CHAPTER FOUR



Well, except the traffic which I should have premeditated, and left earlier.

The gridlock is terrible, as the whole of Lagos seem to be headed in one direction. I look through my rear view mirror, not unfamiliar with the road, I decide to take a short cut through the street on the next turn – I think it leads to the next bus-stop although the exact route is a bit hazy in my memory. The commercial bus behind me follows suit and I stall for the driver to overtake – he’s headed in my direction, this I know from the hollering conductor.

The driver does so in a maniacal frenzy and in a few seconds I can only glimpse its taillight. I sigh, great move on my part, now I either have to speed up to catch up with it or rely on my geographical instinct and pray I don’t wound up lost. I choose the former.

I hear the smash before I see the car.

It’s a strange feeling, I know I did it, I know I should come down first to apologize but I don’t. It’s like I’m watching a movie or hearing Sophia re-encounter her latest driving feat – the one about the appearing car. Then I thought it was an exaggeration, now I know that a car can really just appear.

The car halts mid-road. I have never been a sucker for cars and brands but I can indisputably state that this particular one costs a fortune, probably worth our house, our car, and our store – well, all moms’… I’ve got nothing.

Then he climbs down and walks around the back.

I’m not sure which of the reason I’m somewhat relieved, the fact that it’s a “He,” not a “She” or the fact that he looks too young to be driving, much more…in that car. He probably took it from his dad without permission. For a moment I forget about my interview and step out of the car.

He stares at me and I glare back.

“I’m sorry. You should watch the road when you’re driving.” I say in the tone of voice Mom used in admonishing me when I was younger and had done something wrong.

His eyes narrow into slits and I’m suddenly aware of how beautiful he is – not handsome, beautiful. “You ran into me, Lady.” He sneers at the word lady.

He’s a head taller and could probably be my age, now that I’m standing so close. “You appeared out of nowhere.”

“Listen to yourself.”

“See…I’m sorry about your Dad’s car, I really am but I can’t stay here and haggle with you. I have a very important meeting.” I stress the meeting part, so he would know that unlike him – obviously high born and bred, people actually worked for money and not live on their parent's wealth and drive around in their expensive rides (I see the irony of this, but my case is different).

He’s about to say something, but the honks from other vehicles come blaring out reminding us that we are in the middle of the road. He takes one last look at his broken rear lights and walks back to his car without saying a word.

He drives off and relief floods me. That could have gone a whole lot worse. I’m sitting in the car about to start the ignition when I remember I didn’t even check the damage I had inflicted on mom’s car. Just as I’m about to reverse back to the main road, a new bus passes –at a reasonable speed, and I follow at a fair distance.

Innovative Technology Limited is as big and amazing as I had imagined. It looks exactly like it did on the website. Now my only prayer is I won’t be walked out for arriving ten minutes behind schedule. The automated sliding door opens and the interior is a consortium of white and steel. I walk over to the receptionist, I tell her I have an appointment with the CSI Manager and I’m sorry I’m late. She says I’m in luck as he hasn’t arrived yet and then she ushers me through a corridor which opens up to a lounge where I would wait until I am called for.

They are two other persons here, a girl and a guy. The tension budding up in me eases up as soon as I see them. We all exchange pleasantries, though the girl – her name is Adanna keeps stealing distrustful glances at me.

The receptionist returns, calls my name and directs me through an opposite door, down a cubicled passage. I am being expected in the third room by the left. There is a look on her face, I can’t quite place.

Standing in front of the door, I smoothen imaginary creases on my outfit, take five deep breaths and knock.

No response. I take that as an affirmative. Opening the door, I walk in.

Nothing could possibly have prepared me for the shocker I meet. Of all days to bash a car, and of all the people to bash their cars, it was on the day of my interview, and my interviewer’s.

Next update in a couple of hours.

