Night Market, Volume 1.

Dead Men's Clothes

Kasuwan dare

“How does it feel to live in dead men’s clothes?”

Chijioke turned in the direction of the voice, but there was no one there.

A throaty cackle followed, and his heart became a beating drum.

A moment later, he gathered himself and checked the toilet stalls to find out where the strange voice had come from.

He caught a chill when he discovered he was completely alone.

Could this be happening? he thought.

“I can see that you’re not very bright,” the voice scoffed.

“I… I… is… is that me?”

His eyes danced around the room. When he was a child, his mother had shown him how to respond to unfamiliar voices.

“I am talking to you, you idiot. How does it feel to live in dead men’s clothes?”

Chijioke broke into a sweat. His stomach began to churn.

His kinsmen had finally reached him with their potent juju — their plan was to strike him with madness, ruin his chances at this job interview or any job at all, and render him useless in life.

“Who are you?” Chijioke sank to his knees, pressing his palms together.
“Please do not kill me. I am the only surviving child of my poor mother.”

The voice drew in breath and laughed.

Finally, it said:

“Listen carefully. When your interview starts, tap the first button on your shirt three times.”

Then he heard his name.

“Chijioke Nwonu.”
“Chijioke Nwonu.”

He jolted awake. It was the receptionist.

“We’re ready for you,” she said, a wry smile playing on her face.

Chijioke gathered his things and followed her down the long corridor into a conference room, where two portly, bespectacled men motioned for him to sit.

The chair whined as he sank into it.

After they exchanged pleasantries, the man who introduced himself as Ayo Rashid spoke.

“So, tell us about your experience.”

Chijioke began to tell them about his days as an office manager at his last job. He took great care to exaggerate his skill set and achievements — how he was the office administrator who arrived first and was last to leave every night.

“Why did you leave your last job?” the second man, Victor Abu, asked.

Chijioke paused. He considered telling them that his former employer was a self-absorbed, lascivious prick who fed on the insecurities of others and often delayed salaries for six months at a time.

Instead, he smiled.

“I am looking for new opportunities to add value in exchange for professional and personal growth.”

Then, the question came.

“How does it feel to live in dead men’s clothes?”

Ayo Rashid had taken off his glasses. He stared into Chijioke’s soul with startling, narrowed eyes.

Chijioke rose slowly from his chair, so petrified he almost wet himself.

“What did you say?”

His hand flew to the first button on his grey pinstripe shirt — the same first-grade okrika number he had bought from the funny-looking man with the kohl-rimmed eyes. He tapped the button two more times.

Ayo Rashid exchanged a knowing look with Victor Abu.

“I said, how does it feel to be the new Operations Manager at our company?”

A beaming Ayo Rashid reached across the table for a handshake.

“Congratulations, you got the job!”

Chijioke felt dizzy as the men congratulated him.

He had great trouble believing the events of the day.

As he signed on the dotted line of his employment letter, one image played on repeat in his mind — the okrika seller at Kasuwan dare, the man with the kohl-rimmed eyes, a beguiling smile, and a gold tooth lodged in the corner of his mouth.

“Buy this one, Oga! Two-two fifty! Wash and wear!” the man had said, thrusting the once-worn Charles Denman shirt at Chijioke.
“Buy this shirt, and you will come back to thank me.”

Chijioke knew he would return to the night market.