6-3-0-7

Jungle justice in Nigeria—anywhere—is an earthly simulation of hellfire. A curse. A great affliction. A dearth of empathy. A near-death experience. Although God would be shaking His head up in the clouds, this act is the lovechild of the Old Testament's passion, the New Testament's persecution and Lagos' perspiration, and as I sat in one of Mama's threadbare couches with the silk off-white chair covers, having my wounds examined, I resolved not to endanger myself again. Whenever a jerry can of petrol or diesel (it burns more efficiently) emptied over me, I felt foetal as fate urinated all over me, rubbishing my destiny, if I still had one. I always shut my eyes (so that if I broke free from the encompassing tyres and made it alive, I could still have 20/20 vision) but the darkness was a punishment. How did the blind cope? I opened my eyes tentatively, and the accusers were all glaring at me. The mad dogs were all glaring at me. They weren't glaring at the thick TV screens in the beer parlour as President Tinubu and his depraved party members promised amorphous 'new beginnings' and 'change' and 'progress'; they were glaring at me. I was a nuisance, and the acceptance, reality, state of being detested crippled me. My parents tried their best but I, their only son, was headstrong; the layers of cement obstructing my ears refused to crumble off so the community had burdened itself with breaking them apart. From the second week of the new year (as I'd given myself a soft landing), I pieced the shards of my wretched life together to find an honest alternative. At first, it was a fleeting attempt but I must say I've made progress that would've made Dad gleefully bare his chalky thirty-two.

. . .

The 2nd of February was the first day of my Maths tutoring job with a middle school student in the suburbs. I'd secured it after this rotund agent called Yusuf gave me the contact and confirmed it was mine with a brusque, irritated nod. He'd graciously helped with my accommodation back in my hometown and was delighted to drive me away. It was wonderful to be unknown here, to strut around with an invisibility cloak and an unsoiled reputation. The girl smiled more than she did her statistics, and when I berated her, she said I was the first tutor she had that didn't disgust her. I gaped. The previous ones were like ogres, according to the brat; they had frightening faces and giant fingers with hairy knuckles that made her harbour a deeper loathing for the subject.

"What's more," she whispered, leaning closer and looking round for her grandma. "They never brushed their teeth."

"Okay, that's enough, Ayomide. When you divide by a fraction, you flip and multiply. Do you understand?" Ayomide flinched, frolicked and fidgeted; she took kinesthetic to a whole other level while I waited for my answer. For her, it should've been baby work. Sometimes, I felt her head was suspended in the skies but at least, she didn't reply with questions. Sometimes, it was mania followed by a transient hush.

Her grandma was watching us from the other side of the kitchen double doors, half-frowning like there was something to be annoyed with so early in my service.

"Mr. Linus, do you happen to know any locksmith? I've lost my room keys…"

The scrawny (never had I seen a more protuberant Adam's apple) grandma tottered in, her flaccid breasts dancing as she took little, calculated steps that drained her. She shook her Well Woman 50+ packet like it was a bottle of cough syrup, monitored me closely and began ironing a heap of clothes, consuming more water than the iron itself by chugging her water bottle. Ideally, there should've been a housekeeper but it helped at her age to engage the mind by doing—well—anything.

"Actually, I can get the job done, Madam."

"I thought you were just a-a-a mere guidance counsellor," she said, sizing me up.

"No," I said, startling myself, " I'm a private tutor, Ma'am. I'd actually learned locksmithing and tailoring, but settled for something more lucrative, Ma'am."

"Too much information. Hmm. Okay, how much do I pay you?"

. . .

I made six duplicates so I could focus on my tutoring and for the first time, Mrs. Badmus was more than pleased. But I could feel there was something terribly wrong—with her at least. Ayomide found the keys scattered around the house in the silliest places—on top of the microwave, in one of the china teacups on the ornate dish rack, and, more surprisingly, around the neck of a small copper horse statue that had developed a green-cyan patina after years on the mantelpiece. And that became her new obsession—to locate her grandma's missing keys. She would stand up on a whim, in the middle of an explanation, and go searching like a Miss Jane Marple with no case whatsoever. Later, she'd return with a shrug, smirking like a newlywed trying not to get lipstick on her teeth at the wedding reception.

"Is your grandma OK?" I asked.

"She's old." Ayomide said, failing to give me eye contact like a fibber would.

