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Ọ̀gá is walking away from the conference room where he just held a meeting with the senior staff cadre of the ministry. After him came the other senior members of staff, looking sullen, whispering, nodding slowly and heading towards their own offices. I sit upright, grinning hard as they pass one after the other. The elevator is just across my desk so I have the honour and benefit of knowing everyone who ventures to this floor at any moment. Well, except when I go to the toilet to relieve myself, and ọ̀gá doesn’t like that.

See, one Monday morning I had resumed work with a running tummy after a weekend of partying and eating all sorts from one ówàńbẹ̀ location to the other. I had managed to avoid shitting inside the staff bus that picked me up from my bus stop. I struggled to exchange greetings with other members of staff on the bus, especially Amir who had once accused me of being too proud because I worked as the secretary to ọ̀gá and I didn’t have to work from a cubicle in a packed office space with them, so I decided to be nice to him. That is just how I am, I avoid wàhálà to a fault. I may be fuelling his delusions of importance by greeting him all the time but I don’t mind. This world and country have already robbed him, and most of us, of anything to take serious pride in.

Even though the AC in the bus was on full blast that morning, I was still sweating, soaking my armpits and shirt through the white singlet underneath.  I shifted from buttock to buttock on the leather seat, trying to calm the fire in my nyash after I had already taken drugs and prayed before leaving home that my day should not be assailed by the stomach trouble that already gave me a sleepless night and at least ten toilet visits before dawn.

That morning made me wonder whether incompetence could be sometimes beneficial, because if the AC wasn’t working and we all had to be covered in sweat, fanning ourselves with whatever we could find while the windows were pulled open, nobody would have had the time to ask me why I was sweating inside that bus. The fellow who sat on the seat before me had looked back, perhaps disturbed by my constant shuffling, perused my countenance and asked, “Mr Festus, are you good this morning?”  I had simply nodded, wishing he faced his front and allowed me to focus on controlling my bowels. The woman on the seat next to me was snoring away and I appreciated that, although I was still conscious of my nyash shuffling disturbing her sleep. She probably had to prepare meals and get three to four kids ready for school all before 7 am while still trying to make it in time for the bus. 

I sent my praises to the high heavens when the bus pulled into the premises of the ministry and came to a stop. I jumped off my seat, startling the woman who was now yawning beside me. I ran down the aisle and out of the bus, issuing a quick “Sorry o” to whoever I bumped into or stepped on as I found my way into the lobby, and then the elevator without indulging in the usual banter I always had with the lady at the front desk.

I still suffer her cold responses because she thinks I had intentionally ignored her that day despite having explained, quite untruthfully, that I had rushed past her because I had to finish some work left over from the previous week that was due for submission that morning. In the elevator, I shifted my weight from one leg to another, gripping the hand bar. At the ping of the doors opening on my floor, I hurried to my table and dropped my bag quickly before rushing off to the toilet.

After I had relieved myself, my shirt was drenched, my face was full of sweat beads and my laboured breathing slowly returned to normal. I stared at myself in the mirror in the restroom, almost proud that I had survived the storm. I rinsed my face and left the restroom, walking upright and smiling only to be told by the first person I met in the hallway that my ọ̀gá was looking for me. I went to my table first, sprayed myself with the perfume that I keep in my desk because ọ̀gá is very particular about how you smell around him. I cleaned my black cracked shoes with a rag, brushed my hair and tucked in my rumpled shirt properly before I called his office to ask if I could come to see him.

“Ọ̀gbẹ́ni, you better come here now,” he had yelled into the phone.

I found him sitting on one of the white couches in a corner. I always thought they were ugly and clashed with the red rugs and brown wooden colour of the walls. He was reading a newspaper when I entered and he slammed the paper on the table before him when he realised my presence.

“Good morning, ọ̀gá,” I said, standing with my hands cupped below my belt.

“What is good about the morning? Festus, I say what is good about the morning?”

I remained silent knowing he wasn’t expecting an answer.

“Why did you come in late today?” he continued.

“Ọ̀gá I was not late. I have been around before you came, Sir.”

“So why were you not at your table when I entered? Why was my secretary nowhere to be found? You want just anybody to be entering here àbí?”

“No sir, I had a stomach problem so I was in the toilet just for a short while, just small time,” I replied, indicating with my right thumb and index finger almost pressed together, how little the time I spent on the toilet seat was.

“Festus! Festus! How many times did I call you? You are not paid to sleep in the toilet. You want the taxpayers’ money used to pay you to go to waste?”

“That is not my intention ọ̀gá, it won’t happen again,” I said, bowing my head a little.

“That is what you all say when you mess up. You better be careful, I’ve been watching you and I’ll soon send you to a department where you wouldn’t even have space to stand up to shit so your head can be correct. In fact, I count this as one strike against you,” he declared.

