Ali had misgivings.

First off, it was a weekday.

The five weekdays were universally held as unbearable, a sort of torture that all the earth had unanimously agreed to put itself through years and years ago, so as to raise the value of those two weekend days nestled in the near future. Yet, on this particular morning, he felt like there was a lot more was going on; there was a certain repeatability of life’s happenings, akin to a vicious cycle of occurrences.

Powerful misgivings.

It was the way men lived, complaining about their inadequacies yet doomed to repeat the same mistakes day after day. It felt hopeless, such a situation, but he had no intentions to be like other men. Today, regardless of the negative energy, was going to be different.

As he moved across the top floor of El Nove Sirkler, he pondered the importance of his job. Ali felt it was very difficult to do what he did. After all, Human Resources was a tricky venture, and in organizations like his new employers, with so many departments each with its own operational guidelines, it was a thin line to walk and there were easier ways to manage a sense of loss. He could throw himself deeper into the work; hard work, they said, paid off. The only way to find out, he thought, was to work. No sense in losing his job, since the key ingredient in the payoff wasn’t no work.

The sit-down talk (Interview) was one of those that could be regarded as unremarkable. He was asked questions.

What his five year plan was.

What he could offer the company.

Who he was.

Did it matter that he had individuality? Companies like this needed drones. Those who could do the same task over and over again with no deviation. You know, the summa and magnas.

The same framework for all corporate toil. It was impressive how easy it was for those with the money needed for survival to paint a picture of vague indifference when their search for new staff options was needed. They needed the bodies to work so they could earn more, but it was too much to admit. There was a façade of benevolence that needed to stay up, for if it didn’t, jobs became slavery, and salaries in a larger context became exploitation wages.

Ali could care less. Critical analysis, no matter the empowering feeling it gave, the rise, the thump in your stomach as you uncovered years of machinations against the small man, could never fill you up.

Food did.

Money paid for food.

Money was earned.

It was simple.

So he went to work.

Early on Monday morning, he stepped out in the sun, emboldened with the idea that work will someday, somehow, would make him good enough for the world he had been thrust into. He was in the company of millions of others glad to do exactly the same thing, glad that they had better paying jobs than their siblings, parents, and friends.

He walked through the doors that morning, ready to make a difference, in small increments of course (one mundane task after another). He was ushered in the reception by a lanky, middle-aged man. There was an air of arrogance around him, with squared shoulders and an upturned nose to match. The man’s crisp white shirt nestled in behind an immaculate looking waistcoat carried a clear picture of what his salary had been doing for his quality of life.

“Welcome, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he reeled off quickly, in a tone that carried no welcome, as if he had other things to get to and Ali was a pebble in his shoe.

Crisp shirts behaved that way; a dry-cleaner and a brand name enforced a gulf between the two men.

He continued, “I’m Mr. Maro, the Human Resource Manager here, and as I’m sure, you’ll probably want to get on board with everything as soon as possible.” They walked towards the elevators, Mr. Crisp brushing off the imaginary lint off his clothes.

Ali ignored him, looking at the ornate designs on the walls of the elevator. They made you think Halloween had come, but Nigerians didn’t do that, Ali knew better. He stared harder, trying to make out the words inscribed on the wall. All he managed to read were “No” and “Return” before –

“We’re here, floor nine.” Mr. Maro moved, blocking his view of the rest of the words as he gestured to the doors. They walked down a well-lit corridor into a large reception with a waiting area that looked nothing of the sort that Ali had seen before. The seats were adorned with dark jewels, glimmering under the lights that reflected off them and just about asking to be stolen.

To the left of this arrangement was a door, so exquisite that it had to be the boss behind it. Elegance was a weapon for disarming all those who chanced upon this room, it seemed. The receptionist looked up and smiled. He settled Ali into a seat while having a hushed conversation with Mr. Maro. Ali looked away, eyes on the spectacle that was the waiting area. If this place looked like this, what was the status of the CEO’s office then? Mr. Ali thought it was a waste, but opinions of those without money rarely mattered.

Mr. Maro settled in the seat across from him. He seemed to be making an internal decision and the battle played out in little expressions popping up for little periods on his weathered face. He shook his head, not in the manner of those who meant “no”, but of someone who was having difficulty adjusting to a life without a full head of hair.

Age was what it was.

“I’ll be back after your meeting with the boss, I have some things to handle with the staff on the fifth floor.” Mr. Maro shrugged, before remarking, “Who knows why but they tend to get into fits of anger frequently.”

