The construction site lay in a bustling corner of Lagos, where the noise of traffic merged with the sounds of laborers hauling blocks, bags of cement, and piles of sand. Dust hovered thickly in the air, and the tang of wet concrete lingered, mixing with the faint scent of nearby street vendors frying akara and puff-puff under makeshift tents. The city hummed with life—a patchwork of noise, color, and movement, a sharp contrast to the stern focus within the site where men toiled, muscles straining under the weight of heavy loads, sweat darkening their uniforms.
Mr. Igwe strode through the site with a sense of purpose, his eyes scanning each corner, his mind racing to ensure everything met his high standards. He cleared his throat loudly, his voice slicing through the clamor as he addressed his workers.
"Make sure the rods are kept where water can't touch them," he ordered, jabbing a finger toward the iron rods stacked against a wall. "I don't want them rusting before we even begin."
One of the workers, a young man with dirt-smeared cheeks, dared to speak up. "Sir, we can't ensure that. It rains a lot these days."
Mr. Igwe's face hardened, his voice rising with anger. "Will you keep quiet?! Who asked you to speak? Are you mad? I'm telling you what's needed for—"
Another worker stepped in, his voice steady, though his eyes flickered with nerves. "Sir, please, calm down. He was only trying to say—"
Mr. Igwe turned to him, his eyes flashing with irritation. "Look at this agama lizard… so you're saying I'm wrong, abi? Who do you think you are? If not for my hard work, do you think you'd get paid?!" He snorted in disdain. "Chineke! Look at these useless boys. Ndi ala."
"Sir, please," the first worker muttered, trying to defuse the situation.
But his colleague was less patient. "Calm down for what? You're encouraging his nonchalant attitude, and you're telling this buffoon to calm down," he retorted. "Instead of correcting him, you should tell him to check his temper."
Mr. Igwe's expression grew darker, his voice venomous. "Bia, otondo, are you calling me a buffoon? Do you want to lose your job? Are you okay? See this small boy. A man like me that can father you three times over…"
The first worker raised his hands, pleadingly. "Sir, please, forgive him. It was a mistake. He shouldn't have said such words. Please show mercy, sir."
Just then, Mr. Tochukwu, the site manager, walked in. His presence brought an immediate hush to the tense exchange.
"What's going on here? Igwe, why are you raising your voice at my workers?" he demanded.
Mr. Igwe straightened, casting a contrite look at his boss. "Um, I'm sorry, sir. They were being rude, and I just wanted to correct them."
Mr. Tochukwu's expression did not soften. "Will you keep quiet?! You and your foolish temper. I've been listening to everything, and you're telling me you wanted to correct them. You'd better watch that mouth and temper of yours before you lose your job."
Head bowed, Mr. Igwe muttered, "I'm sorry, sir."
"Apologize to the men you offended," Mr. Tochukwu instructed.
"But sir—"
"I said apologize!"
Reluctantly, Mr. Igwe muttered an apology, his cheeks flushed with humiliation as the workers exchanged glances, a mix of resentment and amusement in their expressions.
Satisfied, Mr. Tochukwu addressed the group. "Now, all of you, listen closely. We need to finish this bridge before the beginning of next year, because that's when the Chinese contractors will come to see if we're as reliable as we claim. They've added 25 million naira to the 50 million they sent earlier so we can buy more materials." His gaze landed back on Mr. Igwe. "Make sure no one is slacking and everyone gives their all to this project. Am I clear?"
Mr. Igwe nodded stiffly. "Yes, sir."
"Everyone, back to work," Mr. Tochukwu ordered. "Mr. Igwe, stay back; I want to speak with you."
The workers shuffled away, murmuring under their breaths as they resumed their tasks, casting occasional glances back at Mr. Igwe.
When they were alone, Mr. Tochukwu leveled his gaze at him. "Listen closely. This is the last time I'll tell you to watch the way you speak to my workers. I pay their salaries—not you. It only goes through you before it gets to them. This is the last warning about your attitude. Am I clear?"
Mr. Igwe's shoulders drooped. "Yes, sir. It won't happen again."
"It better not. Because if it does, I won't be as forgiving as I've been these past few years. I'll give your job to someone who understands it better. Do I make myself clear?"
Mr. Igwe's voice broke, pleading. "Chimo! Sir, I promise to behave. I can't lose this job, sir. Please, have mercy."
Tochukwu's face softened slightly. "You too, have sense."
Just then, a woman entered, a polythene bag dangling from her left hand. Mrs. Igwe greeted the workers politely before approaching her husband, a hint of anxiety in her eyes.
"Good afternoon, sir," she said quietly, extending the bag toward her husband. "I brought your food."
Mr. Igwe barely looked at her, his lip curling. "Look at the time, you stupid woman. It's almost 1 o'clock. So, you want me to starve, abi?"
She flinched, lowering her gaze. "I'm sorry, sir."
Mr. Tochukwu's voice cut in, calm but firm. "Mr. Igwe, ji nu wayo. That was too much—especially to your wife. Have some respect!"
Mr. Igwe scoffed. "Sir, this woman is very useless. She can't contribute anything productive. She's very annoying. Job she no get. Degree she no get. All she knows how to do is sit at home and eat my money. Can you imagine?"
Mr. Tochukwu's expression darkened. "Even so, that's not enough reason to talk to her like that. She's your wife, for God's sake." Turning to Mrs. Igwe, he softened. "How are you, my dear?"
She forced a smile. "I'm fine, sir. Please forgive me if I offended you in any way."
"You've done nothing wrong, dear. What can you do? Do you have any trade or handwork?"
Mr. Igwe jumped in, dismissive. "She can't do anything, sir."
Tochukwu shot him a silencing glare. "Will you keep quiet and let the young woman speak?!"
"Sorry, sir," Mr. Igwe muttered, frowning.
Mrs. Igwe looked nervously from her husband to Mr. Tochukwu. "I only know how to cook, sir. I cook very well."
Her husband snorted. "You mean that poison you make at home is food? Sir, she can't cook at all. O ne si, ogwu."
Ignoring him, Mr. Tochukwu nodded encouragingly. "You cook, right?"
She nodded, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. "Yes, sir."
He pulled out a business card and handed it to her. "Call me this time next week. I'm hosting an occasion and want you to cater the event."
Mr. Igwe scoffed, dismissing the idea. "Sir, this woman will disappoint you. She's very lazy."
But Mrs. Igwe's face shone with gratitude. "Sir… sir… I won't let you down." She accepted the card, her smile breaking through.
"Very good," Mr. Tochukwu said warmly. He turned to Mr. Igwe. "Come and see me off."
Mr. Igwe followed, casting a final, disdainful glance at his wife, snapping his fingers as if summoning a stray dog.
As they walked off, Mrs. Igwe stood for a moment in the fading afternoon sun, watching her husband's retreating back, her hand clasped protectively around the business card, her first spark of independence amid the chaos of Lagos.