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1.
“It could have been worse,” Buba says to the image in the mirror. His eyes still scream for sleep. A good explanation for how he has not rested from the journey. And not of how he has grappled with the question: Why did you do it? That’s the same question he asks his pupils if they copied their homework from each other. And if they do not give any reasons, he asks them to remain standing until they tell him why. And if they can’t, he asks them to tell a story in which the main character skips a task.
2.
Last Friday still happens in his head. He is still in the exam hall bearing a name that is not his. And a lecturer asks who he is, and Buba points at the name on the answer sheet, but the lecturer pours his eyes on the middle name, Amina, and all the words Buba has rehearsed desert him, and the lecturer’s voice swallows up the silence in the hall to buy stares on Buba.
3.
Buba is shoved into a room of many others who stare at him blankly.
“So, you no fit greet abi? You wan mek we arrange you ba?”
“Abeg, mek una no vex…” Buba says to a stocky fellow standing over him.
“You write exam for person ba?” He snaps his fingers and two others come up to Buba. One screws his buttocks into Buba’s face. And another grabs his groin.
“It’s okay, guys, it’s okay,” the stocky one says when Buba begins to squeal from suffocation. They leave to their corner. All others stare with a mixture of understanding and disinterest.
4.
The stocky one plops next to Buba. And offers some slices of bread from a wrap. Buba shakes his head and the stocky one lets out a low chuckle.
“I have been writing exams for people,” he says, scratching his chin. “It’s my sixth day here. I have answered a dozen different names in exam halls.” The lines on his forehead are like ridges even without any strain, and when he smiles, the ones on the sides of his nose run deeper. “I have two sons from two women.” He scratches his chin. “This hustle keeps us afloat, you know.” Morsels have gathered on the sides of his mouth. But they disappear and appear between words and the movement of his lips. “You’ve never done it ba?” He stares at Buba lazily. “But who cares?”
Buba hunches his shoulders. The stocky one digs his finger into his nostrils, examines what it pulls out, and flicks it off. “I like bearing names that are not mine. Mairo Dankuwa Lashe, Musa Mari Maigemu, Gambo Makama, Julius Miajindadi, Hanna Dindiri, Dantutu Maidawa, Guragura Aliko. It’s like alcohol. Some things are to be experienced without feeling otherwise, life is unbearable—”
“Why did you let them catch you?” Buba says, surprised by how his voice comes out softly, and more surprised at the word “catch.” The stocky one stops midway saying something and regards Buba as though he had just become real. And now he has to say something real. His face dissolves into a blank expression and his shoulders, in a manner of a hunch, curve inwards towards his chest. “Oh…shit happens.” He winks and squeezes Buba’s shoulders. “You need to do crazy things to make money. It’s not the end of the world.”
“Presido,” another says. He is slim in a white-browned caftan. “Dis new guy suppose fetch water today o? And sweeping and cleaning the toilet sef.”
The others nod. Buba runs his eyes on them briefly. They appear, in their shades of whatever brought them here like a flock learning how to live again under a new shepherd.
“Presido, no be so you treat me when I arrive o,” another says. His hair, a forest on his head.
“Why dis guy dey do face like shit sef?” another says. “Mek him take time o -”
“Na saint him be na—”
“You go fear saint sin na…” He laughs and the others join. It comes off like pieces of broken glass.
“Presido, you know say nobody big pass anybody for dis our republic ba…”
The stocky guy sends a lazy wave across. “Relax, ma guy. Relax,” he says, pushing his lips to one side and sucking his teeth to remove some stuck-up bread.
5.
Morning and night do not tell Buba when they come. Except that, at some point, his name spreads like chaff in the wind and tugs at him to wakefulness, at some point, he is saving himself from the throes of loud snoring by forgetting his eyes on the walls and iron bars, at some point, he is tired of imagining how the floor has not swallowed him up, how he should have said No to K about the gig, at some point he sweeps the space and fills the bowl in the convenience with water, at some point keys jangle to announce the opening or closing of the door, an officer trudges in and counts with them with his head and storms out. Buba can count that he slept three times curled up like a helpless reptile and woke up three times. An officer calls his name after the third waking.
6.
Though Buba sees the sun again, his heart sits in his mouth, peering at every stare and gesture, twitching at every chitchat and chuckle. Even the pots and plates and spoons in Mama Akuma Amala Shop are throwing words about him to amuse themselves. He must erase his name from every jamboree of gossips. He must explain to the two guys sitting at Yerima Culvert that it’s not what they think. They must tell this to their friends, and their friends must tell their friends and their friends. When he comes close, their voice is louder than he thought. “Omo, na Messi get dis world cup o.” “Which Messi? Abegi. So, France na beans ba?” “Guy, e go shock you.” “Mitcheew… Portugal wey get squad, where dem dey?” A school of okada at kauna junction greets him with ‘Bros, mek we dey go?’ When he does say anything, they turn away to other approaching persons. The apple seller waves in his direction. “Customer, kwana biyu…” Buba makes to wave back but someone from behind him waves instead.
