Seams: The Next Decade - Episode 5
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Sunlight streamed through a single open window, illuminating the dark room. The shower in the en-suite bathroom poured, co-mingling with the hum of the room’s electronic pulse. She heard the shower turn off and wet footfalls pitter-patter over to her. The bed sank under the pressure of bodyweight and she felt wet back on her thigh. Panlam stirred in response, pulling the sheet away from the rest of her naked body.
“Morning.” She mumbled, her eyes adjusting to the semi-darkness of the room.
Farhad leaned as she sought his lips. She had a hint of morning breath, but she’d learned from the kind of sexual experiments that he’d proposed to her over the years that he didn’t really care about things like that. Still she tried.
“Are you sure, you know I sucked dick last night so my morning breath must be ugh right now.” she said, half mocking.
He shrugged and kissed her. “I don't mind.”
He walked over to the closet and picked out a suit cover. He laid it on the bed and unzipped it, pulling out a suit fresh from the dry cleaners. He dressed smartly, shirt, tie and jacket first, then socks, and finally with a slight shimmy over his muscled thighs, pants. She loved that he almost never wore underwear, there was something feral about flirting so dangerously with indecency.
“Should I open the curtains?”
Panlam shook her head and patted the bed. “Nope, but… you could get back into bed with me and let me show just how good I am at sucking dick with morning breath.”
His face betrayed no emotion. “So, no curtains then.”
Panlam made a pout. “You wanted to see me, you have. Every night since I came back. I'm practically domesticated at this point.”
Farhad circled back to the bed and stroked Panlam’s face. “And I'm the happiest man in the world. Just a happy man who is also very, very late.”
He kissed her, properly this time, nudging her lips apart to taste her. There was nothing else to do but yield to him. Her hands were already tugging at his tie before he forced himself to detach from her. She reached for her bag pooled at the foot of the bed and pulled out a cream envelope. She handed it to him with a bit of reluctance.
“Here, don't open it. Not yet at least. Or in front of me or whatever.”
She collapsed back into bed as he took out his used suit from the day before and stuffed it into an overnight bag. He slung it over his shoulder and slipped out of the room. As he stepped into the elevator going down, his phone dinged. The text message only had three words.
Just say yes.
#
Farhad worried at his tie in the rearview mirror. He could see it didn’t need fixing, but force of habit. Anything to delay the inevitable. His personal assistant Bilquis was waiting at the lobby of the office complex’s entrance, open umbrella in hand. This was also part of their daily dance, and she busied herself with her phone as she waited. Farhad took a deep sigh and flashed his headlights at her to get her attention. She popped the umbrella open and skittered across the wet parking lot in stilettos to shield him as he summoned courage to start the day.
She knocked on the door and stepped back to give him room, extending the umbrella as he exited the car. Together they scurried for the entrance and the relative dryness of the elevators.
“Any updates from yesterday?” Farhad asked.
Bilquis tried to meet his gaze but he avoided her, a little difficult in the complex’s cramped elevator.
“Yes, your father called and updated the 'grocery' list. A new bid for the Ministry of Defense consultation contract will be published on Monday. He wants a proposal ready by Saturday.”
He’d expected that. “As usual Bilquis. Anything else?”
“He was here this morning, on his way to the doctor's. He was furious that you weren't in the office already. Asked that you called him once you get in.”
He’d expected that as well. “Let me guess, with the office landline so I’m not rerouting my calls and lying to him?”
Bilquis shrugged. “You know how he operates sir.”
The elevator doors opened to let them out. Farhad breezed past the staff cubicles to his sequestered corner office with Bilquis hot on his heels. He handed his baggage and car keys to her to keep her busy and off his back. She was nice enough, but loyal only to his father.
“Send the clothes for dry cleaning and please pack me another overnight bag. I might be working late again today.”
She took the cargo but refused to leave. “And your father?”
Farhad grimaced. “Remind me to call him by two. I have barrel through all the scheduled conference calls today so no disturbances before then.”
She waited a few more seconds to make her point and quietly exited the office. Farhad locked the door shut behind her and took a deep, fatigued breath. The day awaited.
#
Farhad was flush in the middle of a zoom call when loud knocking interrupted him. He asked permission from the South African partners on the other end, and muted his end of the call just in case before opening the door.
“Inna Lillahi! Bilquis, what do you want? You know I’m not to be disturbed during meetings.”
Bilquis pushed a phone in his hand like a bleeding child. It was then he noticed that her eyes were tinged with red and she was suppressing a tremble.
“He asked me to come give it to you, asked that you end whatever meetings you're having.” she said in a small voice.
He looked incredulously at the phone, tinny sounds emanating from its speakers.
“I don’t have the energy for this, I don’t.”
She looked as helpless as he felt. “He's waiting.”
