Chapter 7
Trials and Tribulations in the Computing Laboratory
On the other hand, Dr. Harold smirked and expressed, "I hope our superior allows him to work with us." His words carried a hint of bitterness, showing his concern for Bayo's well-being.
Bayo returned late due to his poor memory of directions and a visit to the post office to check for a bank draft from the Yoruba government for his deportation fee. Bayo didn't know his fate but had already prepared for the worst. He had initially planned to visit the bank but opted for the postal service instead. Despite facing discrimination in both places, he found the postal service more manageable.
Bayo trudged through his neighborhood, feeling the weight of disappointment settle upon him. The government had failed to send the much-needed money order, leaving him with little to his name. The gnawing hunger in his stomach threatened to consume him if not tackled soon.
Seeking solace in his kitchen, Bayo shed his clothes and set to work. He skillfully prepared Efo riro, a tantalizing Yoruba spicy stew, and cooked his last portion of rice. The aroma filled the air, offering a temporary respite from his worries.
As Bayo was about to savor his hard-earned meal, a voice interrupted his thoughts with a dark joke. "How do you make a Yoruba man lose his appetite?" The question hung in the air, demanding an answer as if it held the key to a pressing matter.
However, after initially enduring Èsù's mischievous pranks, Bayo resolved to avoid further encounters. Determined, he hurriedly stepped into the hallway to prevent Èsù from entering his room. Surprisingly, the voice that had been so urgent before suddenly softened and whispered, "Inform him that Èsù devoured his meal and left him with a curse."
To Bayo's surprise, Èsù was nowhere to be seen.
Upon hearing this and realizing that Èsù had vanished, Bayo quickly returned to the kitchen where he had left the food (this time, he didn't dare bring it to the living room as he had done previously). To his dismay, the pot of stew and boiled rice had disappeared.
Bayo glanced at the spot where his food had been, only to see a mysterious floating message appear before him. "Your power has inconsistent rules," it read, causing him to furrow his brow. It faded away before he could fully process the message, only to be replaced by another. "Don't overestimate your powers, for you can lose them unexpectedly and only restore them through solving a puzzle or bending the rules," the words warned. Bayo clenched his fist and stared intently at the spot but remained silent.
Frustrated, Èsù not only ate his food again but cursed him as well. Bayo had no clue of the old rule that trapped him when he merged with the orisha's might. Èsù cleverly disguised his curse as a recent act. With his narrow perspective and knowledge, Bayo resented Èsù as the most cruel, who bestowed gifts only to snatch them back with greater force. That night, Bayo heated some water to sip, wishing to deter ravenous parasites in his belly. He had no patience to deal with them.
As he drank the water, he continued to curse Èsù vehemently. Little did he know, his dark blue ring was slowly gaining a faint glow.
Now aware of the uncertainty ahead, Bayo lived in constant fear, never knowing when his newfound power would fail him. The following morning, he decided to fry some Akara, a deep-fried bean fritters. Bayo ate the Akara straight from the hot oil, scorching his throat and tongue. Determined to match Èsù's cunning, he declared that if Èsù could shoot without missing, he would learn to fly without perching. After devouring the Akara, Bayo made pap, a fermented corn porridge, and ate it directly from the stove without bothering to bring it down. He was becoming quite adaptable. Although traditionally, he should have eaten the Akara and pap together, Bayo did the opposite.
Despite taking his usual path, Bayo managed to outsmart Èsù, who had taken pleasure in tormenting him. Bayo quickly finished his meal and proceeded to take a swift bath. His bathroom may not have been noteworthy, but that was why he didn't spend more than three minutes there.
After all the turmoil, Bayo stepped out of his room and stationed himself in the hallway, calmly biding his time. Letting out a sigh, he couldn't help but question the purpose of his anticipation. Bayo felt foolish for entertaining the idea of waiting as if Dr. John would actually come to him. He failed to see the necessity of it all.
Suddenly, a robust man with a bucket dashed past, heading towards the communal restroom, urgently exclaiming in Arabic, "I must be quick!" He was determined to secure his spot and not let anyone else take it.
In a rush, two young girls of African descent hurriedly walked by, conversing in the tones of the Zulu language. "The employer is stressing the importance of punctuality," they remarked.