“Yes I understand. Of course.” He left quickly, as Mr. Ali attentions turned to his own personal expectations. Even though he was relieved to finally be employed, he couldn’t shake the void, the feeling of limbo; he was unable to sustain his initial happiness. Running the risk of meeting his new boss in a fit of doom and gloom, he struck up a short conversation with the receptionist, if only to get a better sense of his role. “Hello,” he said, “How big is the Human Resources department here, if I may ask?” The man behind the desk answered, dragging his words out as he spoke them, “Oh, it’s a small department. Our staff know they can always come directly up here with anything.”

Ali was a little surprised by this. The company gave off the big league standing, usually known for insulation between the drones and the executives.

Apparently not.

“Out of curiosity, how large is the team I’ll be working alongside?”

The receptionist peered from behind the glasses he had on. “Well, you.”

“uh huh---,” Ali murmured, head tilted to the side before he replied.

“Me?”

“Yeah,” he continued, “You and the HRM who you’ve met.”

One rep and one manager? It felt like a sick joke. Conjecture in full play, it pointed to a certain level of coolness about the affairs of the staff, but to him, it was a callous and careless play at best. This was a company pulling millions into its coffers, highly valued on the staff intelligence index (first in an industrial review of the last 32 years), and had the lowest staff turnover in history, making it all the more prestigious.

Yet no proper investment in its human resources department…

He left and Ali, still seated uncomfortably, wondered why he even bothered coming. His conscience judged him terribly because it knew that Ali was searching for any and every reason to believe this company wasn’t what he already suspected: an exploitative evil.

He shook his head – as if to banish the thought – and looked at the walls, scanning the faces of all the past CEOs, the men and women who built the place in which he sat. With a characteristic squinting of the eyes, he noticed an oddity.

It seemed that all the men and women on the wall looked…

“Ahem. Mr. Ness will see you now.”

The receptionist nodded towards the big door across from him that was now open. Not minding that he heard no movement and no discernible illumination came from the room, he walked on. Still, the room wasn't what he was expecting.

There wasn't much to see, save for a large, mahogany table at the far end of the room, and a few chairs surrounding the crowded-out table behind which a large man sat. The floor was covered in a red carpet, and there was also a couch on the right of him, and a shelf on the left, with files numbered by year.

It was incredibly hot but his new boss saw no need to put the air-conditioning on. Even the curtains were down. It paled in comparison to the room just outside the door.

Maybe the man about to welcome him was a man of simple tastes when it came to his own space, he thought.

Ali instantly broke into a sweat; at the same time, he realized that the man before him could not relate to his predicament. He looked thoroughly at ease with the humid atmosphere he'd created.

The man rose and the room seemed smaller than it was, as he was over six feet tall with wide shoulders. His face was small and bearing an arrogant grin intended for juniors. He had beady eyes brimming with constant mistrust, but his mannerism was that of a man who could bank on the world to catch him if he fell.

“Mr. Ali, a pleasure to finally welcome you into the fold.”

He took Ali’s hands into his, a double clasp handshake, a certain familiarity in his gestures towards a total stranger. Ali relaxed, returning the shake with gusto, and sat in one of the chairs in front of the table. His boss returned to his seat, and stared at his guest in silence. The tension immediately returned to Ali’s shoulders and he shifted in his seat uneasily.

Ali finally worked up the courage to ask his new employer – not a question, but the question. The one question he felt would ease his conscience about working in a place which considered a fully-staffed HR department worse off than one occupied by merely a single soul and a manager.

“If I may ask sir, why is it that there is only two members in the HR team? I believe with a conglomerate like yours, you’d need way more?”

He let the question hang in the air; perceived dissent was not a good look on the first day. Eyes narrowed, the CEO's face remained unreadable. The silence went on until he finally smiled. “Let’s get you on your -”

A knock on the door.

The receptionist walked in briskly and said, “Sorry to bother you sir, but we have an issue.”

“What’s the matter, John?”, he said briskly. John paused, repeatedly looking to Mr. Ali and back at the boss.

“Speak.” His voice rang clear and crisp.

“Alright, sir. Mr. Adegbami, one of the new recruits, wants to see you. It’s quite urgent.”

“Send him in.”

