Back To Basics And Other Stories

After being out of work for so long, it seemed like the perfect job. Well, to be honest, in my situation any job would be the perfect job. Things had been hard since I was made redundant from BJ Horner and Associates, an architectural practice in Sheffield. At the age of fifty-seven, I was considered too old and not even the sniff of a job had come my way in the four months I had been out of work. Two interviews, just two interviews in all that time and there had been no follow-up from either. Most times I never even got an acknowledgement of my application. We had mortgage payment arrears, our savings had disappeared, our credit cards were maxed to the limit and we were about to go under. The stress on Mary and me was intolerable. And then the recruitment agency rang with a job offer, a life-saver. The job was to take over and manage the Zunguna office of Dabakala Architects in the tiny West African state of Obaganya. I looked up Obaganya on the internet. It is a narrow strip of a country squeezed between Nigeria and Ghana, straddling both sides of the River Obagan. Zunguna is in the far north of the country, as far to the north as you can go, some four hundred miles from the capital, Obagan City, in the oil-rich delta of the river. Mary was not so sure about the job, but I overrode her objections. ‘The money is really good. Even after the local tax, we should be able to bank a fair proportion. We can get back on our feet again, put some money aside.’ ‘But is it safe?’ ‘Of course it is, it used to be a British colony.’ ‘Thirty years ago, maybe. Things change, there’s been a civil war since then. And a famine!’ ‘Yeah, but now they’ve found oil. Oceans of oil. It’s going to be the richest country in West Africa.’ ‘I don’t know David, really I don’t. We’re risking everything.’ I did the sums again. With a two-year contract and an end of contract bonus, we could begin to get straight again. And hopefully, the contract might be extended beyond the two years. We could pay off all our debts, be solvent again and maybe move to a better house. I signed a copy of the contract and posted it off again. After some weeks of worry, I finally got the confirmation from the employment agency and arranged to fly out to Obaganya. I would go ahead of Mary; she would follow on after a few weeks, once I had got things settled. The agency advised I would have to purchase my own ticket, something to do with currency exchange regulations which made it difficult for the employer to send the ticket, but the cost would be refunded as soon as I got there. I showed the bank my contract, and on the strength of future earnings I was able to extend my overdraft and buy the ticket and $2,000 in travellers’ cheques to tide me over until my first salary payment. (I had read that apart from the National Bank of Obanganya, credit card transactions are virtually unknown and nearly all business is conducted by cheque or cash.) If you have a choice, I would suggest you do not fly Obagan Airways. The Boeing 707 was old and dirty, the seats stained, and the only food offered for the entire flight was two hard-boiled eggs. A small can of local Obaganian beer cost £8 and ‘Sorry,’ the stewardess said, ‘no change for £10 note.’ Obagan International Airport was a shock. Noisy, filthy and chaotic. The air-conditioning wasn’t working and by the time I got to Customs and Immigration, I felt like a piece of steamed fish. ‘You got pounds? Dollar?’ asked the Currency control officer, who wore mirror sunglasses even though half of the lights in the arrivals hall were unlit. I had declared my dollars on the Customs form and wondered why he was asking. ‘Yes, $2,000, in traveller’s cheques.’ ‘Must change to Quiera, local money, it is the law.’ I had to sign my traveller’s cheques and stand by as he disappeared with my money. After fifteen anxious minutes, he returned and thrust a handful of grubby, dog-eared notes at me. I counted them; at Q1270 to the dollar, I knew I should have got about Q2,540,000. I counted the notes again; Q2,385,005, about $120 short. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘there seems to be some mistake. There should be more than two and a half million Quiera?’ ‘Commission!’ he snapped, brooking no argument. ‘Finished here, go to Health counter.’ I had had all my vaccinations before leaving England; cholera, yellow fever, etc., but my vaccination certificates were declared ‘invalid’. I was fined Q25,000. The Health official put the money in his pocket and then stamped my certificates. ‘Immigration desk,’ he said, pointing to the left. There, my visa was declared ‘out of date’ even though it had only been issued ten days ago by the Obaganya Embassy in London. Another ‘fine’ which, like the others, went directly into his pocket. At this rate, I would have no money left before I even got out of Arrivals. I eventually found my suitcase; it had been thrown into a corner and one of the locks had been torn off. As I picked up the suitcase, I was accosted by three or four porters, jostling with each other for my custom. I would have rather carried it myself except that a sign by the carousel read: Porters must be used for the carrying out of luggage, Q25,000 for transgression. Porters must be used for the carrying out of luggage, Q25,000 for transgressionWith a sigh of resignation, I pointed to the cleanest-looking of the porters and made my way to