Chapter 1: The Breaking Point

As my assistant was giving her report, I suddenly felt pressed to use the toilet. My body dey fight me, I try hold am but e no gree. As I dey struggle, memory flash quick for my mind—how my papa once shame himself for public, wetin I swear say I no go ever do. Before I fit reason am well, I unzip my trousers and pee inside the dustbin right there.

Sweat dey prick my neck as the stream hit the plastic. The sharp, acrid smell fill the office, mix with small air freshener and the old file scent. Even as I finish, shame no wan gree land; my body just feel like another man own, not my own.

Her face change sharp. She quickly waka go lock the office door, pull the curtains. The hot afternoon sun still try sneak through the curtain, but the air for office don change—heavy, secret.

Amina move fast, like person wey dey hide from NEPA official. She press her lips, eyes dey waka left and right, then give me that look—half fear, half pity. Only God know wetin dey her mind that moment.

I siddon for my chair, still dey think about the work she just report.

I force my mind back to the figures, but numbers just dey float for my eyes, like water hyacinth wey dey drift for Lagos lagoon. My body dey here, but my head don fly another place.

Wait—something dey wrong.

E be like say my spirit wan comot body. The air thick, my skin dey crawl. I grip armrest, heart dey beat kpa-kpa small small.

I look up at my assistant. She hug my head, tears dey fall for her face, dey try calm me: “No worry. Na small wahala dey do you. E go pass.”

Her palm warm for my head, her voice soft like lullaby wey mama dey use pet pikin. Tears dey her eyes, but she dey try make I no feel shame. For that small moment, I feel like pikin wey do nonsense but mama still dey pamper am.

I stare the picture frame for my table—a photo of me, my wife, and my son.

The glass catch small sun, three of us dey smile for that picture like say happiness na national cake. I remember the day we snap am—everybody wear matching Ankara—my wife choose the cloth from Balogun market, say e go bring us luck. My son teeth still dey gap.

I no fit hold back the tears.

Na so tears roll down, heavy, hot. My hand tremble as I wipe my face, but e no dry. For my mind, I dey beg God make e rewind time, even if na just small.

The day don finally reach. I know say eyes full everywhere, dem dey watch my wife and pikin, just dey wait to scatter their lives.

Enemies plenty for this country; some dey your family, some dey office. As I dey think am, I glance the office window, hear distant Lagos traffic dey hum for road. People dey plot like say na election season. My biggest fear na make my own downfall turn sport for dem.

Which level a man suppose reach for life before people go dey fight for power after im die?

For Nigeria, even if you never reach senator or chief, once you get small money or position, wahala go land. People no dey wait make you die finish before dem begin drag property.

But now, I no even remember how high I don climb before.

Position, title, money—everything just dey blur. Na so sickness dey humble man; e go reduce you to nothing, like motor wey fuel finish for express.

The first time I notice something no dey right, na when I gats work late one day. The generator hum for compound, but my mind just dey blank. I wanted to call my wife to tell her make she no wait for me chop.

My phone dey my hand, but na like foreign object. My mind dey race, dey try remember simple thing. Na that kind small confusion dey fear person pass.

I no dey save my family numbers for phone—make e no loss and scammers go use am. But as I carry my phone, I realise say I no fit remember her number at all.

For Lagos, if dem pick your phone, wahala just start. I dey always pride myself say I sabi my people numbers for head—my wife, my pikin, my mother, even my in-law for village.

That moment, I know say wahala dey my body.

The kind cold wey grip me that evening, e cold like hospital ward for rainy season—everybody dey shiver. I just stand for corner, dey look the phone like say e offend me.

I dey proud of my sharp memory before. No matter how tired, I never forget my wife number.

People dey hail me for office, call me calculator—if you like bring figures from 2013, I go still remember. Na this memory betray me so?

My assistant, Amina, help me book hospital. Last last, doctor drop Alzheimer’s disease for my table—wetin people dey call old man wahala.

Amina arrange everything sharp-sharp, no allow rumor fly. When doctor drop the diagnosis, the room cold like hospital ward for rainy season—everybody dey shiver. I dey expect malaria, but see as e turn to big grammar.

I no gree believe am.

For my mind, I dey argue. Me? Na lie! I too young. All these oyibo disease no suppose reach my side. I dey form hard man, but fear dey do me inside.

I be just thirty-five.

Even the doctor look me with that pity eye—like say I dey waste. He try console me, talk say some people even younger get am.

But doctor talk say, as e shock reach, the youngest person wey get am for this country na just nineteen.

Wetin remain? E be like say even if na juju, this one pass native doctor hand. Nigeria wahala reach this one too?

Old age.

For this part of the world, people dey fear old age pass death. If you old, people go dey avoid you, dey call you burden. My own just land for my body like heavy stone.

The thing wey dey fear pass for human life, don catch me sharp-sharp.

E be like say God wan teach me lesson. All the fear wey I dey fear for my papa, e don land for my head. Na so e dey be.