I’m standing across from him, and his expression is as grim as the leather chair he is sitting on. I could just turn back and walk away, but what’s worse than not trying is almost trying and so clearing my throat, I repeat not verbatim the words I had said to the receptionist, “I have an appointment with the CSI Manager and I was directed to this office.”

He keeps quiet for an unbearable twelve seconds and I have to bite my tongue to prevent it from operating on its own volition. He gestures for me bring my documents but still doesn’t ask me to sit. I hand the file over to him and sit anyway. He glares at me and a scowl appears. I imagine he’d tell me to stand. I’m so certain the thought crosses his mind, but he won’t, he’s too much of a gentleman.

Finally, he looks away from me, down to my documents and then shoves it to the side of his desk. “We’d get back to you.”

“Is that it?”

His eyes narrow. “Yes Maam –“

“It’s Anita Okorie.”

He continues like he didn’t hear me, “– Ma’am, that would be all for now. If you’re selected for the position, we’d get back to you.” He must be doing it intentionally to taunt me because of how older I tried to sound earlier.

“This was supposed to be an interview, not CV submission. Look, I’m sorry for bashing your car, mine didn’t come out whole from the collision either. But I don’t think my educational pursuits should be hampered by my driving skills or lack of.” Faulting myself to appease him doesn’t seem to be helping, he maintains his poker face.

“Call the next person on your way out.”

My pent up frustration is manifested by the force in which the door gets in contact with its frame. The writer of the phrase ‘Bad things happen in three’ must either be a fore-seer or own a time machine. Two nonentities I’d rather not think about now.

I have every intention of walking out without saying a word, but Philip was really nice and he has this expression like he knows something went wrong and is genuinely sorry and so I say, “Philip you’re next.” He flashes a reassuring smile, and I try to reciprocate. Adanna faintly snickers as I walk out of the lounge but seeing as I might never see her again, I couldn’t be bothered.

CHAPTER FIVE



“Mom, did you hear what I just said?” It’s a good thing I just arrived and the incorrigible law of see-finish hasn’t kicked in yet, but Mom’s reaction to the news is far from what I had expected. I had imagined she’d shout at me or maybe give me one of her epic eye cutting. Anything but this.

“I heard you and I said I’d call the mechanic tomorrow or would you rather take it there yourself?”

Sales must have really been good. I join her and sit on the arm of the single seater where she is recording stock, “Why aren’t you getting angry? You’re acting suspicious mom, is there something you’re not telling me?”

She laughs, “You have a problem. I’m just glad you didn’t maim yourself.”

“How much did we make today?” I ask, trying to snatch a printed paper from the stool in front.

She gently slaps the back of my hand. “Stop distracting me, haven’t you done enough damage today? By the way, how did the interview go?”

That puts me in check. I walk to her bed and slump on it. “Terrible.”

She looks up from the papers, “What happened?”

“I met the most stuck up, baby-faced unforgiving guy in the world.”

“What did meeting him have to do with the interview?”

“He was the one who interviewed me.”

Mom stares at me like she knows I’m indulging filtered information. “What did you do?”

“What makes you think I did anything wrong?”

“Because I’m your mother.”

“Right.” I roll my eyes.

“So what did you do, or say, or not do?”

“The little accident I had…he was the receiving party.”

“Speak English.”

“Mom are you trying to make me feel better or worse?”

“None of the above, I’m am only asking a straight forward question and expecting a straight forward answer in reply.”

“It was his car I rammed into.”

“Ahhh.” She mouths with feigned surprise. “And were you expecting him to offer you a cold drink when you got to his office?”

“I apologized.”

Her eyes laugh, “I’m sure you did.”

“Well he can take his job and shove it down – “I remember its mom I’m talking to and not Sophia “– his car boot. I have already sent my application letter to three other firms. Hopefully, they don’t take too long in getting back to me.” None as high tech as ITL, but half bread is better than none.

“Hopefully you don’t run them off the road again when they do too.”

“Thanks mom, you’re the best.” I say drily.

“I know.”

