I was so exhausted I could barely see straight as I trudged down the last of the stairs and made my way to the front of my office. My hair was a mess, my face oily, my mood sour as I contemplated the rather long journey homewards .
Lazily I flagged a cab. It slid smartly to a halt in front of me. I gave the driver my directions but he seemed to think he was in Port Harcourt. He called an outrageous sum of money and too exhausted to argue, I quietly moved aside and turned my face away in an obvious search for another cab. He got the message and zoomed off.
As I waited to flag another cab, I saw them: a group of shabbily dressed young men with wild eyes and body odor that travelled the several feet between us to assault my nostrils. Some were smoking joints openly and it was obvious few of them had seen bathwater in days. Their shabby dressing and uncountable number gave me pause and reminded me of a quote stenciled on one of my old tee shirts: never underestimate the stupidity of boys in a group. Sounds harsh at first glance but I've come to learn that when you see groups such as these, they can only egg each other on to mischief and trouble. They stood out like sore thumbs in the metropolitan area and they had to be close to a hundred of them.
I hid my alarm beneath a facade of boredom and kept looking around for a cab.
They began to file past with alternate chants of Sai Baba and Fee Dee Fee (pdp). It was hard to know what party they really belonged to but it was apparent that these were a bunch of thugs turned loose on the town pre-election.
A cab finally drew up and this driver was more reasonable than the last. I allowed a few more of the young men to file past and then I walked up to the cab and reached for the door. I yanked it open just as one more joint-smoking youngster drew even with the door. I winced at the crunching sound as metal slammed into flesh and bone.
He yelped and clutched his thigh even as I also screamed and hastily began to apologise, genuine sorrow coursing through me at his apparent pain.
One of his buddies said, "You don wound my brother." The words were like a signal because three of them promptly left their line and went to lie down on the bonnet of the car.
The "wounded" guy promptly fell sideways onto the roadside in a dead faint. I threw him a petrified look even as my mind reasoned that there was no way a grown man could be knocked out by a small blow to the thigh. The haze of concern lifted when I noticed the cigarette still dangling from his lips.
"Get up joor. You're fine, " I ordered laughing. He promptly bounced to his feet threw me a laughing look of his own and sketched me a mock bow before striding off with his amigos.
I don't mind telling you I breathed a sigh of relief, happy to watch the chanting, laughing lot disappear around the bend.
Morale of the story? No matter how different we are, we always find something to laugh about together.
Sherina (2018)
Tuesday 25 September 2018
Sunday 9 September 2018
BANK AFFAIRS AND CHILDISH INNOCENCE
She was cute as ten buttons in her lovely little flowered frock. Her hair had been styled into a cute little bun atop her little head and her feet were encased in flowered socks and a shiny black shoe. She ran into the compound of the bank flapping her hands with excitement and somehow still managing to maintain her running steps in that charmingly uncoordinated way kids have.
Her father, a staunch Muslim, as apparent from the dark sign on his forehead and his dressing, strode in after her at a much more sedate pace. He called after her and she raced back to his side, snatched a pen from his hand and raced back towards the firmly shut doors of the bank.
She was such a blur of movement it was almost dizzying watching her.
All adults lined before the two ATM machines in the bank's compound turned to watch her in fascination. She was a breath of fresh air; so full of life and vitality and that unnameable quality that makes kids so precious.
The little girl stood expectantly before the bank doors while her father calmly joined the back of the ATM queue, keeping an eagle eye on her.
When the doors didn't open, her little face puckered in a childish pout, her equivalent of a frown, as she banged imperiously on the doors. They still stayed shut and she turned to the appellate court: her father.
I could see her surprise when she saw him standing a good few feet away at the back of the line rather than joining her to command the doors to open.
"Daddy!" She yelled, the command apparent. He was supposed to appear beside her at once and order whoever was in charge to open the doors at once!
He shook his head, surprisingly calm since the rest of us were already fighting giggles. "Today is Sunday. The Bank doesn't work on Sundays," he explained.
She considered it for a minute. I could see the thoughts whirling in her head. Then she demanded, "Why not?"
Her father shook his head, "They just don't."
"But WHY?" the little girl repeated.
Her father sighed, still maintaining his position on the ATM queue as he ordered, "Rahila come back here."
A mutinous expression crossed her face and she morphed into a 'child of anger'. She flung her father's pen onto the inter-locked grounds of the bank's compound.
"I want to enter," she yelled as if that fact wasn't already obvious.
Apparently she was giving us all one last chance to redeem ourselves. When she was met with silent, staring adult faces, she opened her mouth wide in a scream of pure childish rage and let fly.
...And that's how the tantrum started. 😄😄😄
Her father, a staunch Muslim, as apparent from the dark sign on his forehead and his dressing, strode in after her at a much more sedate pace. He called after her and she raced back to his side, snatched a pen from his hand and raced back towards the firmly shut doors of the bank.
She was such a blur of movement it was almost dizzying watching her.
All adults lined before the two ATM machines in the bank's compound turned to watch her in fascination. She was a breath of fresh air; so full of life and vitality and that unnameable quality that makes kids so precious.
The little girl stood expectantly before the bank doors while her father calmly joined the back of the ATM queue, keeping an eagle eye on her.
When the doors didn't open, her little face puckered in a childish pout, her equivalent of a frown, as she banged imperiously on the doors. They still stayed shut and she turned to the appellate court: her father.
I could see her surprise when she saw him standing a good few feet away at the back of the line rather than joining her to command the doors to open.
"Daddy!" She yelled, the command apparent. He was supposed to appear beside her at once and order whoever was in charge to open the doors at once!
He shook his head, surprisingly calm since the rest of us were already fighting giggles. "Today is Sunday. The Bank doesn't work on Sundays," he explained.
She considered it for a minute. I could see the thoughts whirling in her head. Then she demanded, "Why not?"
Her father shook his head, "They just don't."
"But WHY?" the little girl repeated.
Her father sighed, still maintaining his position on the ATM queue as he ordered, "Rahila come back here."
A mutinous expression crossed her face and she morphed into a 'child of anger'. She flung her father's pen onto the inter-locked grounds of the bank's compound.
"I want to enter," she yelled as if that fact wasn't already obvious.
Apparently she was giving us all one last chance to redeem ourselves. When she was met with silent, staring adult faces, she opened her mouth wide in a scream of pure childish rage and let fly.
...And that's how the tantrum started. 😄😄😄
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)