EPISODE TWO

“Kindly take a seat Sir, Dr. Ababio will be with you shortly”.

Okay, before you all start panicking; there’s absolutely nothing wrong with me. Your favourite Mufu is hale and hearty. Truth is, I’m only here at the behest of my boss; and this “Doctor” Ababio person is not even a real doctor. He’s just a psychiatrist. Oh, wait a minute. He must be a psychologist. Definitely. Because I am not an insane person. The events that occurred last week could have happened to anybody, and I’m sure that when you hear my side of the story, you would agree with me that this is just one great misunderstanding.

The first incident occurred at the bus stop on my way to work last week. For some reason, the buses were slow in coming and there was already a sizeable crowd waiting by the time one eventually came sputtering around. After a fierce struggle, I was about to claim the last seat on the bus when someone grabbed my shirt and yanked me backward into the throng.

In my defence, I was already running late; and I had been waiting and sweating for almost twenty minutes for that bus to arrive. So it’s quite understandable that I got angry and swung at the direction I was being pulled. It was only an unfortunate coincidence that a woman got in the way of my fist and got knocked out senseless.

Of course, this also meant that everyone else effectively lost their senses. As I was apologising profusely, the women were snatching at me and screaming “O ti pa o!! Were!! Officer jati jati yi ti pa omolomo!!!” while the men were rolling up their sleeves in preparation for an extended session of panel beating.

My life was beginning to flash before my eyes when almost simultaneously, the woman regained consciousness and another molue arrived at the scene. And judging by the look on most faces, it was difficult to tell which they were most disappointed by. Fortunately, this mostly left them with no choice but to cast withering looks at me and board the bus.

Now, I was a little tense from all that excitement and -I must admit- my bowels were a little loose. The intermittent expulsions of flatulence from between my tightly clenched cheeks certainly did nothing to abate the general feeling of animosity towards me either.

After what felt like fifteen years, we eventually got to my stop and almost everyone disembarked. Pressed as I was, I immediately hastened towards my office which was not more than five minutes away. In my hurry, I accidentally collided with someone and we both went sprawling. Me into the dirt, she into the gutter; and what would you know, it was the same woman.

I’m not a coward, but I was not overly curious to stick around and find out if it was humanly possible for a person to look like pounded yam; so I tossed my shoes aside, put on a burst of speed, dashed to my office with an irate mob in tow and locked myself in a storage closet.

I don’t know what transpired between the mob and my boss, but after they dispersed, he summoned me to his office and he was so irate that he didn't listen to a word I said but instead suspended me for a week and ordered me to get a compulsory psychiatric evaluation.

So here I am a week later, in a psychiatrist’s psychologist’s waiting room talking to you guys; and I can see that the assistant is heading in my direction. I think the good doctor is finally ready to attend to me after all.

See you next week.

Hi. Welcome to my first -and bear with me- weekly series on Nairaland.

All rights reserved, etc etc..


EPISODE ONE

“Mufu! Wake up! Waake up!! And stop pointing that remote at me, you’re going to be late for work!”

*sigh* Forgive me if I sound caustic, but the sound of my wife’s banshee voice first thing in the morning is not even something I would wish on my worst enemy. I mean; I love her and she’s a complete package, but sometimes I wish that package also came with a mute button. Apparently you can’t have your cake and eat it, too.

Let me introduce myself properly. My name is Mufutau T. Oyokun. I am thirty eight years old, married with two kids and I work for TRACE.

Now when I say TRACE, I don’t mean the one you’re thinking about. No. I work for the Traffic Compliance and Enforcement Corps, which is basically the Ogun State version of LASTMA.

Granted, it’s not as robust and impressive a name as mine, but it’s pretty misleading nonetheless. A friend of mine once told me about how my his favourite uncle told me him he had the connections to get him a job at TRACE; so I he went to his office one day high on stupidity, vilified everyone there and flounced out in a blaze of glory. That slowpoke should have done his due diligence first.

Being an officer of TRACE is not an easy job. There’s the long hours under the broiling sun, the muscle fatigue from gesticulating all day like an epileptic AirDancer, and the hours spent in prayer revoking the cocktail of curses I receive daily from all those law breaking morons who should never be allowed on the road unless they’re being taken to a mental hospital.

Admittedly, this leaves me little time and energy to spend with my family but it’s a sacrifice I have to make in order to provide for them. My kids may have more memories of watching me fart blissfully in sweet repose than spending time with them, but it is my hope that they’ll learn to forgive me in time.

But, enough of that; it’s about time I started getting ready for work. I have a feeling today is going to be a wonderful day, and I’m seldom wrong about these things.

To be continued...

"Mufu! Wake up! Waake up!! and stop pointing that remote at me, you're going to be late for work!"

*sigh* I don't mean to