KINI

You know you're a white man. Your name is Jason Fox. An American from Asheville.

Last week, when I thought I was almost losing my mind from going through the hustle and bustle of Lagos, my younger sister Martha told me of your company. She said there was vacancy for a coffee server.

"Is that a job?" I had asked in amazement.

'You know companies that oyibo people own, they can decide to employ a cleaner and a duster at the same time. Meanwhile, one person can do all these things o.' Martha said to me during dinner.

I am not a graduate. I didn't go to the university. But I had an opportunity to go through secondary school. I have my West African School Certificate, so, I came to your office for employment since that was the criteria.

I stood against the wall and held both hands to my chest as the receptionist said they had closed entry for the day. Then I saw you, you asked me why I was there. Your English was accented. But I heard your words, not too clearly. It was as if you were speaking through your nose.

You are such a fine man. You look like mammy water, whatever they call the male version of them, I don't know, but you look like something that shouldn't be allowed to walk on the streets of Lagos like that.

'Sir, I came all the way from Apapa down here, and the receptionist said they've close entry for the interview,' I said these words as if I was about to cry. But you looked at me with so much pity.

'Interview for what?' you asked.

'For coffee server sir,' I replied.

'Follow me,' you said as I walked hastily behind you, wiping away the tears in my eyes.

I wasn't comfortable anymore, the black stiletto heel shoes I'd borrowed from Martha made me walk like statues would do if they walked--like I was about to break into two pieces.

'What's your name?' you asked as you settled on your black leather chair. Your office smelt of America; of Autumn and vanilla bean. Something foreign, something good that I have never perceived before.

'My name is Kini,' I said.

'Do you know how to make different types of coffee?' you asked. I nodded uncertainly.

But you knew I wasn't sure.

'It's okay, I will bring in someone who will teach you how to make at least, ten different types of coffee,' you said, breaking down your words so that I could understand every one of them.

'Thank you sir.'

'You'll resume on Monday, and again, you'll get your employment letter from Shola the receptionist. You can go now Kini, have a nice day,' you said.

The way you called my name made me laugh. I walked home that day, thinking of my new job in one of the biggest magazine companies in Nigeria.

Martha was excited. But not after she realized I had broken the heel of her shoe, she frowned.

'I am sorry.'

'But you know you're usually not comfortable in high heels, you should have worn your slippers or flat shoes,' Martha complained.

'I don't have. I have only four pairs of shoes, and they've all degummed.'

Martha was frowning, until she saw a shoe repairer, whom she paid twenty naira to fix the shoes.

On Monday, my new work at your company resumes, and I am thinking of what to wear. Blouse and skirt or my old jean and shirt? My ebony dark skin will shine under the early morning sun after I apply petroleum jelly Vaseline all over it.

My natural hair will be combed or weaved all back. We call it the 'simbi' style.
My hair is now at my chest--plenty, very long, black and shiny. The people on my street say I should start selling the shea butter I add to my hair, people would want to buy and make their hair be like mine. But I only came across it once in a while, only when we visited our grandmother in the village. She made cocoa butter and shea butter for a living.

Working from my street to the bus stop was quite far. I was familiar with the bus conductors and agbero boys. They called me 'blacky' or 'Agbani'.

'Pesin wey no dey chop food na like this e dey be,' a woman selling food by the roadside said as I stumbled on a stone and fell flat on the sandy floor. I was heading back home from Usman's dry-cleaning shop. I had gone to iron my white gown for my new work at your company.

And on my first day at work, Shola gave me a little corner by the kitchen. She looked proud, and rude. She was as yellow as a pawpaw, and the colored hair she wore made her look like those mannequins I passed by at Balogun market.

'The man who will teach you how to make coffee will arrive soon,' she said, looking down on my red flat shoes. Yes, it wasn't original, it wasn't designers like hers, but it fitted me.

'And by the way, you forgot to get your appointment letter,' she said and handed a neatly folded paper to me. 'Do you know how to read?' she asked.

'Of course,' I replied, disappointed by her question. This receptionist of yours thought everyone who spoke English wore red lipsticks and bleaching cream like her.

I opened it, and when I saw that my salary was going to be forty thousand naira in a month, I smiled to myself. Now, I would be able to send money home to mama.

Link: https://africanfictions.com/flash-fiction/caffeine-chapter-2/