7.
Why did you do it? Now, Buba wants to be his pupils. Yero would have said it’s because she sleeps late after watching Tom and Jerry; Nida would have said she dreams about things and her dreams are always true; Nkunda would have folded his hands in front of him as though he was trying to unknot what cannot be said. They are Buba’s mirror now. In it, he is a child again singing parents listen to your children, for we are the leaders of tomorrow; a teenager ticking the wrongs of adults. The child and the teenager unfold a script before Buba. He is in a thicket of a windfall thrown by life, far from the routine of teaching 7–10-year-olds to a banquet bossed by K, with a new name, Bashir Amina Zuba. Buba rehearsed it like a nursery rhyme. I am Bashir. Amina is me. I am Bashir. Amina is my granny’s name. God made Zuba and God made me. He chanted it the same way his pupils say an unfamiliar word until they can sing it. But adults must have explanations for everything.
8.
“I told Madam you traveled down to the village for the funeral of your grandma. It was too sudden and urgent you couldn’t notify the school,” K says after the bail. “What…?” Buba says, muffling the laughter in his mouth with a wide smile. It’s something about K’s bright eyes, thin nose and lips on display, same as when Buba first arrived at Taranga Academy. “Are you the new primary 5 teacher?” K does not show any disappointment or sadness. It is as though Buba had just recovered from a hallucinatory session of his life and K was proof it’s all fake. Of all of the teachers in Taranga Academy, K always has one thing or another going for him unlike Mr Gambo or Aunty Mima or Ms Talatu or Malam Dankuwa. He often tells Buba of how they bore him with debts, how they don’t want to do anything with their life except to come and teach and complain about the salary that cannot buy a bag of rice, and finishes before it is paid. “Omo, I no come dis life to suffer o.” K would rather swipe through photos of clients on his phone and ramble about money to be made, new shirts and trousers and shoes and cars, and marriage to some of the women like Amina, his new client and a single mother from Lingo. She just wants a certificate so she can get the manager’s position in her workplace. “Na straight A dis one need. She go arrange better money. ” His confidence is like water. And water takes whatever shape it wants or finds. Even the principal, Madam Dambuwa does not query or deduct his salary when he misses classes and Buba has to teach his kids. Maybe if he had not resigned from Nagarta Coffee Shop, maybe if he were still serving tea and coffee and getting tips from customers, if he were still a cleaner at Jollof Canteen, he would not have met K, or be carried away by his slippery wont. Buba’s breath hangs in his nostrils to remind him of a thousand more Maybes he cannot attain. The sneeze comes out with a bite in his chest. But maybe K is the push he needed to be everything he is not.
9.
As he steps into the class, the kids all rise. “Good morning, sir,” they say. And on the chalkboard, a large YOU ARE WELCOME, MR. BUBA greets him. “Good morning, class. Thank you,” he says, leaning on the desk with his butt. “Please, sit down you all.” At this, Madam Dambuwa strolls by, hand behind, her head bobs as though counting each of her steps. The kids all stand and greet again. She nods from the threshold. Buba bows slightly. When Mrs Dambuwa leaves for the next classrooms, the kids’ chatter floods him. “Mr Buba, you cried a lot?” “What kind of quesion is that? “ What? Don’t you see his eyes? “We missed you on Friday, sir.” “Was grandma a good person?” “What is a good person?” “Did you eat at the funeral?” “Ah. You want him to die from poison—” “Your village people are not good people then—” “So, there are no witches in your village?” “That’s why she is a longer throat.” “Hahaha—” “But I have never seen a dead person—” “Me too.” “They are like, are people who are sleeping—” Everyone turns to the speaker, Jinda. She is in the first seat by the door and the smallest in the class. She makes a face to confront the eyes on her but stops at Buba’s “It’s okay, everyone. It’s okay—” “Please, tell us a story, Mr. Buba—” the voices come off solemn this time as an attempt to pull away from that unjustified interruption. “Myth,” he says and writes on the board. They ask what a myth is and he says it is when god is bored with our routine of living or of serving him, he causes us to make msistakes so he can laugh and laugh. And comes to us as thunder, his sneezes as harmattan wind. And when it rains, it is because water has gathered in his eyes from too much laughter.
10.
K does not see it coming. Not even the second punch is real. The third hits him on the jaw and throws him off his feet. While he coughs and struggles to his feet, Buba grabs him by the neck. In K’s face, Buba is hauled back to the exam hall, the lecturer, the cell. Each swing of his hand, each strike is an erasure, an overpowering, a final act of healing. “How does that feel…?” he huffs through his teeth, lifting K and pinning him to the wall. “Don’t worry. Nobody will hear about this.” K slides to the floor. His lids are still heavy even after several blinks. He tries to smile but his jaw can only let him lift the side of his lips and twitch his eyes. Then he flails his hands in why-manner. Buba pulls him onto a seat and sits opposite him. “You can stay off work while I take care of your classes… and by the way, how much is this new client paying?” Buba says, cracking his knuckles.