for him.
“Never!” Egbuna snapped.
"I didn't know he steals from you," she said.
"You see the boy you like to defend?" Egbuna said.
Egbuna called Friday and Arinze early the next morning. His wife refused to join the meeting but recommended sending Friday away.
An omen encircling the rim of his stare, he asked, "Friday, how much have you stolen from me since you came here?"
"Oga, I don't steal your money," Friday said. "You confirmed all the accounts I gave."
"Then where did you get the extra 40,000 you deposited at a POS?"
Friday did not answer. He turned to Arinze, his face an emblem of blame. Arinze was perplexed.
"So both of you know about it?" Egbuna said. "Even you, Arinze. I thought you were responsible."
Egbuna marched to the boy's quarters. As Friday and Arinze pleaded, he flung everything out through the door and onto the flagstone pavement. A digital wristwatch fell out of a shoe. He picked it up and pocketed it. Arinze ran to him, knelt and held his left leg. He kicked him off with his right.
"Criminals. Leave this place before I call the police."
Friday couldn't plead further. Though looking quite young, he was two years away from age thirty, with a striped body and no ready grounds for a fresh life. He had not spent seven hard years out of eight to be tossed back home without the pre-agreed millions.
"Oga, I am not going anywhere," Friday dared.
Arinze's groveling paused.
"What did you say?" Egbuna asked.
"Oga Egbuna, I said I am not going anywhere. Take me where you want. I didn't steal your money."
Egbuna unbuckled his belt and struck. On the third strike, Friday, with feline instinct, seized and punched him to the ground with the weight of everything that was about to slip away. Egbuna spat out blood and chips of teeth. His wife ran away and screamed for a prompt intervention over the phone.
A Toyota Hilux Patrol Jeep arrived and four policemen pushed through the gate. The first yanked Friday off, the second slapped his face and kicked him on the shin, the third fettered his wrists, the other grabbed Arinze. They shoved the two into the boot containing two other young boys. Arinze whispered to Friday, "True to God, I wasn't the one that told him." Friday didn't look his way.
Chiemeziem Everest Udochukwu is a teacher and a first class graduate in Linguistics and Igbo Studies. His writing appears or is forthcoming in The Evergreen Review, Mythic Picnic, Akewi, Efiko Magazine, Lolwe, Jellyfish Review, Peatsmoke Journal and elsewhere. He won the EC Michaels’ Short Story Prize and has been a finalist for The Black Warrior Review Non-fiction Contest, The Quramo Writers Prize, The Nigerian NewsDirect Poetry Prize, and others. He loves football, discoveries, good conversation and interesting people. He can be reached on X via @everdoch, and Facebook via his writer name.