The Queue

Fiction.

My name is Benson David Adefarasin. I am a seventy five year old man. I cannot remember the last time someone called me by my name. It is grandpa to some, baba to others and that old man to many. I am an old man, and like many old men, I have seen things; things I want to talk about, things I don’t want to talk about, things I want to forget and things that I want to do more than forget; things I want to lock up in some distant part of my mind, a mind I want to throw away in some distant part of the Universe, a Universe I’m desperate to leave.

In my society, age equals wisdom. People assume that at the turn of seventy or sixty thereabouts and with the sprouting of the first strands of white hair on my thoroughly bald head, life dropped at my doorstep a package of wisdom. I am suddenly a learned elder who can do no wrong.

As I stand in this queue, I wonder, is that really true? Can I do no wrong? Am I wise? It seems unlikely that any wise person would be going through the struggles I go through today, especially having enjoyed the things I have enjoyed in this life. I sigh deeply. It also seemed unlikely, when I retired ten years ago, that I would be on this queue. A former director? On the queue for pension? God forbid. But God did not really forbid it, did he? Cause here I am. I am on this queue. And I suppose that God is smirking thoroughly at me, as I would at me if I were he.

My life is now a story of queues. Each queue I am on, as sparse as they are, means very much. Even the queue at the ATM, which I am seldom on because I have nothing to collect, is a lesson. A lesson of how far I have fallen, but a lesson still. Perhaps this is the wisdom people talk about. My mind has suddenly found this ability to find lessons in my abundant predicaments. I cannot help but think that if this is the elderly wisdom people talk about, it is very sad indeed. What is wisdom if it only helps you to learn in helpless situations?

The queue doesn’t move. I know that the queue won’t move. In fact, being here is an act of faith that supersedes whatever organic version of belief that a mustard seed has. Every month, for the past year, I come here. A year ago I was told the glorious news that the government had finally released the pension funds of retirees like me. So, I had put on my Buba, gotten into shoes that I vowed that I would never wear again, taken my cane that I now support instead of supporting me, and came here.

I can remember now, how happy people were. I had seen my friend (he was not much of a friend while we were in service, but there is something about shared agony; it makes us find succour in shared memories and unlikely friendships) Mr Nnamdi Femi Bello. I remember now how I called out to him. “Mr WaZoBia? Or is it BiaWaZo? They have done it o. They have finally released it!” Even now, the memory is depressing. I remember how Nnamdi smiled at me and shook his head at the nickname I had given him. He was walking with visible discomfort. His leg had gotten worse and the stroke made the left side of his face look like Amala that was still being made. But one could see that there was still hope in his eyes as he limped towards me.

Hope? It is a rare commodity these days. I was at Nnamdi’s burial about three months ago. It was a shabby little affair — no one had much money to spare for a man who died in debt. Even his children did not show up for fear of being hounded by the people that Nnamdi owed. It was his tenants, the occupants of the little face-me-i-face-you affair that he had built in his hay days, that organised the whole thing. I will not say that a lack of money killed my friend because even the rich die. But I also will not say that poverty was not his ailment.

During his burial, as I was on the very short queue to pay my last respects at his coffin, I came to the realization that I was also in a coffin. Not literally, of course, that would be uncomfortable. But it was true nevertheless. The only difference is that my coffin is closing very slowly and his was already closed.

Today the queue is lighter than ever before. As usual, we are waiting for the director-general. He often comes to the office around 10am. I check my wristwatch, which if we are being honest deserves to be in a museum somewhere, and shake my head. It has stopped working. The long hand was on 6 and the short hand was on 12. I am sure it is not yet twelve. The director-general cannot be that late. I was never this late.

I tap the fellow standing in front of me. He turns back and gives me an annoyed look. I think I can remember his face. He had been the cleaner of one wing of the directorate. He must feel a bit of pride now, I think. He is on the same queue with people whose offices he had cleaned. I am not sure pride will put food on his table though. He looks like someone in dire need of food on his table.

“Why you dey tap me? Oga wetin happin?” he says in pidgin. For such an old man, he is very agile. He could even pass for a fifty year old. But not to me; I am sure that he is around my age. He recognizes me as his former boss and I am not sure what increases; his disgust or his pride. A very bitter man, this one.

