The sins I know

A man close to retirement is visited but a vengeful spirit that calls out his corruption.

Weary, and carrying his backpack by one strap, though not letting it drag on the ground, Boniface lumbered to his usual stop outside his employer’s office buildings. His retirement was only a few weeks away, and he was feeling all of his thirty years of work weighing on him.
There was a thin strip of grey clouds on the horizon, and despite the summer heat it was already growing dark at only 6 pm. He nodded at a figure seated inside a shelter erected on the stop, and sat down himself on its blue bench. The person next to him was whispering something. Boniface glanced thinking that they were on the phone, but he or she had their head down, the hood of their sweatshirt casting shadows around what looked to be a thin face. He inched away from the person worried that they might be mad.
Six college kids crossed the road, and gathered around the stop. Four of them nodded to Boniface, but ignored the hooded figure. They also didn’t seem bothered by his whispering. The figure tilted its head in his direction, and he could hear now that it was whispering a series of numbers.
One grouping of numbers caught his attention, “1,2488,000”.
Strange. That sounded just like the amount of the latest tender for water meter installations in the Gaborone area. A tender he himself had been the final signatory on.
“ 498, 898.”
Wasn’t that the amount for the procurement of branded clothing. Another procurement tender he had taken part in.
He leaned in to get a better look at the figure and spied, a skeletal man, it seemed masculine, with dry yellow skin, covered in tattoos of numbers that seemed to writhe and spin. The man parted his lips to show two rows of black teeth.
“18, 981.”
The image of a used printer unfurled in his mind. That damn printer. It had only worked a week before breaking down.
“Hey chief, are you going to the bus rank!?”
He gave a start. He hadn’t even noticed the combi stop in front of him. He leapt up, rushing for the door, but once he got a seat at the back the man was gone. The college kids also got on board, still talking amongst themselves, seemingly unbothered by the odd stranger they had shared the stop with. Had he really even been there with them?

The next day Boniface lingered in his office. He checked the clock on his phone again. It was going to get dark soon, but he figured if he waited, maybe he wouldn’t run into that odd man.
At half six, he stood, grabbing his bag and made for the bus stop. There were a pair of women in blazers and skirts idling there alone. His tormenter was nowhere to be seen. He mumbled a greeting at the women, and one of them gave him a half-hearted smile. Legs shaking with exhaustion, he sat at the bench, and the minute he did, he heard the whispering. He leapt up and looked to his right, and there was the same hooded man, head lowered until it almost touched his knees. Numbers rolling off his tongue.
“What do you want with me?” Boniface hissed.
The man stopped his whispering and tilted his head giving Boniface a better look at what lay under the hood. A pair of empty sockets met his gave levelly, though two pinpricks of light gleamed in the darkness.
“297, 6767.” This number recited far louder than the others.
The hotel bill for his minister had ballooned far what had been estimated, but that’s why they relied on Boniface. He was the man who made the numbers dance in their favor.
“It wasn’t my fault,” he said.
If he hadn’t done it they would have asked someone else, and sure there had been kickbacks, but wasn’t he owed for cleaning up other people’s messes.
“Sir?”
He turned to find both women watching him with concerned expressions. The one on the right, a matronly woman with a broad, open face said, “Are you okay?”
“Yes, yes I am,” he said, though his voice shook.
He was relieved when the combi arrived. The pair of women looked at each other, and took seats at the back. Boniface took an empty seat in the middle, not wanting to expose himself to their worried looks. Again, the stranger had vanished.

His dreams had become haunted. The stranger appeared time and time again, reciting numbers as always, each item they related to appearing bright and clear in his mind, until he couldn’t begin to think of himself as anything but a corrupt man.
His work suffered as a result. He sent off documents with no signatures, he stamped others with the wrong date. His supervisor would often appear at his elbow to shake his head, until finally, “Look here Boniface. I know you don’t have that long to retirement, but you really are making a mess of things.”
Chagrined he hung his head sheepishly. There was no excuse.
His supervisor, a man only a five years younger than him, and a new transfer to their department, placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you take the time that’s left finishing up with HR? You haven’t signed your pension papers, right?”
Boniface shook his head, the spark of resentment at being spoken to like a child, dying down to mere embers. He really was tired.
“Do that. I’ll get Clyde to take care of your work,” his supervisor looked two desks down at their sole intern.
The intern, Clyde, dark circles under his eyes, mouthed an assent reluctantly, drawing out the yes. It was while he was staring at Clyde that he heard the voice that had been haunting his dreams.
An octave louder the stranger walked between the rows of desks reciting his numbers. Boniface stood so fast, that his supervisor stumbled.
“Sorry. You know, I think I’ll run over to HR now,” Boniface said.
Before anyone could respond he fled the office.

He ended up going home, pension papers in hand. Looking around his little study, which consisted of a single black table in the corner of his bedroom, across from his double bed. He lingered on the meritorious service awards in their frames. He had been a passionate, serious and honest employee once.
But honesty could never have bought him his P1.4 million home. Another number to add to the weight upon his conscience. He had guessed that the specter stalking him wanted him to confess. He picked up one of the awards, and held it up to the light streaming through the windows in front of him. He could remember how it had made him to receive it, how he had proudly held it up to his colleagues. He could see his reflection in the glass, an old man, childless, and alone, being stalked by his sins. There was no poiny in denying it anymore.
Maybe if he was just honest for once, he would gain some much needed peace. He picked up his cellphone. He had memorised the number from their anti-corruption workshops. He was actually the anti-corruption officer for his department. He dialled the landline just as he remembered it.
After it had rung at least four times someone answered, "Hello, Directorate for Corruption and Economic Crime."
"Hello, this is Boniface Tekere, over at the Ministry od Water and Human Settlement and I would like to report a crime."