MAGICAL MONDAYS WITH 'KREATE'

THE MIGRANT

WELCOME TO CHAPTER FOUR OF THE MIGRANT

PLEASE FOLLOW THE LINKS TO READ THE PROLOGUE, CHAPTER ONE, TWO AND THREE.

It had been a month since I received news about Mohammed’s death and Father’s financial scandal. Silent tears had been shed for a couple of days. Tears of sadness for the loss of Mohammed, someone I had come to see as family. Tears of guilt that I was most likely responsible for his demise. Tears that Father was just another pile of unrecognizable ash and bones. But with every passing day infused with reinforcing episodes of the memory I had of Father, It grew increasingly absurd that Father was responsible for any organizational fraud. It had to be a misunderstanding. And misunderstandings had a tendency of resolving themselves at some point. Still, there was a tear in my heart that his name was being dragged in the mud at a time when he was unable to defend his integrity.

Leaving the house hadn’t appealed to me during this period and the only times I had set foot outside the building was when I went grocery shopping. Communication between Uncle Eddie and I had dwindled to bare essentials; essentials restricted to the convenient boundaries of feeding, money (I did the giving and had actually paid half the rent for the previous month) and hypocritical greetings of Good Mornings, Good Afternoons and Good Evenings. He was barely home so that helped. I had concluded that he didn’t have my best interests at heart and couldn’t be trusted. If I had my way, we wouldn’t be sharing the same room. But my only alternative was thousands of miles away. And even that wasn’t an option.

From my sprawled position, I glanced at the wall clock: a couple of minutes to twelve noon. As usual, Uncle Eddie had gone about his business. My eyes caught sight of my tablet, a faithful companion during the last month, but I lacked the urge to pick it up. Online movies and TV series had been my go-to place for escape during episodes of overwhelming grief. The room suddenly felt claustrophobic and I knew I had to get out of this house, possibly speak to someone. The moment the word Someone crossed my mind, I remembered Amina, her smile, her wisdom, and the comfort her presence exuded. It was shockingly surreal to realize that I hadn’t thought about her for a month. ‘Am I such an emotional wreck that I totally forgot about her?’ I said to myself.  I rolled off the mattress onto to my feet and began a search for my mobile phone. ‘Where are you?’ It wasn’t on the bed. Not on the cupboard. Not on the floor. And then it dawned that I hadn’t used it for a month, since that fateful night. With that thought came corresponding knowledge that there’d be no battery life left on the device. Sure enough the mobile phone was in the pocket of my coat and of course the battery was dead.

‘Fuck,’ I swore under my breath as I plugged it into a charger. I backed into the bed and sat down. I tapped the bed in some rhythm for some seconds. I once read in a book that it shouldn’t take too long to contact a lady you would like to see again. One month had to class as too long. She had probably forgotten our meeting. A lady was bound to be approached by countless guys on a daily basis. Why was I stressing? I wondered. She wasn’t –on the contrary she was. Now that I pictured her face, her hair, her shape, her laughter, she was indeed attractive. Very attractive indeed. I sighed. I decided to take a shower.

 

By the time personal hygiene was completed, after putting on some clothes, I checked the phone. It wasn’t fully charged, but it had enough power to last one brief phone call. I hit the dial button and as expected her number was the most recent on my call list. I hit the dial button again.

‘The recipient of this call is unavailable, if you wish to leave a message, do so after the beep. If not, terminate the call now,’ the automated operator announced.

I waited for the beep sound. ‘Hey, Amina. I guess you are in class or something. I apologize for not contacting you since our last meeting. I have been handling some personal issues. Anyways, I’ll be in your university by 2.30pm. I should be wandering around or seated at the lounge of that building called Sherman. Give me a call or text if you are free and would like to hang out. Or just come find me there. See you soon, hopefully.’  The moment I hit the end call button, it dawned that for all intent and purposes the message would be perceived as coming from a stranger. In retrospect, I’d be amazed if it wasn’t classed as creepy. ‘Idiot,’ I swore under my breath. I quickly sent an adjoining SMS introducing myself. With that I got into my coat and left the room.

The air outside had been gelid so it was a comfort when I finally walked through the automatic entrance to the University. The radiator induced warmth soothed my skin like warm bath on aching skin. I blew into the cup of my hands and rubbed them against each other. My mobile phone told me I was fifteen minutes before schedule so I decided to wander around a bit. There was no reply from Amina. She was probably in class, doing a presentation or listening to a tutor exciting the class or droning on around a boring subject.