That day, as I siddon for car, I ask Amina, “How I take treat you?”

I no fit look her face well, but my voice just dey shake. Na respect I dey find, or na forgiveness?

She answer softly, “Your kindness heavy like Olumo Rock.”

Her words land with weight. E sweet me, but e pain too. For this Lagos, where people dey do anyhow, to get person wey go talk this kind thing about you na rare blessing.

I ask, “If people for work know my condition, how you see am go be?”

My heart dey pound; for Naija office, any small news go fly reach street. Dem go use am hold meeting for beer parlour.

Amina reply gently, “Nobody go know. Na you teach me say make I no ever leave my destiny for another person hand.”

That kind advice na only person wey don see life fit talk. Her voice calm, her eyes steady. I try smile, but e heavy me.

I quiet for long. Last last, I say, “Arrange Switzerland trip for me.”

Switzerland—land wey people dey use run from wahala, or go chop clean life. But me, na another reason I get. My mouth dey bitter as I talk am.

She ask, “You wan make I help you arrange euthanasia, abi?”

For Nigeria, we dey hide this kind thing. But Amina sabi my mind; she talk am straight, her voice low, no judgement.

I nod.

Tears fill my eyes as I nod. My pride dey crumble. E hard me to accept, but na truth. Person go dey beg for dignity at the end, not for pity.

If old age na must, if e mean say I go dey bed dey mess myself, dey drool, dey useless—abeg, make I die with dignity.

For this country, nobody wan become load for their people. I no want make my pikin see me dey mess up like that. Make I leave with small respect.

Amina cover my sickness, begin dey decline with me.

From that day, we become partners in secret—she no allow any gossip leak, her loyalty tight. I watch her grow from assistant to backbone, my only real ally.

From that day, I accept Amina as my pikin for work, and she follow me betray the team.

I dey teach her all my moves, even the ones wey I never show anybody. For her, work no be just salary—na family matter. Together, we lock door against everybody else.

Before, I wan build the company to better level, even join minority party, dey hustle for seat, dey plan to enter National Assembly later.

My mind dey big. I dey see myself for Abuja, dey lobby with the big men, dey chop with two hands. I dey dream of shaking president hand, maybe sef collect chieftaincy for my village.

To make the company last hundred years—na the road I clear for my team and my son.

My goal na legacy. To build company wey go stand after me, make my pikin dey tell people say na my papa start am, no be oyibo company chop am.

But after my diagnosis, I carry the company go raise money, dey sell my shares, just dey find way cash out run.

Na so life fit change in one minute. All my big plans don turn to cash-out plan. I begin dey calculate exit strategy like say na football transfer.

Some deputy general managers dey always quarrel with me for meeting. Dem get strong teams, but I still betray them.

Dem dey look me with red eye for boardroom. For Naija office, backstabbing na sport, but I carry am pass dem. I know say I dey wrong them, but my body no fit carry their wahala again.

I see the pain and disappointment for their faces; I know say I don really fall their hand.

I dey see am for their eyes—na respect turn to anger. I dey feel am inside my chest, the pain of betrayal no be small thing. My heart heavy like bag of cement.

But I also know: if dem hear say I get this kind sickness, everybody go show their true colour.

If dem smell weakness, dem go pounce. For here, nobody dey pity sick lion. Everybody dey hustle for chair.

Society na jungle—na man dey chop man.

As we dey so, na survival of the sharpest. The weak dey chop insult, the strong dey chop meat.

I no go let anybody chop my wife and pikin.

Even if na my last strength, I go fight. My family no go become news headline for wrong reason.

The day dem diagnose me, I begin dey write diary.

Na my own small insurance be that. Everything wey I fit remember, I dey write. I dey pour my heart inside paper, like say if I forget, at least my words go remain.

First thing I write: “Before I useless finish, I must protect everything wey I cherish.”

I dey read am everyday—my own personal oath. I dey whisper am for sleep sometimes, as if na prayer.

My memory dey fall apart. Everyday I dey write for diary, Amina dey help extract the main points and read am to me.

Even when my hand dey shake, Amina dey write for me. Her handwriting don dey resemble my own. She dey summarize my thoughts, dey read am back, make I no forget my promise.

But the sickness don reach where I pee for my female staff front.

If na village, dem for say jazz dey worry me. But this one, na pure sickness. Na disgrace, but na my cross.

Just like old men dey touch nurse anyhow, people dey hate bad people as dem dey old.

I dey hear all the gist. When person wey get power before dey fall, na so people dey point finger, dey gossip, dey laugh.

But no be wickedness.

Sometimes, I dey try talk, but words no dey come. Na only inside my head I dey shout: 'No be my fault!'

Alzheimer’s dey make person forget shame, forget morals, forget everything.

E dey strip person naked, remove all dignity. People go think say you wicked, but na sickness dey drive am.

Na wetin happen to me.