Economic Psychosis

ECONOMIC PSYCHOSIS 

Jeff had always wondered if the people who called into radio shows were real, so on the morning of the 26th, he pulled his small radio close and started listening. 

It was a show on TPR FM, The People's Radio, a new station that recently started in Ibadan. The guest, an expert in macro economics or some thing was talking about the new tax laws and how he thought it would benefit low income people. 

Jeff didn't care about the guest, even if he thought he was full of shit. It was the interviewer Jeff had all the problems with. Jeff hated the guy's voice, the way he punctured his sentences with, "You know," "um." 

Jeff thought the guy's voice sounded like what a terrible violin player would render—strident, grating and utterly abusive to the ears. 

Jeff dialed the number to the show. He wanted to tell the guest the new tax law made a low income earner want to stay low. But he kept getting cut off. Jeff soon started wondering if the interviewer was deliberately cutting him off.  

Finally, his call went through. 

"Please, um, state your name, and where you're calling from," said the interviewer. 

"My name is Jeff. I'm calling from Bodija. Can you hear me?

"Yes, please. Make your contribution to the discussion."

“Okay, I don't believe the new tax law is going to make life better for me. I think it's only going to make me not want to earn up to 800k a year—" 

“How's that?" the guest asked. 

“It's the sheer amount that gets cut off my money when I make more than that a year. Its like a punishment for making more than 800k a year. Besides, what if the whole of the 800k isn't—”

"Hello, Jeff, we can't hear you . . . hello." 

"What? Of course, you can hear me!" Jeff yelled at his phone. "That's what you radio people do when you don't like what a caller is saying! Hello!" 

"Hello, Jeff? Uh, the connection is so bad," said the interviewer. "Um, Jeff, we can't hear you again, you know, um."

Jeff took his phone away from his ear and glared at it. The interviewer's voice was still squeaking out of it like chirping birds. That strident treble made Jeff angrier. 

"Nonsense, he did it on purpose!" Jeff yelled at the radio. " You cut me off, you werey. I will find you!"

—

The name of the interviewer on TPR FM was Ahmed Balogun. On the evening of the 28th, he was just leaving the station for the day. He was about to get into his beat up Corolla when someone appeared behind him. 

"Hello, can I help you?" he asked the stranger. 

"Yes."

Frowning, Balogun said, "Okay, what can I do for you?"  

"I was just wondering how it is that every call you took on your show went smoothly until my turn," Jeff said. "I feel confused. Disabuse my raging brain, please." 

Balogun instantly knew he was talking with a deranged man. He backed away from Jeff who wore brown khaki shirt and pants, thick beards, and eyes with whites that looked too white to not be deranged. Jeff drew closer to him. 

"Did you cut that call off or did you not?" Jeff asked, fuming. 

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Balogun blubbered, “W-who are you?”

“I'm the one Nigerian who you never thought could track you down. I'm the anger of the hungry, the tribulation of the taxed, the blade of the oppressed,” Jeff chanted. He pulled from inside his khaki shirt a koboko. “And I'm here to teach you a thing or two about taxes. Are you formidable, hm? Are you a formidable interviewer?"

Jeff raised the koboko, then released it. There was a sound like a fast traveling bullet and Balogun jumped on the hood of his Corolla, arching his back and screaming: "Help! Help!" 

—

Jeff stared at the police officer. It was the afternoon of the 31st. He hasn't eating anything since he was arrested on the 28th. The officer said, "You're going to court. You'll need a lawyer.”

“I don't need a lawyer.”

"You don't have a choice," the officer replied. “I'm going to let you call your family.”

“I want to beg him."

“What?”

“The radio man—let me just beg him and we'll forget this whole unfortunate thing.”

The officer laughed, shaking his head. "He's in the hospital. With a severely lacerated back. Your handiwork." 

"Really?" Jeff grinned. “Ah, okay. Just lock me up then."

The officer's mouth dropped open. "Are you crazy?”

“What do you think?” Jeff asked, laughing. And laughing. And then he was bawling.

END.