The sight of students of different heights, width, and style, armed with books or nothing, chatting excitedly with one another or walking solo, shot a flash of nostalgia about my university life back home –a life whose reoccurrence seemed as bleak as a pitch black mist.  I moved on, up the stairs to a semi-occupied lounge served by a coffee shop, walked through what seemed to be an open access area with lots of computers and people utilizing them for different purposes, down the stairs into a cafeteria that had an insignificant amount of customers, my eyes were darting here and there. I realized the subconscious action of scouting the premises for Amina. No glimpse was the culmination of the process, though.  By my mobile it was time so I returned to the Sherman area, found a conspicuous seat and sat down.

Almost three hours later, she had to be either nonexistent or deliberately avoiding me. Questions hovered around my head. Was she even in the library? Had she received my text or voicemail to begin with? Or had I just imagined her to cope with the loss of Fa… I shook the last question out of my head before it took roots. I wasn’t that nuts.

During the wait, I had spoken to two individuals. One was a lady from Latvia with red hair and incredibly pale skin. Indubitably, she wanted to get to know me but everything about her appeared vapid and dull, even with her gung-ho and extremely chatty demeanor. The other was a stylish Asian lady with long legs and a poor command of the English language. She asked for directions but I was unable to assist, of course.

 

I had wandered around a second time but to no avail. A large transparent glass, directly opposite where I sat, overlooking the outside world revealed that it was getting dark. I dialed her number again but was answered by the annoying answering machine. I concluded she wasn’t in the vicinity and that it was time to get going. My spirits were trampled on by a heavy weight of disappointment as I trudged towards the direction of home.

A plastic bag was slowly swinging from my right hand when I reached the door step. It contained chicken, garri (a dried almost-powdery substance used in making a traditional porridge), vegetables, and a bottle of palm oil. Hunger had hit me on my way back and I had decided to stop by an African corner store. Eating already processed foods in Cambridge was as expensive as it was unhealthy. I headed straight for the kitchen and got to work.

In the process of dicing up a large onion bulb, two guys – a rotund, short one and a tall, lanky other, presumably housemates of Uncle Eddie’s – sauntered through the door and headed straight for the refrigerator. They had to be in their early twenties. Their accents gave them up as English residents. They reminded me of a TV show I used to watch as a kid titled Jake and the Fat Man. Since the inception of moving into the house, I had never run into any occupant. I had begun to wonder if there were any in the first place. ‘Hello,’ I acknowledged.

‘You alright, mate?’ Fat Man said jovially. ‘Hmm.’ He sniffed the air. ‘Smells different and lovely in here.’

‘Something traditional. Thanks,’ I replied.

Jake smiled awkwardly but said nothing. Jake retrieved a sealed plastic of noodles and Fat Man a pack of sandwiches. ‘See you in a bit, mate,’ Fat Man said. The patting of their shoes against the creaking old wooden stairs faded off moments after a door above slammed shut. A few seconds after the duo left, it occurred that no introduction had been made by either party. Next time, I thought.

In a not-too-long later, dinner was ready. As I ascended the stairs, holding a plate of sizzling garri and vegetable stew, wisps of steam carrying a delightful aroma up through my nostrils, the entrance door to the house cringed open. For some reason, there was no doubt that it was my host.

‘Please, tell me you are responsible for that delectable aroma.’ The door eased open revealing a smiley Uncle Eddie. The animated delight on his face instigated a temporary amnesia about the fact that he was an ass. ‘Hmm,’ I mumbled, smiled and nodded subtly.

‘Gosh, it’s been ages since I last had Eba and Eforiro (which meant garri and vegetables). ‘I must get some before heat escapes it. It’s icy out there. Don’t want the damned English weather getting to my food before I do.’ He grinned, got rid of his leather jacket and headed down the stairs. He returned with a plate, found a comfortable spot on the bed and started swallowing bulbs of garri dipped in vegetable stew. ‘Hmm,’ he mouthed before downing the contents of his mouth, ‘you know what would go nicely with this? Fine white wine, I tell you. Do you have any spare change lying around?’