“Please, what is the time?” I ask. He looks down at his bare wrist and looks back at me.

“After twelve,” he says, and goes back to talking with his mates.

Perhaps I should say something about the nature of the queue now. I believe that if I don’t, I might be misunderstood. It is not your ordinary queue. In fact, in terms of lines, there was none. It is just a gathering of old and probably depressed farts sitting and standing in the general area of the office of the pension block. We all know who is first and we know who is last. It is that sort of queue. A lot of times people ask us, “Why are you here? If they will give you your money they will send it to your account, there is no need to be here.” This, of course, is sound logic. But do you also know what is sound logic? If we stay at home and wait, these pieces of shit holding onto our money will forget that we exist. Their conscience will sleep. But if we gather here every month and force them to tell us a lie, they will not forget. Their conscience will prick them. I am sure it will prick them. It used to prick me too.

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My name is Mr Director, or Director sah! I am the director-general of the pension directorate. I work very hard every day, and I have to say God has blessed me a lot. But one thing that bothers me in this line of business is just how selfish our leaders can be. You wouldn’t believe it, but these men are really just awful people.

Look, I will give you an example. Here is a conversation I had with the minister’s PA (because the minister himself is too busy with state affairs to have such conversations in person) yesterday at the boat club. The PA, a girl who is probably his niece or something (because who else can you trust in Nigeria but family?), tells me that I must not write my memo about the speed of disbursement of the pension funds. Why not, I ask. Well, the minister doesn’t yet have all the money. Why not, I ask. She says she cannot say. Well, how do you expect me to do my job when the money isn’t available? Does she want the pensioners to cut off my head? If her father was a pensioner, how would she feel? Well, she says, if I can just delay the memo until after elections, the minister will really appreciate it.

Appreciation is really expensive in Nigeria, as you must know. So I ask how much will my appreciation be worth. She smiles. You could almost smell the experience on her tongue. It was clear she had done this business before. She says the minister will keep me in mind once he wins his election. Only a fool would sell their appreciation that cheaply. Only someone who became a Nigerian last night. I tell her that I am a strong Christian who has a lot of mouths to feed, and those mouths won’t eat a promise for mind-keeping. And right there, before I even finish talking, she produces a brown envelope that looks quite thick.

I must confess, I felt some shame for about half a second. I instantly reach out for it, open it, and eyeball the amount. If you have been in my line of work for long, you learn how to count dollars with your eyes. It is 12,000, maybe 15,000 of the best currency the earth has to offer. I look around to see if this is some sting, but even that look-around isn’t authentic. I know the honorable minister doesn’t have the reputation of playing stupid games.

I return the envelope. Appreciation is really expensive in Nigeria, as the honorable minister must know. I tell her, quite frankly, that it isn’t enough. Even if he had an interest-accruing arrangement with those funds at some bank, the interest from now till elections would be more than 100,000. So he really wants me to put my stellar career at risk for just 15%? I told you, the people leading this country are insane.

I tell her I want two, and I watch her squirm in her seat. She says she will see what she can do and texts someone on her phone. I pretend to watch some white guy start up his boat. I wonder what that must cost. After five minutes of texting furiously, she smiles and produces two envelopes. I take them and put them in my suit jacket. I now look like I have gained a couple of pounds. Thank God I had the foresight to bring my police escort here tonight.

The fact that this crazy, good-for-nothing man was willing to give me just $15,000 — or even less than that — to perpetuate this fraud just irks me to no end. I know that if he loses the elections, he will likely flee the country because there is no way he will be able to pay back all the money he took to run it. That is the thing about corruption in this country. Even the corrupt man is too selfish to hide his tracks properly. How can you be selfish with government money you stole? What kind of zoo are we living in?

That is just one story of many I can tell you about how difficult it is to get by in this country. Only God can reward their horrible actions. What can ordinary civil servants like us do about it? I just pity the poor pensioners who have to deal with this mess. Anyway, that was just a nice story to share before I get down to the work of the day. There is a document on my table I must sign before giving it to my secretary, a funny walking man whose name is Igbo, Yoruba and Hausa all at once. I sign my name on it: Benson David Adefarasin.