“I am sorry ọ̀gá, please sir. I enjoy it here, Sir.”

“The next time I count another strike on your head, there won’t be mercy from me, Festus, you hear?”

“All ears ọ̀gá. Thank you, Sir,” I said as he waved me away and picked up his newspaper.

As I left his office that day, I had the good mind of telling him that I was on the brink of death just minutes before entering his office. I wanted to ask him if he didn’t shit too like every normal being but I didn’t say any of that because he, by virtue of his position, was allowed to imply that he wasn’t subject to the dictates of the human body system. He was the ọ̀gá, and I was not.

 Just two months ago, he found the secretary of the Deputy ọ̀gá of the ministry dozing off at her desk just some minutes before closing time and he had brought down the roof with his shouting, saliva was flying everywhere from his mouth as he scolded her, pontificating on her laziness and lack of passion in serving the government, of how ungrateful she was to be where she was at her age when there were thousands, no, millions of people like her walking the dirty streets with fatigued faces and depressed shoes looking for jobs. He eventually found a way to throw her to the records department where she would sit in a musty office with old rotten papers stashed in rusted steel cupboards that could fall apart at the slightest touch.  I don’t know who will send ọ̀gá to the records department because I have seen him doze off many times on his ugly white chairs.

Today, ọ̀gá is frowning as he goes past me into his office that has nothing less than three diffusers expelling different kinds of scents that spill out and envelope the air every time he opens the door. The deputy ọ̀gá follows him in, and soon, I can hear them raising their voices at each other. This has never happened before so I am surprised because deputy ọ̀gá looks like a person whose mouth cannot say much but now it seems he has eaten hot pepper soup. His mouth cannot close and his voice is the loudest one coming from the office. When he exits the office, he slams the door so hard that I duck my head instinctively out of fear that the building is going to fall all around us. Me, I’m not ready to die.

I can sense trouble brewing. Myself and deputy ọ̀gá’s new secretary, whose table is not far away from mine, exchange glances after he walks into his own office saying “I don’t want to be disturbed.” His secretary pouts at me but I take my eyes off her. Who is she trying to put in trouble? Àbí this one does not know there is fire on the mountain? Moreover, I can’t start thinking about another woman when I still have the lobby attendant heavy on my mind. I think she has blocked me because her number doesn’t even go through anymore. Women, you can never tell with them sometimes. I sent Abel who works on the same floor to talk to her on my behalf but he said she had shut him up at the mention of my name.

“I don’t know anybody with that name in this office. What sort of name is that even?” Abel reported she had said, and I was slightly upset that she had insulted my name. What exactly is wrong with the name Festus? But even though she did that, she is still on my mind and I don’t know how, or is it juju, ehn?

I wait all day for ọ̀gá to order me into his office but he doesn’t even call via the intercom to tell me to ask the kitchen to bring him some rice and stew or bread and beans as usual.

When it is closing time, I walk out of the building with my bag hanging lazily from my shoulder. I walk, I don’t run and rush like the others trying to get into the bus before everybody else even though there is enough space for everyone of us. This is the problem we have as a people, we are always rushing and impatient even if things are more than enough for everybody. Maybe this is what the uncertainty of things in the country has turned us into. Things are here today, tomorrow they are out of order, scarce, expensive or have simply vanished. First come, first served, a mantra repeatedly hammered into our damaged psyche.

When the rushing is over, I get into the bus, settling down beside a fingernail chewing man who repeatedly spits the invisible pieces out of his mouth. I think of what ọ̀gá will call this man if he works directly under him. Scallywag? Buffon? Brute? His mouth is filled with so many words like that, kai!

As the bus moves, side talk grows into a loud conversation.

“When did animals start working in this ministry? Hian!” somebody says.

“So they really said monkeys carried away the missing funds?” another adds.

Questions like that keep coming from left and right. I start to get the full gist that the meeting that was held in the morning was between the ministry’s top cadre and some other government people who had come to demand accountability for money that ran into billions.

“Yes, some departments haven’t gotten paid in months and some of you are acting surprised. Where did you think the money went?” one woman says, half standing half sitting as if to make sure everybody sees her speak.

“My friend, Uche, who works with the finance regulatory board said it is not only our ministry that is being investigated. It is everywhere.”

I keep looking at the back of the head of the person resting on the seat in front of me while my colleagues keep jabbering about the stolen funds debacle. All I know is that I can’t wait to see what tomorrow brings and how ọ̀gá will handle this fire that is starting to burn under his oversized suit.

*

I am in the office today feeling excited because when I first arrived, I finally decided to walk up to the lobby attendant myself to ask for her forgiveness. I was starting to run mad from not talking to her for so long. She had smiled at me without saying a word but I know that when I call this evening, her number will go through, I just know.