My reply was crisp. ‘No.’ I anticipated a reply from him but it never came. Thank Goodness. He just kept savoring his dish. I studied him from a corner of my eye as I chewed the remaining piece of chicken. He looked unkempt. The beards he had when we met at the airport had grown and spread their tentacles to other areas of his face like uncontrolled weeds determined to corrupt a fertile land. His personality on the other hand was static and that wasn’t a good thing. I guess it could be worse but I was thankful it wasn’t. Literally, the only good thing around him had nothing to do with his efforts; the state of his room. It was evidently tidier now as I made an effort to keep it so. I quit my sense of observation, rose from my seated state and exited the room to do the dishes.

I was thinking of Amina as my hands instinctively lathered the dishes with a soapy sponge and rinsed them off. It was upsetting that I hadn’t seen her. Why didn’t she reply? She didn’t strike me as that kind. Then again ladies were unpredictable. I once read that it was a hormonal thing. One moment they were working a straight predictable line, and the next second they veer off that line of expectation. Or had something happened –

‘Be a good nephew, will you. Get rid of this for dear Uncle Eddie. Cheers.’

The voice startled me back to the present and I almost dropped the ceramic plate in my hand. He dropped the plate on the sink, rinsed his hands without so much as an Excuse me. He really had a penchant for getting on my nerves but I smiled deferentially and continued my task.

‘You remember Rob?’

I threw a quizzical look in his direction. He was casually leaning against the kitchen entrance.

‘Poor forgetful nephew.’ His voice was rich with sarcasm as his head shook from side to side in a demeaning style. ‘Rob is my prized winning steed,’ he declared, pride edged in his voice. The pride of a father to his successful son couldn’t have done more justice to the look on Uncle Eddie’s visage. I was tempted to say something about the fact that he had nothing to show for it but I decided against it. ‘So,’ he continued, ‘Rob is racing tomorrow morning and I need to place a substantial bet. I am confident he is going to win. His training and health stats agree with me. The thing is I am low on funds. Two hundred pounds from you and I’ll take care of the balance. I promise to return it when he wins –and add a hundred more for goodwill.’

Goodwill? I was supposed to be the one doing him a favor. Only Uncle Eddie could take your largesse, spin it around in such a way that made it look like he was doing you a favor. The nerves on this Uncle Eddie! But not this time, I concluded. For one, all the funds I had lent hadn’t found their way back to my purse. Secondly, I couldn’t risk giving him the little I had left. So I lied. ‘I have spent the last of my money on the foodstuff I got from the African store.’

He laughed and arched a brow. The look on his eyes was one of understanding or wisdom. The one an intelligent audience would give an inept actor. The one saying: I see through your antics, clown. But I held my ground. ‘A classic case of depletion of funds. Well,’ he said bending down to take off his socks, ‘we can’t have that now, can we? Time for proactive measures.’ He sprawled on the bed and stretched. A few clicks emanated from his vertebra. ‘It’s time you get a job.’

 

His words were incredulous. How exactly was I expected to pull that off? My visa had no provision for working in the country. ‘And my visa?’ I asked.

‘That, my dear nephew, is why you are a man. Figure it out. You do intend to remain in England, don’t you?’

As preposterous as this was, I had to concede to the rationality behind his question. Indeed, I had to figure it out. But how, exactly? I didn’t voice the question and Uncle Eddie said no more. He readjusted to his own corner of the bed and was snoring fitfully in another few minutes. The question kept playing and replaying in my mind like a record player in the hands of a tenacious detective bent on solving a case. Alas, I wasn’t a detective and the answer failed to surface till my eyes shut to the drama of the day. 

The next couple of weeks left a tedious strain on my psyche. A lot of agencies and retail stores were recruiting for the oncoming Christmas festivity. I applied for a lot, online and in-store, and had secured two interview slots. They had led nowhere. Apparently, I needed a National Insurance Number for employment eligibility. So I had made enquiries from a few strangers; one directed me to a web search engine while the others provided a phone number. A polite lady named Jan had answered the phone when I rang, requesting for details needed to facilitate the process. I had been reluctant to read out my international passport and visa information. Just as I had feared, the application had been denied on grounds that my visa didn’t allow for paid employment -or any kind of employment, for that matter. It had dawned that I needed a Plan B. Since my mind provided no alternatives, I had reluctantly informed Uncle Eddie about this obstacle. In his trademark monotonic, indifferent manner, he had said that my only option was a Cash-in Hand job; a way for an employer to circumvent legality and taxes and employ cheap labor. When I asked how I’d come by such an employer, he replied: ‘No idea, nephew. You’ll have to figure that out. And sooner than later I hope. For your own good.’ His last sentence had the natural strength to elicit a corresponding question but I chose not to ask. But it was impossible to ignore the potent foreboding knitted into every syllable.