He dismissed her, and watched as she avoided her seat, heading instead for the restrooms. He wished he could comfort her somehow without committing to going to bat for her, he knew what it meant to bear the full brunt of his father’s wrath. He circled back to his office table and unmuted his end of the call.
“Gentleman, I must apologize for ending this meeting abruptly. My attention is needed urgently elsewhere. An office emergency. I'll have my personal assistant Bilquis schedule a follow up meeting.”
He ended the call before the South Africans could respond and reluctantly turned his attention to Bilquis’s phone and his waiting father.
“Baba,” he began, “I have asked you to stop emotionally torturing my personal assistant. Good hands are rare to come by, and I'm trying to make sure PTSD isn't one of the things she leaves Galadima with.”
Alhaji huffed on the other end. “She is paid with my money, Farhad, so she is my employee, same as you are. Do not deign to tell me how to treat my staff, ka ji ko?”
“Then you should come out of your forced retirement and lead them.”
“Even with one hand behind my back, I'll lead that company better than you.” Alhaji shot back, with real malice in his voice, “You are only in that seat, my seat, because you are good at sweet talking people into doing stupid things.”
“And I'm also your bastard son, and you don't want your company run by dan arne, don't forget that part.”
He heard Alhaji flinch and regretted it a little. It was a low blow, but he’d learnt to steal from the most poisonous barbs from his father’s quiver before the older man could notch and aim.
“What do you want?” He continued, prodding his father.
“How about we start with you not speaking to me as if I still can't put you in a room and beat some respect into you. It is like this CEO title I let you have is making you foolish because…”
“…Baba, you know what?” Farhad cut in, he’d riled Alhaji sufficiently, now it was time to cut him off. “I'm coming to the house today. I promised my mother I would. Whatever you need us to go over, we can do it when I get there.”
Emboldened by his father’s stunned silence, Farhad laid all his cards on the table.
“And also, from today, I am leaving standing orders with Bilqus and all the other staff at Galadima that they are forbidden from taking calls from you to speak to me. That is why we spent all that money installing official landlines to ensure I was physically in the office when I say I am. Set an example for once, and use them.”
“Al-Farhad ibn Usman.” Alhaji said in a warning tone.
He really didn’t care at this point, whatever was waiting for him, he’d face at the house.
“Good day Baba.”
He ended the call and turned off the phone. He used the kill switch for the office intercom system as a secondary measure and sank into his plush chair, drained by the exchange. As he did, he caught a glimpse of cream paper in the breast pocket of his briefcase and remembered Panlam’s envelope.
The card inside was embossed with Filmhouse’s Insignia and hand calligraphed. It was impressive, if a little intimidating.
You are cordially welcome to the fifth edition of the African Film and Media Awards at the request of Panlam Nok.
A documentary by Panlam Nok, in collaboration with Unicef and the French Embassy "No Longer At Ease '' shot over three years and tracks the transgenerational consequences of French assimilation on three generations of Senegalese and Ivoirien women has been nominated in the best documentary category.
Cannes Film Festival and the Sundance Film Festival have called a "triumph", the latter awarding it a coveted golden branch for best foreign documentary.
A handwritten note was stapled to the back of the envelope. She’d given this some thought. Panlam’s handwriting was nowhere near as visually appealing as the calligrapher’s, but the sight of it gave him cottonmouth.
He opened it and sighed.
Hey,
I know I said I wasn't ready for anything serious, but perhaps I was being too hasty. I want to try, but slowly, so we are never pressured into doing anything we're not ready for. I thought of you a lot when we were making this film, of that night with Kike and Adeola, how you went to bat for her. It changed how I saw you.
I want you to share this night with me. Hopefully the first of many. As my date, for real.
Love, baby.
Farhad gingerly folded the note and put it in his wallet. He took out his phone and searched for Panlam’s number and began typing.
Just read the note in the card. The answer is yes, to the premiere, and to us.
Re-energized, he powered down his laptop, packed up his workstation and left work to go and face his father.
#
Framed photographs from their childhood in Kano still lined the walls of his father’s Ikoyi house. Farhad wasn’t sure he could call it a home, it’d been years since its rooms rang with the laughter of children. His father had preserved the house the way his mother liked and maintained it, it was little more than a museum now. Was this nostalgia or masochism? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know for sure.
The curtains to the inner rooms parted for his father who took a moment to survey the living room like it was a board room. He was almost as imposing as he was when Farhad was a teenager, but age and arthritis had humbled him some. Instinct nudged Farhad out of his seat, but Alhaji raised a hand to stop him and crossed the room to his favourite chair on his own and rested his cane across his thighs.
He’s angrier than I thought.
“Me ke damun ka?” Alhaji asked finally.
Farhad knew not to make eye contact or respond.
“I asked you a question Farhad. Since when did you start talking back to me? Let me tell you, twenty eight is not old oh. Gashi a bura ba tsufa ba.”
Farhad rolled his eyes. “I don't know what that has to do with anything, Baba.”
