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It was past four o’clock on a very sunny afternoon in
Victoria Island, Lagos, when I was finally ushered into
this tastefully furnished and well-arranged office. The
office is a personification of the word, cozy.
Everything in sight had a statement to make and they
make bold statements. The ebony-dark lady at the
other side of the table, dressed in dapper sky blue
shirt and donning thick, black-rimmed nerd glasses
motioned at me and then pointed at a black leather,
well-padded seat just in front me and directly
opposite her position. Her black jacket was hanging
on a steel hanger just by her side not too far from a
side table on which an enlarged picture of her, sat so
beautifully. The white shirt she wore in the picture
was so immaculate that I wondered if it was
purchased for the sole purpose of that picture. Her
table, the main table which had a couple of files
neatly arranged at the centre effectively played the
barrier between two of us.
This was the second time we would be meeting in as
much as two weeks; the first time was the final leg of
our interview where she drilled me until I told her it
would be a privilege to work with her and learn from
her wealth of experience. I just needed to say that to
diffuse the tension that had built following the
barrage of questions she asked that I wasn’t sure I
effectively dealt with.
I left that interview feeling a little depressed because
I wasn’t sure I fared well. However, here I am for
another interview or like they put it, ‘a chat’. I was
sent to her office for the chat since I would be
working with her if she gave a final nod of approval
for my employment. I was a bit nervous as I walked
into Miss B’s office given by last experience. I guess
she noticed and decided to make our chat a little
casual. The number of candidates that came for this
last leg was a cut down size of the mammoth crowd
that had besieged the reception area on our first two
visits.
I listened to Miss B as she reeled out why I was
ushered into her own office and not to the any of the
offices I had gone to during the course of the first set
of interviews. She mentioned to me how impressive I
sounded and how I was able to convince the
panellists that I was the right man for the job. I
thought she was going to say something about my
last interview with her but she chose not to. She was
flipping through a copy of Harvard Business Review
magazine that was delivered to her almost at the
same time as I was stepping into her office. Miss B
did not mince words as she hammered home some
messages, salient messages. She spoke as if she was
going to select me for the job. I remember my heart
began to beat faster than it was beating when I
walked into her office.

Continue reading @ www.jamolon.com/2016/05/how-i-became-my-boss-sex-slave-part-one.html?m=1

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