Chapter 2 – Laughter Behind His Back
1717 Words
The hush left behind by Adeshewa was palpable. It stuck to the small dining room, fat and heavy, settling on Elian so he felt squashed, as if his own body was being pressed down. He scowled at the cold, congealed stew on his plate, the bright sheen of the red oil now only a stain. Zola sniffled opposite him, a tiny, gut-wrenching sound in the crushing silence. "Don't cry, baby," Elian whispered softly, his own voice breaking with unshed tears. He reached out across the table, but she flinched back a little, a movement so slight and habitual it struck like a blow. She smacked her eyes with the back of her hand, pushed back her chair, and scurried silently into the room she shared with Tobe, slamming the door behind her with a loud click. Elian was alone. The burden of the day—Bello's disdain, the forfeited bonus, Adeshewa's last, violent insult—fell on him at once. He pressed his face into his hands, fingers pinching over closed eyes until stars exploded behind them.
A scream, raw and feral, built in his throat, but he choked it back, swallowing hard until it was a hard, tormented lump in his throat.
To scream would be to accept the breakdown.
For the moment, in the numb aftermath, all he could manage to do was sit and breathe, each breath a deliberate effort.
He didn't sleep that evening. He was rigid on his side of the bed that he now occupied alone, feeling the groans of the house settling and the distant, persistent hum of the city. He replayed every word, every sneer, every shattered promise. He was a man dissecting his own corpse, and the murderer was clearly his own personality.
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Morning dawned, grey and indifferent. Preparation was ritual: dressing the dead. His one decent suit seemed to be gaping, as if his own body were shrinking away from the world. Adeshewa had left already, likely to market, a calculated avoidance. Tobe and Zola were ethereal silences at the breakfast table, shoveling food quickly, eyes averted. The distance between them was no longer inches, but light-years.
The danfo bus ride was an individual kind of hell. Sardined in the press of humanity, the reek of sweat, cheap perfume, and diesel heavy in the air, Elian accepted each jolt and bounce as a personal assault. He closed his eyes and tried to find a center of serenity, but there was only the self-contented face of Bello and the empty-eyed stare of his wife.
He arrived at the office early, a desperate attempt to regain some shred of control, some portion of the dignity stripped from him systematically. The main office space was still mostly empty, the cleaning staff having completed their rounds. The air was heavy with the distant smell of lemon-scented cleaner, a weak attempt at masking the dominant odor of ambition and decay.
He made his way to the small kitchenette in order to get a glass of water, his throat parched. He strode by the doorway and caught the sound of the usual, quiet tones of Adekunle and Chijioke. He lingered where he was, unseen, a prisoner in his own office.
.so Bello just redirected the entire bonus pool to us," Adekunle was informing him, his tone laced with self-satisfaction. "Told us we demonstrated 'strategic flexibility.' A kind way of saying we know how to get the numbers to sing the correct tune, eh, Chi?
Chijioke’s higher-pitched laugh grated on Elian’s nerves. “The man is a saint. I’m finally getting that Samsung sound system I’ve been eyeing. The wife will stop her nagging for at least a week.”
“It’s a beautiful thing,” Adekunle agreed. There was the sound of a coffee machine hissing. “A beautiful, profitable thing. It’s a shame, really.”
“What is?”
"Athen." The words were said with a sigh of affected sympathy. "The man's a living fossil. A relic. 'Honest Elian.' He's in there now, most probably polishing his principles while his children go barefoot." Elian's fists clenched at his sides. His fingernails dug into the palms of his hands. Chijioke snorted. "Not only foolish, he's a boastful fool. He thinks his misery is a virtue. It's a pathology. I heard from Kemi in HR that his wife is looking for work. What do you think? After all his bragging about being the breadwinner, his woman has to go out and solicit work. The shame would kill a true man." A real man would have adapted," Adekunle explained, his voice becoming philosophical, preachy. "This is Lagos, Chi. You do not fight the tide. You do not build a house of stone in a swamp. You build a raft, and you take what the river provides. Elian is trying to build a cathedral on quicksand. It's not heroic.
It's stupidity.".
He's the man too holy for money, and look where his piety has taken him.
To the brink of poverty. The words, so aptly encapsulating their contempt, hit like a poisoned dart to the heart of Elian. The man is too holy for wealth. It was his epitaph, written by the men whose prosperity had been bought at his cost. He couldn't move. He couldn't turn back, and he couldn't turn forward. Standing up to them meant admitting to eavesdropping, making a spectacle that would merely prove his own reputation as hysterical, erratic failure for them. Leaving seemed a surrender so complete it would destroy what remained of him. So he stood, frozen, a shame sculpture, with the soundtrack of his own destruction echoing in his ears. Their laughter opened up again, one more time, this time rich and deeper, fueled by their own humor and the shared promise of their ill-gotten bonuses.
It was a cruel, braying sound which appeared to physically shake in the chill corridor, each peal a hammer blow stripping away at his soul.
He felt a shiver begin in his right hand, a fine, uncontrollable tremble of pure, distilled rage.
The boulder in his throat tightened, and pressure began to build behind his eyes, a headache of titanic proportions.
For a fleeting moment, the flickering fluorescent tube in the hallway didn't whine; it strobed, flooding the world in a series of jolting, frozen images. In that imperfect instant, he could have sworn he saw something—numbers, symbols, a row of ghostly green text flashing at the corner of his eye like a ghost heads-up display. A voice, cold and entirely devoid of emotion, seemed to whisper a single word directly into his cortex: "Scanning."
He stumbled away, fighting tears. The vision was gone. The noise was gone. All that was left was the pounding in his head and the fading sound of his colleagues' laughter from the kitchen. He had to hold it back. He turned and sprinted to his cubicle, his heart pounding against his chest like a trapped bird.
He spent the rest of the morning in a daze, the words "the man too holy for wealth" repeating in his mind. Every step of Adekunle or Chijioke in his cubicle was a deliberate taunt. He tried to focus on his work, on the tidy, precise sweeps of numbers that had always been his haven, but the numbers twirled in front of him, futile and idiotic.
By lunch, he could not bear it anymore. He needed to breathe. He needed to be somewhere, anywhere, other than some place that reeked of betrayal. He stood up and made his way to the main door, eyes fixed ahead.
He was passing by the large printer stand when he spotted them. Adekunle and Chijioke were huddled over a printed spreadsheet, heads together. When Elian caught up beside them, Adekunle looked up. A slow, wide smile spread across his face.
"Elian! Just the guy. We were just talking about the departmental bonus allocation. Quirky, your name seems to be left out. Clerical error, I'm sure."
He unfolded the paper. Elian's eyes fell of their own accord to the page. There, in black and white, were the names. Adekunle. Chijioke. Others. The names were big. Beside his own was a cold, empty dash.
Chijioke smiled. "Maybe next quarter, eh, Elian? If you play your cards right.".
It was the final, calculated cruelty. They had not been content with simply stealing from him and mocking him behind his back; they had to show off their victory, to rub his nose in his own poverty.
Elian looked away from Adekunle's grinning face to Chijioke's laughing one. The scream he had been bulging with all night and all morning finally let out, but inward only, a silent blast that convulsed the final shreds of his self-control. He was aware of feeling a c***k inside himself, a dam holding a black ocean of hopelessness.
He smiled. The most difficult thing he'd ever done. A tense, cracked prying of lips that looked as if they could split his face open.
"Thanks for showing me around," he said, his voice artificially serene. "I hope the sound equipment is worth the cost."
He turned and departed, leaving them somewhat surprised, their contempt interrupted momentarily by his failure to respond as they had expected. With every pace toward the door, the headache inside his head became worse. The universe began to tilt, the outer rim of his vision darkening as if a curtain were being pulled across.
He burst from the air-conditioned office building and into the blistering Lagos noon. The sun was an unforgiving, white-hot disk in the sky, but he felt cold, cold to the bone. The honking of cars, the shouting of market vendors, the raw cacophony of the city itself—it all became one great, deafening roar.
He stumbled, clutching at his head. The ethereal voice returned, no longer a whisper but a pealing, unmistakable bell, as if the knell of a bell from his soul.
Betrayal Registered: Social & Professional. Magnitude: High.
Integrity Logged: Under Extreme Duress. Purity: Uncompromised.
System of Moral Equilibrium. Awakening.
Elian dropped to his knees on the hot, dirty sidewalk, unseen by the hurrying crowds. He was no longer that innocent fool. He was a receptacle, broken and empty, and something gigantic and resplendent was beginning to fill him.
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- Writer