A scrawny man with a laboring shuffle in his gait walked into the room, eyes darting back and forth as if plotting a quick escape from the room he just requested to enter. He tapped his foot and straightened the non-existent long sleeve on his short-sleeve shirt, repeatedly checking the wrist that bore no watch. He was a nervous wreck and Ali wondered if he was receiving the divine version of a “you don’t listen.” Mr. Ness maneuvered him towards the couch on the right, and given the man’s jumpy disposition, it seemed like a tactic for calming him down. It had little effect in this case.

He started, stammering, “S-sir, good morning…sorry to disturb you. I know you are a b-busy man, but it’s a matter of life and d-d-death.” He paused, uncertain about whether or not he could continue. It seemed like he never expected to have been granted an audience with the big boss in the first place.

Now that he was here, he was unprepared to make his case. So the two men stared at each other in a silence so palpable. Ali watched on, interest piqued. When Adegbami finally spoke, it was barely above a whisper, his shoulders propped up forcibly to give a sense of non-defeatism.

“Sir, I need to go back home.”

The boss replied, eyebrow raised, “You know our policy. We don’t allow that.”

Adegbami looked down at his feet, mumbling something. “Huh?” “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, sir. I want to work. I know the policy.” The boss leaned back, and said, “So why ask? You’ve been here a week. You’ve only felt a little of the heat. It could go on for ages.”

Ali worried at the phrasing; it felt off to liken an employee’s work experience to heat. Even if it was, it was unusual to mention such to an employee with such a casual air. His conscience went on a self-disciplining tirade, and he tried to quiet down the ringing in his ears. The ringing that was matched to the tune of “what the hell is this place?”

“I know that, sir. But it’s my family. I left some things undone in the house and I live with my mother. She can’t handle the chores anymore, bedridden with sickness, and if I don’t do this, I fear the worst may happen, sir.”

The boss took a deep breath and considered it for a moment. There was another knock, and Mr Maro strode in, a thick file in his hands.

“Ah, Mr. Maro, finally,” the boss remarked, “I have one of yours here, requesting an exit – to return, of course – as there are family emergencies to handle.”

Mr. Maro’s eyes narrowed and he said, “We don’t do that sir. Policy.”

Mr. Ness then replied, still focused on the employee, “He said it’s dire. Family emergency that no one else can handle.”

Maro stated sternly, “No changes, sir. Policy. No return, no matter what.”

Ali couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Here was the representation and protector of employee interests siding with cruel company policies without even considering contingencies at the very least. If anything at all, there was a danger of culpability assuming something happened to the mother in question, yet Mr. Maro was choosing to be shortsighted about it.

Ali said, “Won’t it be better if he went home, at least to insure the company of any culpability?"

Mr. Maro shut him down immediately. “No, it doesn’t. We don’t get sued. Those outside this building don’t matter to us, only those in it.”

He turned to Ali and smiled grimly before he said, “You’ll see soon enough.”

A cold shiver ran down Ali’s spine. He willed his legs to move him out of the room and beyond, to a safe place, but his legs sided with Maro and stayed put. His legs wanted to see, soon enough.

Mr. Ness said, “I am leaning towards letting him leave, since it’s assured that he’d be back.” Ali rejoiced internally. There was a lot of work to do on this company’s human resources department; but given that Mr. Maro was leaving (how he got this job was beyond Ali), and the boss was receptive to changing a barbaric rule, he’d take that challenge.

His conscience still prodded him, but he ignored it. Mr. Maro retorted, “I really don’t think it’s prudent to do this. It sets the kind of precedent that shouldn’t exist for this company.”

Ali cut in again, unable to stop himself, “What precedent? That a man shouldn’t look after his family?”

The boss and Maro turned to Ali. Their stares felt intrusive, like he was naked before them, and it forced down all the things he could have said back down his throat.

So much for a first impression.

The boss turned to Maro and said, “I understand what you mean, but I feel you are arguing this point way too strongly for an unbiased take. I know you aren’t happy about the situation on the first floor; it feels like limbo, but it doesn’t change the fact that you are here now, at least for the foreseeable future."

A sneer appeared on Maro’s face and disappeared just as quick. He took a deep breath and replied, “My emotions are not affecting my judgment, sir. I want what’s best for this employee, as every HR manager would. I would give the same recommendation every time, regardless of whatever happens anywhere else in the company. The boss and the HR manager stared each other down, the silence growing louder and the employee growing smaller, forgotten.