Alhaji shook his head. “You carry resentment like your mother. It’s an ugly thing to inherit, it aged her and made her bitter. I had hope you would be better.”
Farhad clenched his jaw to keep himself from speaking in anger.
“Why are you bringing Mama into this? You said you wanted us to go through the bids we've put out and the projects we are executing. I've emailed you all the relevant documents and have presented myself and you are wasting time slandering my mother.”
“She was my wife before she was your mother. Mine.” The older man said, unfazed by the tension in the room. “But clearly, ungratefulness is something else that runs through her bloodline, that and rebellion
Coming to the house all of a sudden felt like a very bad idea.
“Baba please.”
The man ignored him, delving into a monologue Farhad knew almost verbatim.
“I gave her just Saki Daya. Just one, we just needed time apart, so she could appreciate what I'd spent more than two decades building, the life I had made for her. But mun gani wai she was tired of me, and just waiting for me to give her any excuse to run for 'freedom' as she calls it. What kind of woman takes your children away from you and doesn't bring them back?”
“I don't know what you want me to say,” Farhad replied, already weary of where this would end. “The courts asked them to choose, they didn't choose you.”
“You should have joined them.” Alhaji said, the malice returning to his voice.
“I should have.” Farhad agreed quietly. If Alhaji heard, he didn’t show.
“Kai! If Allah didn't allow this stroke afflict me, I would at least have my business to give me joy. Since my wife is gone with my twins, and the one I should take pride in treats my business like it is a chore. A business I put my sweat and blood into.”
Farhad pulled the sheaf of documents he’d come with and tried to hand it to his father.
“Baba, if you'd look at the numbers you'd see the business is actually thriving, our second quarter earnings are unprece…”
“Shuru!” Alhaji yelled, strain rippling his neck. Farhad froze, more out of habit than fear.
“Do you think I care about numbers? I want you to take care of my thing like it is your thing. That is what good sons do. They come to the office early, lead by example, show respect to their fathers; that is what good sons do.”
Alhaji’s eyes settled on the documents and he crinkled his face. He grabbed at the sheaf and threw it back in Farhad’s face.
“After all the disgrace you put me through as a teenager, the favours I called to ensure you didn't have to pay for the stupidity of joining a cult and letting them drag you into their mindless violence, I at least hoped you would learn gratitude and responsibility. You people almost killed a boy, nearly beat him to death with your hands. I still don't know what sin I committed to deserve such shame.”
Farhad scrapped at the documents on the floor, bundling them into a haphazard ball. He still couldn’t look the man in the eye.
“I am doing everything possible to please you, Baba. I barely have a life as it is. You say you want me to find a wife and settle down, yet you drive me like a slaver. Ka za pa, because this is not sustainable.”
Alhaji rose to his feet and dragged Farhad up by his shoulders. They were the same height now, but Farhad still felt like a child, defenseless against Alhaji’s words. He pinned him in place until Farhad reluctantly made eye contact, like he’d been taught all those years ago.
“I don't want you to please me. I want you to honor me.” Alhaji started, once he was sure he had Farhad’s undivided attention, “Honor your debts Farhad, if I didn't teach you anything, I taught you that. Real men always honor their debts.”
Farhad gasped in exasperation, feeling weak and foolish.
“I am running your business, baba. I am here. What else do you want from me?”
“Honour me.” Alhaji thundered, “Don't make me have to start calling filthy secretaries to get your attention. Do not humiliate me and make decrees on company policy in a company I built, for you. This business is my legacy, the thing that will survive me, since your mother took my children away and made them enemies of me. I demand that you treat it like you actually care.”
Alhaji wobbled, suddenly spent and let Farhad lower him back into his chair.
“Show me some damn respect!” he hissed under his breath.
“Baba, I am sorry.” Farhad lied, genuinely worried about the man, “Please don't work yourself up. The doctors have asked you to avoid unmitigated anger, you won't survive another heart attack.”
His chest rose and sank in quick breaths as he tried to centre himself. “Then do not antagonize me Farhad. Make my life easier, dan banza.”
“I’m sorry.” Farhad repeated, meaning it this time.
He picked up what was left of the documents and backed away from his father.
“I should leave.” He announced out of courtesy, he knew he was already dismissed.
Alhaji turned away. “Yes, you should.”
Farhad fled the house, retreating to the neutral safety of his car. There, he shuffled through the documents, fishing out a crumpled cardboard rectangle and smoothed it out to reveal its bourgeois baroque edging and insignia of the US consulate.
“Letter Of Recognition '' featured most prominently in Gothic font at the top of the certificate, sitting atop a hand calligraphed rendering of his name. Farhad took a moment to process it before tearing it into two and repeating the process until tiny squares littered the driver’s seat. He put his head on the steering wheel and pressed his eyes shut, and tried his hardest to forget the entire evening.
Edwin Okolo is a New York Times published Nigerian writer and journalist based in Lagos
