If Bade chilled, took one two three seconds to look, he’d see that no part of that day made brain. First, he slept through his alarm, which meant he missed his carpool. Then his Uber driver, a man who was all teeth and forehead, lacked the vim necessary to ply Lagos traffic. Of course the AC was faulty, and with the windows down (Oga, I hope you don’t mind) they slugged from Surulere through Eko Bridge to Victoria Island, danfo fumes choking and trailer horns grating; two hours, for a journey that would have taken thirty minutes had he woken thirty minutes earlier. Pim, Bade didn’t say, his arms folded as the man jabbered on.
And who was there when Bade arrived at the office? An executive manager. Lateness was one thing, but forgetting to comb his hair? At your age, the manager said. A grown man like you. He spent the rest of the day sitting with shoulders hunched in shame, replying to complaints of failed transactions—and, Jesus, did they come, the complaints, as if every ATM in the city had decided to refuse cash but debit customers all the same. Bade skipped lunch, typed away on his keyboard, peppered his anguished apologies with clichés. [ . . . ]
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