Mr. Maro broke the silence. He passed the file under his arm to the boss and said, “Also, from his employee records, he works on the fifth floor, which is erupting from what they perceive to be under-staffing. Yes, I know, they're always at our throats, whining over every single thing. But what happens when Mr. Adegbami doesn’t return, like I know he won’t? They won't believe that we let him out, a newbie. They’ll think we are moving their staff again. I’m tired of putting out fires. It’s not my problem anymore since Mr. Ali is going to be stationed there for the next few weeks, but I don’t think he would appreciate a house on fire.”

“Let them think what they want,” the boss replied, leafing through the papers. Mr. Maro pursed his lips as if to speak, but he thought better of it.

The boss spoke brusquely to Mr. Adegbami, “You can go. Prepare yourself for your trip back. Later, Mr. Maro will escort you to the exit in his capacities,” He fixed his gaze on the other pointedly before adding, “as the Human Resources Manager.”

The murderous intent all over Mr. Maro's face was as clear as day, yet he still nodded and collected the files on the desk.

Mr. Adegbami walked out, thanking the boss profusely.

“Now”, the boss said as he stood up, “Let’s go on that tour that you were meant to give Mr. Ali, Mr. Maro. I wouldn’t want you to forget to give him all the appropriate information because of a little tiff.”

He smirked while Mr. Maro, grumbling, led the way out of the office, with Ali at the rear. As Ali walked out of the office, he got another chance to look at the framed pictures. He finally realized something was off: they all had the same face, the face of his new boss. All across, from the first picture to the last.

He turned to look at the boss and the man was staring at him, smiling; a knowing smile.

Mr. Ali did not know.

He walked briskly towards the elevators and waited with Mr. Maro and Mr. Ness. He could feel a worrisome uncertainty crawling up his spine, slowly. He knew that they were both staring at him, but he averted his gaze, focusing on the walls of the elevator. It was at that moment, that he was eventually able to read the inscriptions on the wall.

It read, “No return, one way ticket.”

He shivered, even though he was sweating. He was unsettled and just wanted a way out.

Mr. Maro spoke up. “How do you know he will return, sir?" He said to Mr. Ness. "There’s a reason we don’t let people leave. This is their new home away from home.”

The boss laughed, an eerie, mirthless thing.

“Pay attention to his country of origin. What is it?”

Mr. Maro replied, “Nigeria. But what does that have to do with any – ohhh,” as the implication dawned on him. “He’ll be back, easy.”

As they got down to the reception, Ali dashed out, heading for the doors, deaf to the shouts of surprise of Mr. Maro and the boss. But the thing was…there were no doors.

In their place, there was a pedestal, with a card that read, “For Mr. Alighieri”, on it. He took it with shaky hands and opened it.

It was empty, save for a line in the center of the page that said: “Fully employed at 13:21.”

He screamed.

***

Seun Adegbami woke up groggy. He picked himself off the floor of his mother’s two bedroom apartment, his head still pounding.

"What a weird dream," he thought.

He looked around, trying to remember what he had been doing before he slept.

He looked to the ground; the white carpet was stained red, and there was a stool overturned. He remembered; he had been trying to remove the bad bulb from the fixture above the big couch. He shook his head again, putting his hand to his head. The hand that came away sported blood.

Then, the smell hit him before he finally realized what was wrong. The rice that was on the stove was burning and his mother would kill him. Headache be damned; he ran towards the kitchen and hurriedly switched off the stove.

Seun sighed.

He looked at the time on his wristwatch; mother would wake soon and he had burnt the rice, the bulb was still out and he had not started any of the other chores she had put him up to.

She was sick, but not too sick to wield her slippers. His vision was swimming, and he could feel the blood running down his shirt. He sunk to his knees, reaching out to steady himself, but his hands refused to respond.

He fell to the side, and as his world went black, he thought to himself, a smile on his face, that dying twice in one day wouldn’t be enough of an excuse for not doing his chores, but what could Mom do about it?

***

Ali had misgivings.

First off, it was a weekday.

The five weekdays were universally held as unbearable, a sort of torture that all the earth had unanimously agreed to put itself through years and years ago, so as to raise the value of those two weekend days nestled in the near future.

Yet, on this particular morning, he felt like there was a lot more was going on; there was a certain repeatability of life’s happenings, akin to a vicious cycle of occurrences.

Powerful misgivings.

It was the way men lived, complaining about their inadequacies yet doomed to repeat the same mistakes day after day. It felt hopeless, such a situation, but he had no intentions to be like other men.

Today, regardless of the negative energy, was going to be different.