Free Wheel

The sound of honking cars hit Kofi with the heavy waft of gasoline vapors. He rolled the window back up and shifted behind the steering wheel. Even with the buttons of his khaki uniform undone, he still felt the overwhelming heat trace its way down his neck and steadily form two yellow puddles under each of his armpits. But he dared not touch the blue monitor control panel to turn on the air conditioner. His muscles still tensed when he thought back on the resounding slap from Mr. Korede after he had kept the air conditioner on for too long. “Mr. Kofi,” he had threatened afterwards, “if you care to act like an Alahji, you can start looking for another job.” When he drove out of the compound that day and gave a half-hearted nod to the usual guards at the front gates, he had thought that maybe he would.

He wiped his sweaty brows with the back of his hand and fidgeted uncomfortably in his drenched uniform. If his wife could see him right now, she would give quite the disapproving glare. Even at four months pregnant she could still be intimidating. He had wanted to get a new uniform a few months ago, before Miriam surprised him with the news, but with an expanding family, every CFA counted. She would make a good mother he knew, and he wanted to be a good father. At times like this, he wished that things could be as easy as his brother sending him money from the States. But from the resentful way in which his brother had sounded when they had last talked, he doubted things would ever be that easy. “Abeg fofo, there are beggars everywhere,” Adama had curtly said before abruptly hanging up.

Looking down the line of bumper-to-bumper cars in front of him, he frustratingly beat his fingers against the steering wheel, and turned on the radio to the news station. With the impending election, a mob of people had gathered in front of the Municipal Building. The anchorman described the protesters as “angrily gesticulating and waving signposts”. Although he sympathized with the choir of angry “Prime Minister Alongo must go!”, coming from the radio, he was more concerned about time. Agbobada bridge was already infamous for its long-winded congestion and redoubtable gasoline consumption, and a demonstration in front of the building would only delay him. In the rearview mirror, he watched the long slithering body of misshapen cars until his eyes eventually rested on the red bag in the back seat. He had delivered that bag to Mr. Korede many times before, but today was the first time Kofi knew of its contents.

It was not unusual for the Councilman to ask his driver to bring something to his office. Mr. Korede's weekly forgetfulness was somewhat of a running joke between Kofi and the municipal guards whom Kofi did not mind indulging. They often chuckled as he drove back to the gates, having dropped off the Councilman only a few hours before. "Forgot something?" they often asked with an amused smile. “When does he not?”, he would mutter with feigned annoyance. But Kofi knew better. Mr. Korede was not forgetful, he simply did not trust anyone.

At the end of the day, on the drive back home, Kofi knew to remain silent as the Councilman opened his briefcase and took out his little black book. Behind his line riddled face and furrowed brows Kofi saw a man utterly preoccupied with his task. Maybe that is why Kofi had decided to glimpse into the little black book a few days before, when he had found it wedged between the back seat and the car door. If the Councilman carried insider knowledge only reserved to a select few, then the book would hold the answers. The thought was half-baked at best when he opened the book to the last entry. When he shut it close, Kofi gravely understood the difference that a few minutes could make. It was the difference between absent-mindedly vacuuming a car and stumbling upon a coup. The Councilman and three of his colleagues were in league to assassinate the Prime Minister before the impending election.

He was startled by the shrill voice of a woman reaching him in shortwaves. She could have easily been one of the many market women straddling her newborn, haggling prices with unrelenting customers, trying to make ends meet. Like many of the protesters, she had tired of years of empty promises and crumbling infrastructure under the Prime Minister. But if the unpopularity of the Prime Minister was resoundingly apparent in the clamor of voices outside the walls of the building, then it was deceptively quiet inside. Ten years in office had only made him more audacious. He was no longer satisfied in accepting bribes from the Councilmen; he had moved on to blackmailing and extorting them, and a sum of ten million CFA, or twenty thousand dollars, seemed a good enough starting point. Traffic slowly eased, and he buttoned his shirt, tapped the blue monitor, and turned on the air conditioner.

Half an hour later, after a long-winded traffic jam, he drove off the bridge. The road opened before him, into the chaos of the city. The familiar half tarred streets lined with trees, vending stalls, and mismatched drab buildings were a welcomed sight. Zemi drivers zig-zagged to avoid potholes on their motor scooters, some carrying precariously ill-balanced passengers or cargo behind them. He slowed down and turned onto the marketplace, but the normally bustling stalls and lively streets were relatively quiet. Driving past rows of empty stalls, the only sound he could make out came from the radio. The anchorman was hardly audible against the backdrop of chanting protesters. The broken-down cobblestones of the marketplace eventually gave way to well-paved streets, and Kofi turned off the radio. A turn and a few gated driveways down later, he came upon the protesters.

The clamor of indignant voices reached him before he could see the sheer number of people angrily gesticulating and waving signposts. For a moment, he wondered if he should turn back. His eyes frantically searched for a way through the crowd in front of him until he caught a flash of red leather in the rearview mirror, then put a steady foot on the gas pedal. With the continuous beeping of the horn, he parted his way through the crowd, ignoring the jeers until he made his way to the front gates. The guards fumbled to open the gates as they saw the familiar car approach, and hurriedly waved him in while trying to keep protesters at bay. The gates promptly shut behind him.

As he followed the path down well-manicured lawns and lush palm trees, he passed the white façade, drove across the compound, and parked near the back entrance. He turned off the engine and forced himself into a willed and deliberate breathing, aware of his racing pulse. He retrieved the red leather bag and stepped out of the car. A vicious barking sound reached him from across the compound. A commotion had broken out. Two of the guards had tackled a protester who had managed to sneak into the compound and held him at gunpoint. The rest scurried around with guard dogs, looking for others who might have broken in. He opened the back door, but not before holding the wide-eyed gaze of the man crouching behind the car, then stepped in.

Kofi’s steps were steady. He could walk up the familiar flights of stairs with eyes closed. Instead, he focused on the rays of sunlight that pierced through the overhead windows and rested on the grey slabs. Below him, at the bottom of the stairway, he heard the faint sound of a door open then close, and smiled. The climb was longer than usual, and the red leather bag weighed heavy in his hands. When he finally reached the fifth floor, he stopped and decisively opened the bag, peered inside, then zipped it close. He turned a corner, walked down a hallway, opened the door to the Councilman’s office, and walked in. Mr. Korede looked up from his desk, mildly startled. He seemed unbothered by the commotion outside. “It took you long enough Kofi,” he gravely said before returning his attention to the documents in front of him. “Leave the bag on the chair,” he added, motioning to one of the three chairs facing his desk, “then wait for me in the car. I should be done in a few hours.”. Kofi closed the door behind him and dropped the bag.

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Time is relative, he thought as the bag weighed heavy in his hands. He gravely understood the difference that a few minutes could make. Rays of sunlight still cut across the stairway and his pulse still raced, but the descent was easier, and the bag felt lighter. Outside, the sound of barking dogs and chanting protesters saturated the air. The protest had gained traction. He paused on a step to look out of a window, and for a brief moment, a flash of red caught the light and glistened on his cheek.