Chapter 9
Plans and stakes
Unbeknownst to her, Bayo's mind had been a bastion of focus, his apparent distraction a facade. The day had stretched into a long ordeal of learning, broken only by her sporadic interruptions to remind him of her existence, but Bayo still gained something.
As the clock neared the hour of six, a collective rustle of departure filled the air. It was then that Bayo, his day's mission accomplished, stepped out from the quiet sanctuary of the library. His path seemingly charted toward the evening's freedom, took an unforeseen turn as he found himself face-to-face with Dr. Harold. The encounter, unexpected as it was, hung in the balance of the day's end.
Dr. Harold's expression was a storm of rage as he lunged for the unique coils of Bayo's Dada hair, his fingers closing on nothing but the space left by Bayo's agile maneuver. The hair, a symbol of his disdain, was just one facet of his reluctance to accept Bayo as an equal in stride or status.
Regardless, it was a calculated move on Dr. Harold's part, a psychological chess game. He saw the latent brilliance in Bayo, and by belittling him before an audience, he aimed to sow seeds of fear, propelling his strategy forward.
Under his breath, Dr. Harold seethed, a tongue click punctuating his ire, "The audacity to dodge my hand…"
Dr. Harold envisioned the pinnacle of his career within reach, the fruits of this research promising to hoist him to the zenith of his field. In this ascent, he would employ a strategy as old as time — instilling a subtle trepidation in Bayo, a psychological lever to ensure his unwavering assistance.
Bayo returned the glare with equal ferocity, his inner monologue a litany of exasperation, 'From Mrs. Christian's antics to this provocateur…'
In the midst of this, Mrs. Christian's laughter was a discordant note, while Ms. Anderson was a portrait of despondence, her internal whisper a plea for tranquility, 'Today, nothing aligns…'
Oblivious to Ms. Anderson's turmoil, Dr. Harold turned his inquisition to Mrs. Christian, "What tickles you so, Betty?" he probed, one brow arched in query.
Unruffled, Mrs. Christian offered a peace sign, her smile a bastion of self-assured poise.
Yet, Dr. Harold felt unsettled by her nonchalance, musing with a tinge of disbelief, 'Is she blind to her image?'
The standoff between Dr. Harold and Bayo was electric, a silent clash of wills. Dr. Harold's smirk was sharp as he taunted, "For one so unrefined, you wield insolence with finesse." He laced his tone with biting sarcasm.
Bayo's gaze was a silent challenge, his quietude not born of deference but disdain for the man before him.
The air crackled with tension as Bayo's stare bore into Dr. Harold, who edged closer, his hand raised in a threatening arc. Yet, Bayo's response was a mere deflection, his eyes never leaving Harold's.
"Should you seek a sparring partner, perhaps the construction of a gymnasium would be more apt," Bayo's retort was a frigid whisper, tinged with the sharpness of frost.
Dr. Harold's pride swelled into a wave of annoyance; to him, Bayo was but a blemish upon his world, unworthy of his space. This charade was more than a mere act — a quest for dominance.
As Dr. Harold's hand cut through the air, intent on its mark, Dr. John arrived, a barrier to the brewing storm. "What purpose does his presence serve?" Dr. Harold spat out, his voice a venomous cascade.
In the wake of their exchange, a silence descended, thick and palpable. It was a canvas of anticipation, every eye fixed on Dr. John, every mind wondering which words would break the stillness.
In that charged silence, Ms. Anderson's frustration erupted, her desk bearing the brunt of her ire. The room paused, all eyes on her clenched form.
Dr. John's voice cut through, "What troubles you, Mary?" His eyes narrowed, seeking clarity amidst the chaos.
"The project's fate hangs by a thread," Ms. Anderson declared, her words biting the air, a testament to their collective dread.
Dr. John's facade was a mask of stoicism, yet his thoughts raced in search of answers. He had enlisted Bayo as a beacon of hope amidst their impasse, trusting in his potential to illuminate their path forward.
With the precision of a chess grandmaster, Dr. John had orchestrated the project's every maneuver, his eyes fixed on the Nobel Prize — a promise to crown him with academic nobility. The margin for error was nonexistent.
"We have allotted Bayo a solitary week to traverse the literary labyrinth," Dr. John declared, his voice a bastion of resolve as he surveyed the room with an imperious gaze.