Amidst the diverse crowd speaking various languages, the most disruptive element was the clamor of the factory machines. Bayo squinted, trying to make sense of the chaotic and cacophonous environment. He couldn't comprehend why anyone would tolerate such deafening engines while others were still trying to sleep.
The clock struck 11:39, inching closer to the time limit Dr. John had set for Bayo to wait or abandon hope of receiving assistance. Unconsciously, Bayo began tapping his legs, his brows furrowing as he grew increasingly uncomfortable. Little did he know, his pessimistic and cynical outlook on life had ironically kept him grounded in a world that seemed to have lost its sanity.
Just as Bayo lost all hope, he glimpsed at Dr. John's shadow.
Slowly approaching, Dr. John sighed, "It was quite a task to convince the higher-ups to give this guy a shot. And Author is always on the move, testing his luck." With a hint of indifference, he pondered.
Bayo nodded respectfully at Dr. John, feeling a sense of relief.
Dr. John's voice carried the crisp undertones of formality as he announced, "To the Computing Laboratory, we shall proceed."
Hailing a green cabbies cab on the main street, they headed to 79 Garden Street. During the ride, Bayo pondered, 'First time in a taxi; usually it's a crowded bus.'
The idea of frequenting taxis crossed his mind briefly, but he dismissed it.
Arriving at 79 Garden Street, Bayo observed the social hierarchy.
'The whites seem to dominate here.' He wished for a more diverse city but quickly dismissed the thought.
After three minutes, they dropped off closer to the Harvard Computing Laboratory.
As they approached the Harvard Computing Laboratory, Bayo glanced at Dr. John, wondering how long his usefulness would last, a hint of sarcasm in his smile.
While Dr. John appeared pragmatic, Bayo couldn't trust anyone.
As they reached the laboratory, Dr. John hurried inside, with Bayo following closely behind.
As soon as they reached the second floor, which served as the bustling center of activity in the laboratory, Dr. John called out, "Mrs. Christian, I need a moment, please," his voice was sharp and authoritative.
Distracted by her sobs, Mrs. Christian's focus shifted to Dr. John's utterance.
She approached him with a grace that belied her condition, daintily concealing her actions with the dark fabric of her handkerchief.
"Ah, Professor, or is it Doc today?" she quipped, a playful lilt in her voice, seeking to lighten the mood.
Dr. John's gaze was unyielding, a silent sentinel amidst the awkwardness. He gathered his thoughts, poised to speak, yet Mrs. Christian's hand fluttered up, a gentle gesture of interruption. She tended to her nose, her apology hanging in the air, unvoiced.
The atmosphere grew tense around Dr. John; he felt the invisible mucus was assaulting his nostrils and throat. It was a vivid sensation that he could not shake off.
Weary of the charade, he gestured dismissively, "The library, if you would."
With an eagerness that edged on zeal, Mrs. Christian assented, her handkerchief doubling as a makeshift lead for Bayo.
As they departed, Bayo's eyes betrayed his dismay at the moistened cloth, a silent protest to the indignity of the moment.
"Over there," Mrs. Christian said, her smile unwavering as she gestured towards the restroom. "It seems my efforts there have been in vain. Perhaps it's time for fresh hands to turn the tide."
Bayo's brow furrowed in bewilderment, his internal monologue a chorus of confusion. 'Is this really happening?' he pondered, acutely aware of the ticking clock and the luxury of time he couldn't afford.
Mrs. Christian caught the flicker of puzzlement on Bayo's face and reassured with a knowing smile, "Leave the tomes for now. This task is of utmost importance." Her grin persisted. It was a beacon of forced mirth as she sought to charm Bayo with her quip. Yet, he remained impervious, his focus undeterred by her attempts at levity.
Bayo steadied his nerves, recognizing the need for composure amidst the unfolding oddities.
Internally, Bayo imagined countless ways of getting back at Mrs. Christian. In his mind, he had already inflicted various forms of harm on her. It was a way to release his pent-up frustration.
With a furtive sweep of the room, Bayo's voice carried a quiet urgency, "The cleaning agents seem to elude me." The undercurrents of his emotion lent a richer timbre to his Yoruba accent.
Mrs. Christian's laughter was light, "Persevere in your quest; they're closer than you think."