Customs. My bags were opened and a pair of trousers, a rather nice new shirt and my toiletries were confiscated as ‘banned items’. I was too tired to argue. In any case, if I made a fuss, it would likely only have made matters worse. More ‘fines’! As we made our way of Arrivals, I was surrounded by a mob of yelling taxi drivers. ‘Taxi, taxi, good taxi!’ they shouted, jostling me, taking my arms to drag me this way or that. In the melee I lost sight of my porter. Somebody tried to drag my carry-on bag from me, but I held on tight. I was supposed to be met by my employers, but I could not see anyone holding up a card with my name on. Then I saw my porter and suitcase disappearing rapidly down the forecourt. I tried to follow but was hemmed in by the jostling cabbies. My suitcase was tossed into the back of a car, followed by the porter and the car sped away. I shouted and yelled but to no avail. I wanted to report the theft but the armed policeman at the airport doors would not allow me to go back in again. ‘Go to police in Obagan City,’ he insisted. ‘Robbery take place outside airport, not a matter for airport police,’ and he waved me away. Then I heard my name being called and a short Obaganian waved a piece of cardboard with an approximation of my name, David Harrison, scrawled on it. ‘Joseph, Administration Manager,’ he announced proudly, showing me gleaming white teeth. ‘Sorry not here before but the aeroplane was too early.’ ‘Early? It was two hours late!’ ‘Yes, too early. Normally it is four hours late.’ I told him about the theft of my suitcase. ‘Yes,’ he said, totally unconcerned, ‘all porters are teeth-men.’ He had no idea how I might recover it, ‘Police, I must report it to the police.’ ‘Police no good, police teeth-men. They take dash from you, dash from porter but do nothing.’ ‘Dash?’ ‘Money, you know, for police time.’ ‘Bribe? You mean a bribe?’ ‘Bribe. Dash. All the same.’ Everything in Obagan City was crumbling. The roads, the buildings… it smelled of sewage and cooking. All along the roads into the city centre, Obaganian woman squatted in front of stalls in which nameless things bubbled away in rancid oil. The journey was a nightmare of thick smoke, choking diesel fumes and endless traffic jams perpetuated in a cacophony of blaring horns and shouts. Eventually, we reached the Hotel Splendid, named by somebody with a mordant sense of humour. I was to stay here until my transfer to Zunguna. ‘You must pay for room in advance,’ Joseph said. ‘Me? My contract says that accommodation is provided.’ ‘Yes. We provide, you pay.’ ‘No, no, no,’ I insisted, taking my copy of the contract out of my bag. ‘Look,’ I pointed out. ‘Accommodation will be provided free of charge by the employer.’ Accommodation will be provided free of charge by the employerIn turn, Joseph pulled out a copy of the contract. In his copy the words free of charge had been crossed out in black felt tip pen. free of charge‘You can’t just change a contract like this; changes have to be mutually agreed!’ ‘Yes. Yes of course, Mr Dabakala has mutually agreed this change.’ ‘I will discuss this with Mr Dabakala when I see him tomorrow.’ ‘Mr Dabakala is out of country. Do not know when he will return.’ There was no point in arguing any further with Joseph. ‘I come nine o’clock, we go to office,’ and he climbed back into the taxi as I entered the hotel, trying to ignore the smell of something pungent wafting from a door behind the reception desk. It took ten minutes before anyone deigned to come and see who was ringing the bell on the desk. A man in grubby white trousers and a crimson bell-boy jacket finally emerged, scratching at his crotch as he did so. ‘What you want, eh, man?’ he asked grumpily. I explained that there should be a booking for me arranged by Dabakala Architects. It was as if I had asked him to perform rectal surgery on himself with a blunt spoon as, with great ill-grace, he checked the reservations file before grunting, ‘Room 240, Q33,000 plus Q5,000 late arrival tax.’ I paid the Q33,000 but refused to pay Q5,000 ‘late arrival tax’. I had only been in Obaganya for a few hours, but I was learning how things worked and I knew that the extra cash would go straight into his pocket. After some argument, he finally produced the room key and pointed to the stairs. ‘No lift?’ I enquired. ‘Out of order.’ And at that, he went back through the door behind the desk. When I got to the room, I found there were no sheets on the bed, the bedside phone did not work, and I was too tired to go back downstairs to ask for some. I rinsed my face in tepid, rather brown-looking water, crawled under the mosquito net and flopped exhausted onto the bed, too tired to worry about the cockroaches that roamed across every surface. Next morning, I tried to phone Mary, but predictably, the phones were ‘out of order’. It was nearer ten o’clock than nine when Joseph turned up, unconcerned by his lateness. I was to learn that time-keeping is a relative concept in Obaganya. The offices of Dabakala Associates were housed on the fourth floor of a six-storey office block about a quarter of a mile from the hotel. Due to the traffic jams it would have been quicker to walk, but the heat was sticky and oppressive There was a power cut in the office block, and I was to learn that the ONPC, Obanganya National Power Company, was frequently known as ‘Often Never Power Coming’. When we arrived at the office after walking up the