"Oh, it's that thing they call dementia."

Ayomide stared at her exercise book as though the numbers were growing on the page.

On Friday I saw Yomi, who looked young enough to be Ayomide's elder brother and old enough to be Mrs. Badmus' son. He stormed through the landing and barged into the adjoining living room, his face creased like the surface of cold custard and the outline of his ribs visible against his T-shirt.

"She keeps taking the key out of the lock and misplacing it like it's the house's and she's going for a long stroll! Do I need a megaphone to remind her that room is important?" He obviously thought he was having a monologue because when he saw me bent over Ayomide's assignments, I noticed he froze. But it was too late. I itched to find out what was in that room. It was usually money or possessions that made a room important, according to my experience. And I wasn't going to let the opportunity slip—depending on how far my courage and conviction would take me.

"You're the new lesson teacher," he said, with his darkened eyes piercing me.

I didn't know whether it was a statement or question because of his flat tone, and I preferred being called a private tutor; it sounded much grander. Ayomide forced an awkward introduction and Yomi refused to offer his hand when I put out mine. He marched to the door, pulled out a key from his pocket and locked the room after giving me a side eye.

. . .

"Ayomide, I've got something for you," I whispered, "but please be calm because it's our little secret."

It was a real pain to give up my sweet treats but one must lose in order to gain. My small sacrifice would hopefully pave the way to a much greater reward.

"Oh, what's it?"

I pulled out a black polythene bag with five bars of Bounty and Mars. She squealed and I quickly withdrew it.

"Shhh! You don't want anyone to find out, do you?"

She peered at me with her bulbous eyes.

"Tell me the password," I said.

"For what?"

"Hey, young lady, I can take the chocolates back home. I'm sure you're not even meant to accept stuff from strangers."

She rolled her eyes. "Okay, 4-5-0-1."

I slipped into the room after opening it with my duplicate when I was sure the two adults weren't nearby: the grandma had gone to grab groceries and Yomi had gone for his morning workout in a gym at least thirty minutes away. I held my water bottle so I could rush out if I heard a door and walk to and fro, pretending to look for a dispenser. But the password didn't work, and I heard a car pull into the driveway. My heart sank.

"You fooled me, young lady, how could you?" I asked, disbelieving I'd been outsmarted by the imp.

"That's the way of the world, Sir. The more value you offer, the greater your compensation. It's just like financial arithmetic -"

"No, never mind," she said, smiling mindlessly after realising the folly of what she'd said, "it's all about flipping simple interest and commissions."

The more value you offer. What value did she offer me?

"What do I give you in exchange for correct information?"

"The way to a middle school student's information is through her stomach."

"And what if you tell me some useless password?"

"Que sera, sera."

I reached into my backpack and presented her two Toblerones. She gave in.

"Okay, it's 6-3-0-7." I rolled my eyes and got up, after which her guardians had arrived shortly. My chance was gone, at least for this week, because I'd done my three days and overstayed my welcome. I would have to wait until next week. But at least, I would with the assurance that she did tell me the truth this time. So I stalled, but the wait was financial torment back home.

I sat on my toilet seat, irresolute, forced to engage in what I'd been avoiding for years—self-evaluation. My trousers remained an ash-coloured pool of sturdy cotton at my feet as I wondered how all the cash I'd managed to save had evaporated into thin air although I had 'good' strategies, 'solid' plans. Surely, plans weren't enough. Even my loot had been stolen. Talk about karma. I'd once had a drive but life gently and gradually snatched it away until all I owned were a few singlets with yellow stains at the underarms, starched shirts and a torn wallet weighty with emptiness bearing only a paltry remainder of my savings-turned-bribery cash. This is not the man my parents had so painstakingly raised me to be. I was not the man they would be proud of, but it was hard. Hard to cope, hard to breathe, hard to make an honest living without being tempted to do otherwise. When people spoke of Africa, the notion of prosperity was as unheard of as lofty topics like emancipation and mutilation in a tavern. Not because we didn't have the potential, but it was too difficult to profit from it. This was a test. It had to be. Good never came easy, did it?

The plan was simple: after tutoring, head outside and wait. Crouch near the hedges and climb through the open window—if it would be open. It was too simple to be a plan; it was second nature really. No backup required. Darkness was a good cover, and I was all set. But the outcome was a nightmare.

The grandmother lingered outside like a period stain on white linen, clutching a giant green watering can with both gaunt hands. She wasn't actually watering anything. If you asked me, she needed watering herself. Clipping here, clipping there. Pruning. Mulching. Liquid fertiliser, as she had rather parched skin and the harmattan season wasn't even here yet. I could feel her approaching me; her footsteps were so imperceptible only my seventh sense let me know it was her, holding her torch up like a Florence Nightingale. And without thinking, I scrambled under the Toyota Camry, where the moisture from leaks had supported a cluster of miniature mushrooms. She finally left my side of the premises and I heaved a huge sigh of relief. When I heard the front door shut, my shoulders relaxed.

Thankfully, the window was wide open so I crawled out from the vehicle's underside and tiptoed to the window. An alarm went off and I froze in mid stride. It seemed to be coming from inside, and I realised it was a motion sensor. It didn't want or plan to stop; it kept ringing in my ears, it kept at it, it kept pulsating. More footsteps. My heart dropped like a penny into a wishing well and for timeless time I couldn't lift my feet off the asphalt driveway. I just remained stuck there, under a ringing spell.

A lanky figure emerged, and opened the car door. It was Yomi. He was wearing those depressing blue striped pyjamas every actor had in Nollywood and I was so convinced he was staring at me until I noticed his eyes were focused on the withering mango tree flanking the bungalow.

"The presentation tomorrow. Ms. Agatha, I'm talking to you. The presentation."

"The. Pre-sen-ta-tion. Tomorrow."

My eyes enlarged and he was actually standing by the car, talking to himself or whoever he was dreaming about, watching me key in the password speedily and take the cash. 6-3-0-7, done. He was a human potpourri even from my vantage; his heady mixture of cologne and aftershave was so strong it tickled my nostrils and I could taste it. He wasn't even aware I was right there. Surely, I couldn't be that fortunate. I felt my stomach curdle still, but I gathered myself and took flight, clutching the money tight like it was a panacea for the world's problems. I didn't feel right; while my heart raced, my thoughts sprinted back and forth and I was forced to turn over the implications of what I'd just done in my mind. What would I do to suppress the immense guilt? What hope was there for me this year if I'd already given up my greatest goal? Most importantly, how would I get my job back? But he—she—they—didn't actually see me, didn't he? Where was Mrs. Badmus? Didn't they both hear the alarm? Were they really too somnolent to do anything? I stashed the five fat bundles in my backpack and estimated it to be fifty thousand dollars. Fifty thousand bucks. Fifty. A person earning the minimum wage would have to toil a hundred and twenty years to smell that kind of money. And there were delayed payments, bills and emergencies. They would have to retire or die at some point. It was a fortune for a person of my calibre. I could buy a four-bedroom duplex and still be wealthier than I'd ever been. I broke into a cold sweat, hopped on the nearest motorcycle and watched the houses and signs lining the street flash past me.

I decided I would use the money to compensate all my victims, so I made a list of items—a brand new iPhone 14, a lace wig, a PC and clothes—estimated the expenses and drew up a budget. That way, I would mollify the community and the two contrary voices in my head saying I should give up stealing and I should repent. But I knew this was not the idea of the holy voice. Maybe, just maybe, I would clean up my name, earn the trust of my community and open a locksmith shop that they'd be willing to patronise. It was only fair I gave them a quarter of the delight they felt when they first had those possessions. Although the method would make Mother turn in her grave.

. . .

When I arrive in my hometown, the air still carries the mild, salty warmth of sweat, corn and plumes of smoke. I don't know whether it's the emptiness or the silence (punctuated by the occasional screams of livid men with guttural voices) I notice first. But I find out the emptiness exists because everyone is gathered near Rambo's cluster of fading bungalows—the mob justice hotspot. That's where I'd nearly been toasted after my three unpunished thefts were discovered. Another person—oh, I see, it's my protégé Lawal—is being tortured in the animalistic ritual. Fighting the impulse to sprint and save him, I watch from a corner, holding a huge bag of items for propitiation like a repentant once-thieving Santa Claus. Oh, the poor boy stole jewellery. He's still clutching it as the glowing matchstick falls on his jeans. His jeans won't save him. That was once me. Fury has never been more fluid. I grin and add 'Jewellery' to my list.