A Beer Parlour Talk II Young man, he said, taking off the cigarette in his mouth, may I take my seat beside you? I should have shunned him at once, but for his fluent English, which as the reader would suppose, surprised me greatly, for he did not strike me as a man who understood the English word come. Yes sir, you may have your seat. I said, adjusting myself on the sofa. He smiled broadly, and took his seat opposite me. For a few moments silence prevailed, amidst the hazy puffs from his cigarette. And while the silence lasted, I seized the moment, consuming my first bottle of beer quietly. Soon, the length of his cigarette became equal to half the length of his little finger, so he quenched the cigarette, rubbing the burning top against the glassy table before us. Then, he beckoned to one of the attendants, whose ears he whispered something, and who soon returned carrying a crate of beer, which was stationed near us. My friend, the man said, disvirgining the first bottle of beer from the ordered crate. I am Engineer Amos Segun. A native of Ondo state and an Oxford graduate. Beer is my best friend, because it gives me joy, sweet joy, priceless joy, anytime I drink it. I have in the past few days observed that you sit solitarily in this corner any day you come here. Young man, if it pleases you, tell me your worries, perhaps I may render you some assistance. By now I had no doubt that this man was indeed an Oxford graduate, an Oxford engineer for that matter. Though his spoken English was an antithesis of his appearance, I believed him still. A belief which sparked off my curiousness, curiousness to want to know why an Oxford engineer would, on a Monday morning, seat down at a beer parlour, drinking and smoking away his life. I have no worries sir I answered, biting a chunk from the chicken lap in my hand. I just enjoy staying alone sometimes. Its nothing serious. Are you sure? he queried. Yes sir. A swallowing silence, which was frequently punctuated by my noisy nibbling and the knock of the bottles on the table, fell on us. This strange silence, however, was broken by me. Sir, I am Badmus Bello, I said, unsure of what else to say. But I was happy that I had broken the silence. Thats a wonderful name, he said, lighting up a cigarette he was holding between his left fingers. Badmus, that was the name of my best friend at Oxford. He was an brilliant African-American. Oh really? I asked, astonished. Elizabeth was dying in my heart gradually. Yes, he answered, the puff from his cigarette filling my nostrils, luring me to light up a stick, but I refused. Badmus, quite unfortunately died in our final year. It was an untoward experience, which I do not enjoy talking about. Oh, I said, resting my back on the sofa. I am sorry I made you talk about it. Never mind, He answered. There was a brief silence, that was desperately broken by me. The reason for my desperation was, as the reader would guess, because I fear the recarnation of Elizabeth in my heart. Engineer Amos, I said, in a rather humble voice. Where do you work? Work? he questioned, in a rather disappointed tone. I am unemployed. His response made the worms in my stomach jostle for the drop of beer I had just sipped. I wondered why an Oxford engineer, living in Nigeria, where foreign certificates are gullibly glorified, would be jobless. In my perception, it is my belief that, the joblessness of an Oxford graduate, is a task that cannot be accomplished by eighty-eight thousand powerful demons. Yet, seated opposite me, for the first time in my life, was a jobless Oxford engineer. I can clearly see the doubts on your face, Engineer Amos continued. For the past ten years I have been looking for jobs in the oil companies in Nigeria, but I have found none. Do you think it is easy to find a job in Nigeria? My boy, it is not. As a matter of fact, over the years, I have made an irrefutable submission, that looking for jobs in Nigeria, without knowing the highly influential men and women in the society, is a wild goose chase. Merit is never rewarded in the Nigerian labour market. Well, as a way of sustaining my family, I do home tutorials. And, as you should presume by now, thats why I am here at this time of the day, to drink away my sorrows. The Nigerian government is clueless, and it is my daily prayer, that your generation, unlike ours, would not be a wasted generation. By now I had consumed the two bottles of beer I was served. The pepper soup, too, was empty. Then, my gaze went to the empty bottles beneath our glassy table. I counted it, and it numbered ten. If the reader knows elementary arithmetic very well, it should occur to the reader that Engineer Amos must have emptied eight bottles to make the number ten. Being a final year student of Engineering, Enigineer Amos words about the nature of the Nigerian labour market disheatened me greatly. I had little doubt that I would suffer a worse fate than him, because I know very well that my University was about three thousand places below Oxford in world university ranking. I know how you feel, sir, I said finally, taking a deep breath. You must be a very courageous man to have escaped the torment of not finding a suitable job for nearly a decade. Perhaps, he answered, standing up to his feet staggeringly. His eyes were blood. I have to take my leave now. See you some other time. Few seconds later, the huge frame of Engineer Amos vanished into the street. I rose to my feet, though quite unsatisfied with the number of beer I had drunk, to leave. While I rose to my feet, I noticed that I had stepped on a flat plastic, so I bent down to pick it up. It was a students identity card. I brought out my glasses from my pocket, fixed it on the bridge of my nose, and observed the card closely. On the identity card was the passport photograph of Engineer Amos, with the full name: Amos Segun Saka. But to my greatest amusement, the name of the institution on the identity card was not Oxford, rather, it was Federal College of Education, Ekiadolor. And, most astonishing was the fact that the validity of the card had not elapsed. I left the beer parlour that morning, to my relief, thinking about the pseudo Engineer, instead of Elizabeth. A Short Story by G.A. Davies.
Posted on: Sun, 24 Nov 2013 12:30:11 +0000
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