A strange mission

(It’s a little past midday. The setting is a marketplace. There are four men sitting on the benches in an empty buka. One of them, Collins, looks in his early forties; the duo of Yaya and Osas are at least in their late twenties. The fourth, Okoro, looks out of place both in appearance and composure; he is remarkably much younger. The human and vehicular traffic around the buka seems to be getting even slower. Enter Lapade. He is a lanky man in his mid-thirties.)

Lapade: Guys, na here you dey. Is this where you are? (grunts heavily as he sits) You just made me walk around for nothing. This isn’t exactly the meeting point where you were told to come and wait.

(Okoro looks around in confusion. The others shrug. Collins doesn’t react. He mutters to himself as he fumbles with the woollen bag he brought with him.)

Lapade: (a little perturbed) So, do you guys understand exactly what you are supposed to be doing here? I want this operation to be a 100% success. There is no room for excuses or mistakes. I want us to be very focused. A little mistake could cause this operation to fail, and I personally can’t afford that, please. I’ve got a lot riding on this, ejo.  

(Collins still doesn’t react.)

Lapade: (angrily) And you, man? Are you deaf? Can’t you hear me talking?

Collins: (infuriated) You dey mad ni? Wetin I do you? What exactly is your problem? (He moves to attack Lapade, and the other guys struggle to restrain them.)

Yaya: Oga, you should probably watch yourself. That is Kolo-Collins. He is a popular madman in our street. He might look normal and take on normal manual labour gigs like an average Nigerian. But something isn’t right upstairs for him. Once, when his family came to take him to Yaba, he beat up six hefty-looking bodybuilders by himself. He actually left the mental institution like seven times. The last time he escaped, the gateman just opened the gate and let him leave. He is that fearsome o!

(The guys stare at the now apparently insane Kolo-Collins, who is alternating between yelling and mumbling the lyrics of Fela’s Zombie whilst twitching violently.)

Okoro: (stutters) Excuse me—sirs? Excuse me. I was told this was the venue for a job interview. It was when I got here that one suited gentleman gave me this axe (holding up a pickaxe) and then left.

Yaya: (Chuckling) You don’t say. Is that what they told you? This isn’t a job interview. You look very young. Why are you here?

Okoro: (melancholically) I don’t want to bore you with the details, but I just completed my bachelor’s in microeconomics at Diamond Lavender University. I’ve been job hunting for about six months now. This guy on Twitter told me to come to this address so that he has an interview and a gig for me.

(The others exchange knowing looks.)

Collins: (mumbling) Zombie no-go turn, unless you tell them to turn.

Okoro: (nervously) I don’t think I belong here. I will leave.

Yaya: (blocking the exit) Are you saying because you have on a suit, you are better than the rest of us here? What do you mean you don’t belong here? We’re in this together now! (turning to the others) Can you believe this guy?

Okoro: I’m so sorry, sir.

Osas: Don’t mind him. He’s barely older than my twin sons. (slight pause) I’m doing this for them. They are in their final year of high school. But now I can’t afford to pay for the necessities at university. They had to take gap years even in secondary school due to the financial constraints our family faced.

Yaya: That’s wild. Isn’t education free here? Why would your children need to take gap years due to financial constraints?

Collins: (mumbling) No break, no job, no sense.

Osas: (almost in tears) Well, the various economic policies landed us in financial trouble. My genius sons had to take a break from their studies to help me stay in the shop while I ran around to make things work. I value education too. I have two master’s degrees myself, but this country has reduced them to mere papers in my hands.

Yaya: I’m so sorry to hear that. I apologise if I touched a nerve. I’m not here by choice either. My pimp made me.

Okoro: (dubiously) PIMP????

Yaya: (chuckles) Yes, I was migrating down south with my family to escape the insurgents in my hometown when we got into a car accident. I already lost all my property when my fiancée encouraged me to move down here. On getting here, I lost her and some family members to the poorly built roads on this side of the country. The ones still alive are counting on the windfall from whatever I’m able to make every day. The pimp I borrowed money from to pay for their surgery is threatening to sell my kidneys on the black market if I don’t come back with him money before the end of the day. He was the one who recommended this gig to me.

(There is a long pause during which Collins very deafeningly tries to recreate the music interlude in Fela’s Zombie.)

Lapade: (tearfully) Do you think I even want to be here? Last week, my mother got a much-needed surgery for her glaucoma thanks to the generosity of the candidate we are about to attack. I have no choice. If I don’t do it, the two of us might starve to death. At the very least, if I die, she has a sure retirement fund. They promised that she would be taken care of. If not for that, I really should not be doing this.

Collins: (now screaming) Open your hat, zombie. Stand at ease. Fall in, zombie. Fall out. Fall down, zombie. Get ready. Attention, zombie. Quick march.

Okoro: And yet here we all are doing what we don’t want to do for guys who probably don’t care if we live or die.

Osas: I don’t think there was ever any question about whether they cared or not, kid. They don’t.

Yaya: I heard from a reliable source that one of the guys running for the House of Assembly was in the same facility as Kolo-Collins when he was in the psychiatric hospital. They broke out together.

(They all sigh collectively.)

(The noise outside increases as the governorship candidate’s campaign procession nears.)

Collins: (screeches and runs out, club in hand) ZOOOOOMBBIIIEEEEEE!

(The others are a little more hesitant, sombre, and morose.)

Lapade: (sighs wearily as he gets up and draws his own weapon, a cutlass) Let’s go, guys.

(The other guys stand up silently, and they all walk out of the shack, drawing choice weapons and steadily increasing their pace as they move towards the exit.)

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Oluwagbenga Kolawole is a writer and political thinker with a deep respect for the style of Amos Tutuola’s The Palmwine Drinkard. In his spare time, he can be found blowing bubbles, fighting crime, or staring suspiciously at the news. He is also a husband to several beautiful women and the boyfriend of one beautiful lady, to all of whom he remains entirely faithful. He is the reigning champion of the World Sarcasm Federation Championship, a title he takes very seriously. You can catch up with him on Substack at thekaygeepapers.substack.com or on X at @olukolawole_.