stairs, the receptionist was asleep at her desk and woke with a start when Joseph kicked the front of her desk. ‘Blossom, show Mr Harrison a desk,’ he said and marched off down the corridor. Blossom, her hair elaborately braided on top of her head (to demonstrate that she was too important to carry water jugs on her head like village girls do), reluctantly got to her feet, led me down the opposite corridor to an open-plan office and pointed to an empty desk in the far corner. Five or six draughtsmen looked up from their desks, sort of nodded at me and carried on with their work. Nobody seemed to know what to do with me. I asked Blossom where Joseph’s office was, but she told he was too busy to see me that day. I sat at the desk for the best part of three weeks, twiddling my thumbs with nothing to do. I was not allowed to see any of the drawings or details of any projects that Dabakala Architects might be engaged on, as ‘only Mr Dabakala could authorise that’. Nobody could tell me anything about the office in Zunguna, where I was supposed to be stationed, except to say it was very hot there. When I did get to see Joseph, he would not discuss the refund of my air ticket – ‘only Mr Dabakala could authorise that’ – and nobody could say when he might return. My Quiera were rapidly diminishing and I was forced to visit the Obanganya National Bank to withdraw money on my badly bruised credit card. Fortunately, I had negotiated an increase in my overdraft, but I was getting severely concerned about the situation. I did manage to call Mary from the telephone company’s office (private calls not being permitted at Dabakala Architects). The line was poor and crackly, and I tried to gloss over my worries, but I could tell from her voice that although she was not saying ‘I told you so,’ it was implicit in her tone. Robert Dabakala finally returned but he was ‘too busy’ to see me. Eventually, after another three long days, I was called into his office. He was a tall, distinguished-looking man with prominent tribal scars on each cheek, dressed immaculately in a dark blue suit with a barely discernible stripe, white shirt and dark red tie. ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded brusquely as soon as I entered. ‘I’ve come to work for you, to manage your Zunguna officee,’ I stammered, shocked at his tone of voice. ‘The job is cancelled. You should not be here.’ ‘Cancelled? Since when?’ ‘Since when I say it is. The University of Zunguna project is cancelled and so there is no job. You must go back. You should not be here.’ ‘I have a contract, a contract signed by you,’ I said, waving it at him. ‘The contract is cancelled. There is no contract.’ ‘I… I bought my ticket, paid for my hotel all this time… it has cost me a great deal of money to come here.’ ‘That is not my concern’ ‘What about my salary for the time I have been here, in your office?’ ‘If there is no job, then there is no salary.’ ‘My ticket, all my costs. What about them?’ I was getting angry now. ‘Recover them from the agency, they should not have sent you. Joseph wrote and told them the job was cancelled. This is not my concern.’ ‘Joseph has said nothing to me about the job being cancelled!’ ‘Joseph!’ he shouted. ‘Come here. Quickly!’ Joseph scurried in, looking terrified. ‘You wrote to the agency in England to cancel this job, didn’t you?’ ‘Yes, yes, of course, Mr Dabakala sir.’ I could tell from his darting eyes that he was lying, it was obviously the first he had heard of the ‘cancellation’, but he was not going to risk his job on my behalf. ‘You see,’ said Dabakala, ‘it is a matter for the agency. Take it up with them.’ ‘I… my accommodation costs Q33,000 a day for three weeks or more,’ I demanded, determined to try and recover at least some money, but I sounded weak and defensive, without dignity. ‘Once again,’ he answered smoothly, ‘this is not my concern. You are here as a tourist. Please leave before I call security.’ Joseph took my arm and practically dragged me out of Dabakala’s office. I never got to see him again. Or Joseph. The following day I was deported, as Immigration Police escorted me to the airport, barely allowing me time to pack my meagre belongings. My few remaining Quiera were ‘confiscated’ as it was ‘against the law’ to take Obanganian currency out of the country and the airport currency exchange bureau was ‘closed down’, even though I could clearly see it was not. I witnessed the police blatantly dividing my money between them and I was then marched across the tarmac to the plane. Of course, the agency knew nothing about any cancellation of the job and refused my claims; in fact they were out of pocket themselves as Dabakala had refused to pay the agency fee. Our debts were now crippling, and we lost the house. Mary left me to go and live with our daughter Sarah, blaming me for all our troubles. I had no option but to declare myself bankrupt and I now drive a taxi. Mary and I are trying to reconcile, but it will take a while. But I’m hopeful. As for Obaganya and Dabakala Architects, it really did seem like the perfect job at the time. Author’s note: I did actually go and work in West Africa as an architect, but I am glad to say that our experience in Nigeria was very different from David Harrison’s. Author’s note: I did actually go and work in West Africa as an architect, but I am glad to say that our experience in Nigeria was very different from David Harrison’s.Author’s note: