“I know what you've been trying to do. You need to study me before I get the job, right? It makes sense, but you see, I'm different. My mind tells me things. Let me tell you what makes me sad. I hate the fact that I've always had to commit one fraud or another before I can become 'rich,' so to speak.
My life has been one rollercoaster of hell to another, and the beautiful part is I don't know how to blame others for my mistakes. It has always been my fault. I was referred to you, wasn't I? Someone told you I'm smart—that's the reason for the meetings these past three months, right?
I'm not smart. If I was, I wouldn't be this sad.”
“This job though, it sounds interesting. It's a change from the illegal stuff. I don't like to need anybody's help, and life is boring.
I like to believe I'm good at studying people. I know you are too. Don't imagine I said too much—you know me well. When do we begin? I'm ready.”
It was rare that I got dumbfounded, but I gathered myself rather shockingly and just told him:
“March 19. Abuja first. A computer mind needs rest. Make sense?”
“It does,” he responded.
I called my boss. “They're complete now, Sir.”
It had been two years since that conversation.
He knew just how to leave an impression.
Yet, standing over his grave at Ikoyi Cemetery left a bad taste in my mouth.
I had to put his suicide note in a glass frame. It read only:
“Life is boring. I told you. You're older than I am, so you better live.”
Today, I cried and had a second reason to hate Ikoyi the more.
I’ve had to speak to two people since he died. Both times, I lied.
I said he was brilliant. That he was misunderstood. That he left too soon.
But the truth is—he wasn’t misunderstood. He understood too much, and it broke him.
I still don’t know why he wanted the job. Or why I wanted him in it.
Every now and then, I check the date. March 19.
Abuja first, he said.
But he never made it to Abuja.
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