Two hours past resumption time and ọ̀gá has not arrived in the office and neither has his deputy whose secretary, Mariam, is filing her nails and chewing gum with her hairy legs placed on the table. I steal glances at her, pretending to work on something on my laptop but then I decide to talk to her because the office is too quiet. I walk over to her and she drops her legs, adjusts her skirt and grins.

“Bobo, what do you want?” she asks.

I don’t like how she is addressing me, why can’t she use Mr Festus, eh? But I say nothing about that and just ask, “Do you know why any of our ọ̀gás are not around? I wasn’t informed they wouldn’t be in today.”

“Ah, Bobo, I wasn’t told anything too. I just know about the rumours that they are answering one yeye inquiry today, you know, about some missing funds,” she says, smacking the gum in her mouth which I find irritating but I don’t want to say anything to her about it as well. She has too many problems for my liking.

“That is serious, I only heard a bit about it,” I reply. “So that was why they were fighting yesterday? Is it true they said it was monkeys that stole money?”

She laughs, slapping her table, “You sef, you’re doing like you don’t know anything. Don’t you know monkeys are now wearing suit and tie and sitting in offices with white chairs?” she says, making an obvious reference to my ọ̀gá.

“But your ọ̀gá stole money too, I’m sure,” I say, sitting on her table which she seems to like because she is now rubbing my thigh lightly. “Both of them stole together,” I continue.

“Na you know jare, I’m just happy that nobody is here to shout at me or look at me anyhow,” Mariam says, scrolling on her phone with her other hand.

We stay silent for a while with only the hum of the activities in the building filling the emptiness. I’m busy looking at her mouth move and chew.

“Ọlọhun o!” she shouts, disrupting the silence and jolting me.

“What is that?” I ask, grabbing her hand.

“See your ọ̀gá,” she says, handing me her phone as her croaky laugher fills my ears.

I take the phone and see a video on Twitter with the caption: “This man act pass James bond o.” I click on the video that reveals ọ̀gá sitting in a room with a microphone in front of him, the room is filled with other suit and kaftan wearing men.

A voice coming from a man off-camera speaks. “Did you or did you not, in response to the allegations of financial misappropriation in your ministry, say that the funds where stolen by monkeys?”

A bit of laugher ripples through the room before ọ̀gá says “No, I did not say such a thing.” He looks so subdued, so demystified in the video.

“On the official request for the records of the disbursement of said funds, did you or did you not say that the records had been destroyed by termites?”

Another round of laughter erupts in the room and it takes an extra clamour for order before the room is silent enough for ọ̀gá to say, “I did not say that. I only said it is hard to maintain records because facilities are poor and shelves may be termite infested.”

“We’ll address that in subsequent questioning, but first, Mr Director, where did all the money go? Or can you at least identify the Monkeys that stole it? Because it is starting to sound like you head the ministry of animal affairs,” another voice off-camera asks.

There is a slight commotion at that question, the camera pans around the room, showing one man banging on the table and shouting but his words are incoherent. The camera pans away from him and returns to my ọ̀gá.

Ọ̀gá is looking feverish, he cleans his face with a handkerchief. He attempts to speak into the microphone and then suddenly, he reclines on his chair, his eyes droop, his hands hang limply by his sides as if there is no life in him. The room descends into chaos as people stand to check up on him. Somebody dips his two thumbs into ọ̀gá’s mouth, another pours water from a bottle on his head while tapping his cheeks. The camera pans to the floor as if the cameraman was pushed from behind. The video turns black and noisy as it comes to an abrupt end.

“Is he dead or is it just drama?” Mariam asks me.

A grunt escapes my mouth. I shake my head “Monkeys? Termites? Ministry of animal affair indeed,” I say as I hand Mariam her phone.

“What are we going to do now?” she asks, eyebrows raised.

“We? Who is we?” I say as I begin to laugh at ọ̀gá’s stupid antics and the commotion in the video. I laugh so hard that I grab my belly, I laugh till I cover my mouth, walking away from Mariam towards my desk. But just before I get to it, my eyes catch something I did not notice earlier. There is a thin line of light leaking from ọ̀gá’s office.

I see that ọ̀gá’s door is slightly ajar, and wonder whether he had left it that way as he hastily left the office yesterday while the fire under his suit got hotter. I take careful steps, almost tiptoeing as I push the door open. I see a faceless figure, like an apparition, slumped on one of his ugly white chairs.

I stand in the doorway rooted as if in a trance watching the figure take on ọ̀gá’s face, and in the same second, that of a monkey. The figure turns into ọ̀gá and then into a monkey again and again, until they both become one and the same.

A single entity with one face, one flesh, thieving man and monkey.