Biggie was the longest-serving staff member at Octavius Agency. He had gotten the job a year before the pandemic, when he was still a student. The plan back then was to work with Octavius for a month or two and find something in healthcare, but a little over two years down the line, Biggie was still here—hi-vis jacket covered in soft dust, sweat-greased forehead creased as he hefted boxes off waiting trailers.

Biggie’s real name was Ahamefuna Okoro. Unable to pronounce his name, one of the shift leaders had taken to calling him ‘Hammy,’ a name that suited his six-foot-three 250-pound frame but also fulfilled the warning his real name carried. To the other Nigerians in the warehouse, he was Biggie, a hardworking man with a kind heart and a sharp sense of humor.

“It took me three months to understand this country’s system for immigrants,” Biggie announced, as he squatted to pick three 24-pack cartons of Budweiser at once. There was a certain elegance to Biggie’s movements that were at odds with his size. Like a dancer, each movement was controlled, economical, and efficient, flowing effortlessly into the other. Back still straight, he stood and headed towards the plastic Euro pallet at the mouth of the trailer.

“Darry, nwanne m. Pick with your glutes, not your back,” Biggie called as Darry picked two beer cartons. “Dey squat as you dey pick. That way, your strength no go finish fast and your back no go remove head for government.”
Darry laughed, “No problem, my Oga.” He corrected his form and followed the invisible footsteps Biggie had left. Biggie waited as Darry stacked his cases atop his, and the duo made the journey back into the trailer.
“Anyway,” Biggie continued, “after I discovered their system, I developed my own formula.”
Darry frowned as he lifted another case. “When you say system, what do you mean?”
Biggie’s laughter was a comprehensive affair, each part of his body echoing with the effects of the sound waves. “Short version: there is no plan for you and me.”

Biggie lifted two cases and started walking. Darry followed suit.
“We are just expected to pay school fees and feed the system,” Biggie continued, breathing heavily. “Then, after a master’s—that you probably don’t need or only took because of the hope of settlement—they shoot you back into your shithole country. GIGO.”
“Garbage in, Garbage Out,” Darry supplied, frowning as he contemplated Biggie’s words.

For the first time since he left Nigeria, Darry wondered if he had made the right decision. America was notoriously hard to get into. Germany had been an option, but the language was as hardy and as unrelenting as the cars they produced. The UK, with its fired-brick buildings, teeming Nigerian population, and use of a familiar language, seemed attainable. Looking down at stained jeans and scuffed work boots, Darry wasn’t so sure anymore.

They stacked the beer cases on the pallet. Then, Darry handed Biggie the cling film and watched with vacant eyes as the latter zipped round the pallet, large body taut with controlled energy as he wrapped the stacked items.
“But there is still the option of sponsorship, na. Once you get sponsored work, na just to bend head work am until you get ILR,” Darry announced, regurgitating words he had heard others spew, feeding on them like a newborn chick.
Biggie guffawed, stopping to catch his breath. “If those people tell you the shege wey them dey see in those places, eh! They treat you like a slave, like tissue paper. Them go use you sote nothing go remain. E get one of my guys wey get care sponsorship for Northampton. Every time wey e call na so so complain. Him contract na 40 hours weekly, but na 72 hours e dey work.”
“Why?”
Biggie shrugged. “Them dey sponsor am so them dey use am like rag. If normal staff cancel without warning, they call him.”
“E no fit refuse?”
Biggie shook his head, causing the jowls underneath his goatee to wobble. “Nope. The one time he did, the manager threatened to stick him with a safeguarding case and call Home Office. My guy get wife and two pikin, plus na him dey support his family for Nigeria. So e dey bear am.”
Darry exhaled. This was a lot.

“So how does one avoid this?”
Biggie’s eyes narrowed. “By working with the system instead of against it. They want you out latest two or three years after your study. So, you work towards that. Gather money go elsewhere.”
Darry turned around Biggie’s words in his mind until they bonded with his cells. “So, is that your plan?”
Biggie nodded. “Na why I no find proper work. At least here, I’m paid for what I do. No stories. No payment to the taxman. All my money na my own. Work my 84 hours per week, pocket my 1008 dey go.”
“1008? Them no dey collect handling fees?”
“They used to until I change am for that wild animal wey dem they call Karim. Until e come follow us dey throw carton, he no get right to dey collect my money.”
Darry nodded. “Be like say I go do the same thing.”

The two men continued working, one in contented silence, the other pensive and agitated. If a settled future—with the freedom to work anywhere and without the mental moneymatics that preceded spending—was nothing but a mirage, what the hell was he doing here? Everyone made it seem like a sponsored job was the ticket to a happy life. But what if it wasn’t? Maybe Biggie was wrong. There had to be humane places that sponsored work visas. Maybe Biggie was trying to justify his own inability to get sponsorship.

“Why didn’t you look for sponsorship?”
Biggie didn’t stop working. “I did. When I first came, it was easy to get sponsored work because people no too much. To even get office work with post-study no hard like that, but as people come plenty, things come tight.” He wiped his brow and approached a wrapped pallet of diapers. He took out a penknife from his pocket and cut into the thick membrane of cellophane, brows furrowed, a surgeon intent on preserving the precious innards of his subject. The pallet yawned open. Biggie smiled as the diapers tumbled out, each bearing the luminous face of a smiling infant.
“I search sote I tire. Even when I had only 3 weeks left on my student visa, I continued searching. I did not want to dash the government £1,950 in the name of post-study, but e nwekanu m choice? All the places I was seeing were requesting £4,000 to sponsor me, and there was no assurance they’d even give me shifts.”
“4k?” Darry asked, incredulity raising his voice various octaves.

A manager peeked into the trailer, “You boys alright?”
Darry and Biggie nodded.
The manager smiled. “Super. You do know you are paid to work, not chat?”
Darry opened his mouth to reply, but Biggie was faster. “We work with our hands, not our mouths, mate. There’s such a thing as workplace camaraderie. It builds team spirit and improves performance.” Biggie smiled, “If that’s all, we’d like to return to our work now.” Underneath the sheath of politeness, there was a bite to Biggie’s words. He had truly mastered the British way of life.
The manager swallowed, the tips of his ears red as he hurried away.

Biggie turned to Darry and smiled, “You gats dey change am for this people once once. Else them go think say they go fit use your brain drink garri. Anyway, me I no dey find sponsored work again.”
“But don’t you think having UK professional experience will help you?”
Biggie snorted. “Na so. Office job wey go dey pay me £2,000 per month before tax after stressing my life? I no do abeg. I like where I dey.” He scooped up an armful of diapers and dumped them into an enormous cardboard box. Darry followed suit.
“I dey learn Quality Assurance and Data Analytics on the side. The people wey dey organize the course promise me say them go help me secure remote tech job for America.” Biggie paused to catch his breath, wiped his face and neck with a tartan hanky. Despite the pervasive chill of the warehouse, he was sweating from the exertion and the speed at which he worked.

Stuffing his kerchief into his pocket, Biggie looked over both shoulders before retrieving his phone. Moving closer to Darry, he opened his gallery. Darry watched wide-eyed as Biggie showed him the progress of his family house through a carousel of pictures.
“I dey send like £2,500 monthly,” Biggie said, his smile wide and proud. “My uncle them bin dey laugh us say my papa die and e no build better house. Now wey I dey here, as my Papa first son, I wan build the one wey Ukehe people never see.” He swiped in quick succession and finally stopped at a picture of an imposing manor-style duplex. “This is how it will look when it is finished,” Biggie announced, panting slightly. “The only thing wey remain na roofing, painting, and interlock. Oh, and plumbing too. This week and next week money suppose cover am.”
Darry looked from Biggie to the picture, slowly recalibrating his goals.

***

Although they detested his guts, the managers at Octavius loved Biggie’s work ethic. He arrived half an hour before the shift started. When there was more to be done, Biggie, panting but smiling, was always the first to volunteer for overtime.
“I wish I had like ten of you, Hammy,” moaned Karim as he handed Biggie his payment. “My life would be so much easier.”
“If there were ten of me here,” Biggie replied, face devoid of emotion, “we’d be running the place, not you, mate. Oh, and it’s Aham, not Hammy.”
Karim swallowed, shifted in his chair. “Course. Sorry about that.”
This was their little ritual every payday, a small cruelty Karim performed with clockwork precision.
Karim smiled. “I’d remember next time, A-Ham.” The energy between the two was voltaic. Biggie’s palms clenched into fists beside his pockets. Darry reached out and held his arm, tightly enough to restrain but lightly enough to appear friendly. The tension deflated, and Biggie walked away, muttering under his breath.

Darry approached Karim. “Larry, my man.”
Darry rolled his eyes. “It’s Darry. Daraima.”
Karim laughed. “You Africans and your names! Always a mouthful! Anyways, here’s yours.” He handed Darry the white envelope that had become the highlight of his Fridays.
Darry turned to leave when Karim called,  a gleam in his eyes. “Ah ah ah! I forgot to take the handling fees.”
Darry opened his coat, made a show of pocketing the money. “I can handle my own money, mate. Cheers.”
A flush crept up Karim’s gaunt visage. “Course you can. See you around, Harry.”
Darry’s smile was bloodless. “You too, Kazeem.” Darry smiled into his chest as Karim’s face turned beet red at the misnomer.

***

The bus ground to a halt, and people trickled out, faces cold-stung, breaths steaming the air as they hurried homewards. A hand shoved Darry out of his dream. Consciousness came in slices, and with it, the sound of Ola’s voice and more pushing,
“Egbon, we don reach interchange o.”
Darry looked at Ola, eyes red from slumber and narrowed in irritation. He shut his eyes again as Ola stood and adjusted his clothes, listening to the arrhythmia of footsteps punctuated with gruff “thank yous” as people left the bus.

At Ola’s, “I go leave you comot o!” Darry stood and stretched. Behind him, Biggie was sleeping silently, the windowpane pillowing his large head. A white streak of dried spittle running onto his cheek and hairline like a giant whisker. Ola looked at Biggie, then at Darry. The two men burst out laughing. This was a tradition at this point. Biggie, the tireless, the man who could only ever sleep in a moving bus or train.

Ola moved to Biggie and shook him. “Big Boss, we don reach o.” Biggie did not stir. Ola’s eyes moved from amusement to worry and finally trepidation at Biggie’s unresponsiveness. Darry looked on, heart thundering in his chest.
“Move over,” ordered a crisp voice behind the two men. They both turned. It was the driver. He had shut the bus doors, effectively damming the growing sea of impatient passengers. He grabbed Biggie’s palm, inspected the Primark gloves that Biggie favored. They were frayed from age and numerous washes. He slid them off. Underneath, Biggie’s fingers were sturdy, square-tipped nail beds sporting gentle gray streaks. He flipped the palm over—it was pale and blue-hued—and felt for a pulse. Ola and Darry waited, hearts racing, eyes blinking with tentative hope.
“Shit,” muttered the bus driver. “Sorry, boys. He’s gone.”
Ice flooded Darry’s blood. “Gone as in dead?”
Driver nodded, then muttered, “Fuck it. Just one more run, and I’d have been done for the day. Now, I have to spend the next few hours filling out incident reports and paperwork.”
There was an edge to Ola’s voice as he asked, “You sure this one no dey mad so? Person die e dey complain about paperwork.”
Darry gave Ola a look, and he quietened.

Darry tried to reach for Biggie again, his body spasming involuntarily. Maybe the man was wrong. Maybe Biggie’s pulse had stilled for a moment, and a touch from someone who cared was all it would take to kick-start his heart.
“Oi,” called the driver. “Don’t touch it. It’s government property now.”
“It?” Darry asked, voice trembling with emotion. “His name is Ahamefuna. He’s not a sack of potatoes. He is a human being.”
The driver winced, hazel gaze level, eyes tracking their hands. “Sorry, mate. Didn’t mean to sound like an asshat. It’s… I mean, he’s gone. That’s why I said it. I’m sorry.”

A police car screeched to a halt beside the bus. The sea of people had evaporated, with only a few heads left peeking into the bus, eyes hungry for information, anxious chatter staining the frosty November air with theories. By evening, Biggie would have died multiple times at the mouths of different raconteurs, each version of his death different and gorier than the previous. White-lipped and blank-eyed, the driver ushered Darry and Ola off the bus. The silence that followed their descent was so heavy it pressed into their skins, curious eyes taking in every inch of them.

“Make we dey go,” muttered Ola, dusting his coat as if swatting away the onlookers’ glances. Darry stared as the two police officers entered the bus. The taller of the two clapped the bus driver on the shoulder and pulled him aside to get a statement. The second covered Biggie’s still frame with a layer of white cloth. Darry tore his gaze away from Biggie’s swaddled hulk and followed Ola’s lead, their footsteps measured, in sync.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Vida Huang on Unsplash