I’ve never missed a single day of work. So, I find it preposterous that anyone would suspect me in the case of the missing office attendance book. There isn’t a day when you’ll look through the names scribbled in that book and not find mine. Even on the days when only two or three names appear in the book, and that one time there was only one name, mine was never absent. The day when my chair aches for my butt will never come unless it’s the weekend or a public holiday.
So, when Aniekan, the group head, narrows her eyes at me and says, ‘Are you sure you didn’t take the book by accident?’ I remind her that I’ve never missed a day of work. Hence, I have nothing to hide and no motive to steal the book.
‘Well, there was the day you said you were sick and missed out on Fola’s birthday cake. And that time you claimed your car broke down so you couldn’t make it to the office,’ she replies.
‘Those don’t count,’ I say to her as I adjust the slightly askew frame on my table that houses the words: Honesty is the best policy. I hate when things are skewed, whether objects or opinions. So, I don’t appreciate Aniekan trying to mislead everyone by bringing up irrelevant matters like when I was ill and took a sick day or when my car broke down and I informed her of it pronto. Those aren’t absences.
As I observe the three faces of my colleagues in the room with me, I have a hunch they’re secretly grateful we don’t have an attendance book to submit to HR because it exonerates them from having to explain their sporadic absences.
‘This wouldn’t have happened if you had all listened to me when I said we should go digital like the other teams,’ Fola says.
I roll my eyes. ‘Stop acting as if things can’t get lost digitally too.’
I don’t know why, but he scoffs and says, ‘Of course you’d know about that.’
I sigh and take a seat, willing the hands of the table clock on my desk to move faster. ‘You people can figure it out. Like I said, I don’t have a motive.’ I try to ignore the beads of sweat slithering down my forehead like little snakes stealthily approaching their prey. They advance despite the cold puffs the air conditioner breathes on us. I wipe them away with a small handkerchief. I’m thankful that no one is close enough to notice my sweat glands working earnestly. If they were, they might make connections I don’t need them making. I examine their faces again, searching for a change in expression. Waiting for a pair of eyes to lighten with realisation. But nothing. I don’t know why I worry. They’ve never been a clever bunch.
Aniekan shuffles papers and folders, half-heartedly searching. ‘It’s my head they’ll have for this, not yours, so I see why you’re uninterested. Even when you mistakenly deleted the folder that held all our end-of-quarter reports, I was the one who got queried.’
I roll my eyes again. With the number of times I roll my eyes in this office, it’s a wonder they haven’t fallen out. Aniekan always brings that up as if it didn’t earn us a much-needed extension on our reports.
‘Maybe you should ask Odafe,’ I say to diffuse the tension, and they all turn to me. ‘I saw him cleaning the table where we usually keep the book not too long ago. Maybe he took it.’ I shrug and refuse to mention that I overhead Odafe say something about leaving early for the day.
Aniekan hurries out of the room, and I see Fola, and Shekinah—who hasn’t said a word since—take off the masks of concern they had been wearing.
A few moments later, Odafe storms in with Aniekan following behind and I nearly fall off my chair. ‘Me ke? Take which book?’ He asks with his arms akimbo and that permanently dirty red rag he uses to clean every surface clutched in his hand.
‘Is it not you that I saw carrying the book outside? Abi, is it my eye?’ He points at me before turning to everyone else. ‘Why are you people stressing yourselves? Never a day has come that this one,’ he throws me a dirty glare, ‘has entered this office before 9 or even 10. Perpetual latecomer and on top that one, you too dey lie!’ He kisses his teeth and storms out of the office, leaving behind an excruciating silence.
The little snakes of sweat trail down my face as if they’re in a race. My chest feels like it has collapsed into my stomach and my organs are trying to make sense of the chaos. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.
I don’t make eye contact with anyone. I refuse to explain that I could get a final warning from HR because of my aversion to punctuality. Or that the attendance book has all my crimes of tardiness on full display. I don’t reveal to them how the disappearance of the attendance book is for our collective good because they aren’t innocent either. I just walk out of the office to retrieve it from my car.
Fatima Mohammed
Fatima Mohammed is a Nigerian short story writer and essayist. She writes realistic and speculative fiction that is unashamedly Nigerian and explores womanhood, religion, and the complexities of human relationships. Her short stories have appeared in Brittle Paper and Livina Press: Midnight Ink. Her essays, which centre on feminism and society, are published on Medium with An Injustice! Mag and Fourth Wave. She writes a bimonthly newsletter on Substack called Nostalgia Trip, where she shares personal essays and discusses books. She likes to crochet and practice yoga and enjoys using K-dramas to escape reality.