Bayo met his stare, a silent storm brewing, yet before words could form, he silenced him. "Has Betty not conveyed this?" Dr. John's question hung in the air, laden with the expectation of shared confidence.
A wave of desolation crashed over Bayo, his clenched fist an emblem of his dawning realization — betrayal was a familiar specter, its presence an expected shadow.
However, Mrs. Christian's declaration emerged as a gentle breeze in the tense air, "My silence was a shield, not to unsettle his spirit." Her smile pierced the dimness, a lone ray in the encroaching dusk. She exhaled softly, her thoughts a private dance, 'Let the stakes rise, unbeknownst to him, in the play of chance.'
Bayo's gaze upon Mrs. Christian sharpened a silent interrogation of her motives. His past indifference to her was no secret. Bayo was sure she held that knowledge close. Trust was a currency whose value fluctuated through the ages, and Bayo was wary about making rash investments in the face of a nagging temptation.
As twilight draped the city, Dr. John and Ms. Anderson found themselves in a quaint restaurant. The glow of ambient lighting and the soft murmur of conversation enveloped them, a welcome respite from the sterile austerity of their daily grind.
Dr. John appeared more compassionate and understanding, a side of him rarely seen in the office.
The menu at the restaurant was simple and practical, reflecting the aftermath of the war.
Dr. John decided on the Brown sugar meatloaf, a classic recipe that made the most of limited ingredients during the war. Ms. Anderson, on the other hand, opted for cornflake peanut butter cookies.
As the meal unfolded, subtle changes played across Dr. John's countenance, a quiet metamorphosis that went unnoticed by all but Ms. Anderson, who observed the transformation with an air of expected familiarity.
Dr. John's lips curled into a knowing smile, his thoughts adrift in strategic foresight. 'Perhaps Ms. Anderson will conjure the pivotal moment we await. It is prudent to keep her close — the queen in our game of minds.'
"How are you finding it, Mary?" Dr. John asked, reaching out to hold her hand. She hummed in approval.
"Philip, I truly appreciate all your support. Your letters and words of encouragement have kept me going," Ms. Anderson expressed sincerely.
Dr. John chuckled, his words laced with playful manipulation. "Why are you being so formal with me?"
After finishing their meal quickly, they left the restaurant hand in hand. As they walked through a quieter area, Dr. John discreetly handed Ms. Anderson a small pill bottle.
With a touch of secrecy, Dr. John cautioned, "Remember, this is strictly for personal use and not to be used publicly or before you arrive at work."
Ms. Anderson nodded attentively. "I understand the instructions and appreciate the assistance it has provided me." Despite her lack of knowledge about potential consequences, she felt comforted as she accepted the bottle.
With a mischievous chuckle, he whispered, "Imagine using it at night and reminiscing about me!" Ms. Anderson's cheeks turned rosy as she felt a sudden warmth engulf her.
Dr. John meticulously plotted his next move, ensuring he was always steps ahead. His strike was imminent.
Bayo arrived home that evening, exhausted and hungry. Thankfully, the Yoruba government had provided him with money for food, so hunger was not an immediate concern. However, as he lay on his worn-out bed, a sense of restlessness washed over him. It was as if something ominous was looming in the air.
The last time Bayo had felt this way was when they brutally killed his mother during an intertribal war. His father had blamed him for not persuading her to stay away from the farm that day. "If only his father had been more responsible, they could have avoided such a tragedy," Bayo muttered.
Unable to shake off the feeling, Bayo got up from his bed and hurriedly checked the house for any signs of trouble. He inspected the stove, ensuring it wasn't left unattended or causing a fire hazard. Still, the unease persisted.
Bayo contemplated writing a letter to his family back home, but he knew it would take weeks to reach them.
Bayo's mind conjured an image of his second brother, a towering figure who pointed an accusing finger at him and sneered, "Your warnings are as futile as your existence." This brother harbored a deep-seated resentment towards Bayo, begrudging the fact that Bayo stood to inherit their modest family farm.
Despite their father's palpable disdain for Bayo — a sentiment he had instilled in all his sons — it was an unspoken truth that Bayo, as the eldest, was destined to inherit what little they had. Roused from his reverie by the weight of this reality, Bayo exhaled a weary sigh. He knew too well that confiding in his siblings would only invite ridicule; they would brush off his genuine concerns as mere trifles. With a heart laden with sorrow, he retreated to the solitude of his bed.