Inside Oga's house*

We entered the Oga’s antechamber, ushered in by men in suits. Men in full “one thousand two thousand” kaftan arrangements stood about, sat on plush sofas or on the fluffy carpet. They were evidently very important people, and we were all waiting for the man.
This was the second, inner, waiting room. Without was a shabbier room, all tiles and a big flat screen TV with football on. Big burly men sat around discussing one thing or another in loud voices. Everyone had to take off their shoes before entering the inner chamber.
I sat down where they told me. My colleague’s friend tried to sit on the adjacent sofa.
“Upupupupup! No, that is Oga’s seat. You cannot sit there.” Her bottom didn’t even touch the velour cover before she was up and scurrying to another perch. It was the seat opposite the television. Everyone turned back to their conversation and waited for the man to enter.
I studied the wall opposite. There were two pictures on the wall. One was of a fair skinned man and his wife in front of a cruise ship. It was the kind of picture they sell for £15 on the first night of a Caribbean cruise, the only day anyone bothers to wear a tuxedo to dinner. The other was of the man in a cap and matching boubou holding something in his hand. I couldn’t see what it was at first, but after a moment I noticed the man appeared to be sitting in a hospital. The package he’s just been handed was a little baby. The man was so happy, it looked like he had just delivered the baby himself. The mother was nowhere to be seen.
Below, resting on the floor, were a number of painted portraits of Oga. One was on wood and seemed to be an award but I couldn’t see what for. I didn’t think it mattered.
I picked up a piece of paper next to me. It was a list of the man’s achievements. These included being “a renowned jinx breaker”.
My colleague took one of the papers and instinctively began correcting syntax mistakes with his biro and shaking his head. He gave up after the first two lines with a “harrumph”.
Fat men in pyjamas sat on the floor, like teddy bears dumped by a petulant child. Their bellies sagged in their pink clothes, their chubby bare feet stuck out, legs akimbo. The carpets were a gaudy pink and black. The TV was sitting on a painted wooden cabinet, the type I’d seen them make on the side of the road. I’d heard those workshops called Fikea, fake-Ikea. Come to think of it, I’d seen those carpets for sale at the side of the road too. Hanging from a tree, if I remember right.
I chatted to the man next to me. Apparently he was an “opinion former”. He was there to present a pledge for a number of votes that he could guarantee. I asked him how much he wanted for that promise. He said: “I do not want anything. But if they offer, I will take.”
I see.
All of a sudden there was a whirlwind of aides and hangers on and Oga arrived. He floated in, gliding through the door in a grey kaftan. Everyone got up and rushed to be the first one to buckle their knees and dip to the floor. He did a once over of all those waiting in the ante chamber and then, while everyone was still standing, clattered through a door in the corner carrying all his aides -still struggling for his attention- with him.
There was a pause and everyone retuned to his seat and the conversation they were having beforehand.
A mosquito had a chance to catch his breath before the door flew open and Oga reappeared, making his way to another door across the room. Everyone leapt to their feet again, but there was no time for another round of prostrations. He was out the sliding door, security and wife in tow.
If anyone knew what was going on they weren’t telling me.

*An 'Oga' is a boss, a big man, a patron