Today was the third week since that conversation with Uncle Eddie. The icy breath in the air had become harsher. Residents of the area had resorted to warmer, heavier clothing. Christmas decorations glinted from every corner. My funds had gradually depleted to a meagre two hundred pounds and fifty pence (Uncle Eddie had not provided a meal for weeks now and didn’t bother to ask how I fed). But one thing remained stagnant: the bleak prospect of securing a job.

I paid for my first meal of the day; a hotdog. It was a relief to have something warm settle on my taste bud. I munched on it as I strolled in the direction of Amina’s university. I’d get free water from any of the university’s dispensers. It was also a hopeful excuse to run into her. I still hadn’t heard from her. Every effort to contact her had proven futile. The unpleasant idea that I was never going to see her again was beginning to sink into the depth of my consciousness; a region where lost things were never regained. Father was there. Mohammed was there. It would have been soothing just to confide in her.

A few yards away from the university, some ginger haired, vagrant-looking English guy with worn-out clothes and dirty sneakers that looked like they’d been nibbled by rats way-laid me. ‘Hey mate, you got some coinage? Need to get the bus home,’ he said, grinning. He had a broad chest and an athletic build. There was some confidence about the way he met my gaze, like begging was a right. Like it was trade by barter, and I should be expecting a repay from him sometime in the future.

Without a word, I reached into my breast pocket for the fifty pence change I had received from the hotdog merchant. I produced a two-pound coin instead (I guess my mind was elsewhere as I should have been able to tell from the feel of it). I hesitated, twirling the coin around my fingers. It was a lot to spare given my situation and I was tempted to search for the fifty pence. Didn’t want him spending my two pounds on anything unholy. But something about him told me he wouldn’t spend the money on anything stupid like weed or booze. I exhaled and handed him the money.

His eyes twinkled as he pocketed the money. ‘Cheers mate. You’ve done Baron a great favor. Perhaps I can return it someday.’ And he strode off.

I mused over the prospect of that ever happening as I drew closer to my destination. It was absurd. I wiped my mouth with the tissue that came with the hotdog and dunked it in a nearby bin just outside the university before entering its premises.

Yet again Amina was nowhere to be found.

Perhaps it was time to resign to the thought that we would never meet again. And if by a stroke of odd chance, it happened, she’d never recognize me. Several gusts of wind hammered me as I strode home. I couldn’t imagine how residents of this city adapted to the weather. The truth be told, from observation, I don’t think they had; almost everybody seemed to be in a hurry to escape the brute atmosphere and get to some heated destination. The door to the shared house responded readily to the turned key, I shut the door behind me and ascended the stairs to the room. Uncle Eddie was in. Some luggage and items were huddled to a corner of the room. To my horror, I realized they were mine. My heart skipped a beat, then it picked up its pace like hooves of medieval horses galloping into battle.

 

‘Uh – Uncle Eddie,’ I stuttered then got a hold on myself. A forced smile curved my lips. ‘Are we moving?’ It was a stupid question as his belongings hadn’t even been moved around. He couldn’t be this evil. I’m his nephew for Goodness’ sake, I thought.

He was grinning. ‘How’s the job hunt going, nephew?’ he asked as though the packed luggage was a figment of my imagination.

‘Not yet.’ My voice had become surprisingly calm.

‘Well, we can’t have that, can we? This economy is a motherfucking bitch, you see. So you must understand I can’t cater for you any longer. Humans are only as good as what they can trade for service. It’s a fact.  You were only as good as the cash you exchanged for the shelter I provided. Now that you don’t have any of those lying around,’ he winked and it was sinister, ‘I can’t house you here any longer.’

Rooted to that spot, a feeling overwhelmed my core. It wasn’t chagrin because it wasn’t anger stemming from disappointment. Deep down I had always known he wasn’t dependable. Hatred. Old fashioned hate. Yes, that was what I felt. I wanted to give him a grand piece of my mind. Exploit the use of every foul vocabulary I possessed. And then I decided against that action. It would be a sign of hurt, of weakness. And he didn’t deserve that satisfaction. I gathered my stuff, his house key slipped from my fingers and dropped onto the ground, making a subtle jingling sound. And I left.

Kreate is a budding Nigerian writer with a flair for fiction. Writing for him began sometime in secondary school where he dabbled in poetry and plays. He has authored two self-published short novels.
He is a banker and lives in Surulere.