A couple of book keeping later, Mom is resting by the head of her king sized bed, while I am stretched out beside her, my legs to the head of the bed and my head to the foot of the bed, a pillow propped under. She pretends to watch the show on the walled-in television but I can tell she’s bothered about something.

“Mom what is it?”

She stirs, “What is what?”

“That forlorn look on your face, the volume of the TV isn’t audible, so don’t tell me it’s the depressing news airing.”

“What would you think if I re-married?” Her question takes me unawares, and I’m grateful for the dim light which hides the shock on my face.

“It depends,” I say, and she straightens up.

“Depends on what?”

“If I like him or not.” A furrow appears on her forehead. “I’m kidding mom. If you really want to and you’re ready to give marriage a second trial.”

“If the guilt lets me.”

“Mum, you don’t have to feel guilty about anything, if anybody, you deserve another chance at love.” Love? well…

“So you wouldn’t mind if I remarry?” There’s a tilt to her voice, which I figure is relief.

“I would mind if you don’t.” That’s not completely true, I had mom all to myself for the most of my life, and we’ve been through so much together. It makes me apprehensive thinking of the eventualities: Mom starting over with a new man, changing her name, selling the house to live in his, seeing less of her, she…having another child, me having to get used to calling that other child my sibling. But it’ll be really selfish of me to bring that up because I know for a fact that Mom waited this long solely because of me.

“It’ll change a lot of things.”

“Like yearly dinners with Dad? Because if yes, I am a 100% percent up for it.”

“You only get to see your Dad twice a year and that’s just because I force you to. Now you want to reduce the number?”

“I’m old enough to decide if I want him in my life or not and my decision still remains, he’s better out of my life than in it.”

“Someone would hear you outside and think I poisoned your mind against him, they wouldn’t know the opposite is the case. He’s still your Dad Anita, no matter what he did. If I can forgive him…you should. Remember you don’t choose family, whether you accept it or not, his blood still runs through your veins.”

“I have Mom, but it’s not exactly easy to forget when for the half part of your life you were someone else and the other half, you’re another.” It’s not easy to let go of the nagging thought that maybe if you had been a boy instead of a girl, your dad might have fought to keep you…

“I shouldn’t have done it.” A shadow appears over her oval face. “I shouldn’t have changed the name. It was selfish and unthoughtful of me.”

“Well I’m glad you did and you shouldn’t have any regrets about having done so. He can give the name to those who care for it.” I scoff, “Won’t be surprised if that wasn’t his real name.”

“Anita!”

“He’d lied about everything else, so I’m just saying…I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“He is your father and you shouldn’t talk about him that way.”

“Fine. I’m sorry. But people should learn to deal with the consequences of their mistakes. I can’t hide my mouth just so he won’t feel less than what he does feel – if he does feel anything.” I turn to my side and pretend to sleep until I fall asleep.

I wake up to the sound a little paper crackling on my cheek. I feel for it and hold it up. It’s a note from mom with the heading; ‘Deal with the consequence of this mistake,’ right under the blocked text is a phone number I assume to be that of the mechanic. I sigh, “Very petty Mom, very petty.”

Following 100%. Lemme call my people
Evajael, marianneada, queenitee, stephengee12, kimberlywest, pamelb, hadampson... My boo gtin, and my buddy Kayo80.

Following 100%. Lemme call my people
Evajael, marianneada, queenitee, stephengee12, kimberlywest, pamelb, hadampson, maybelconor, swankmee, shalomdee... My boo gtin, and my buddy Kayo80.
Lleigh, hardeygbolar, Lesky3, u aint left out too.

This piece is so engaging. And hilarious. You're the cräck, miss!

MhizDherbee:
Following 100%. Lemme call my people even when they dont think i'm one of 'em.

You forgot me.

OluwabuqqyYOLO:
You forgot me.

Sorry boo!

MhizDherbee:
Following 100%. Lemme call my people even when they dont think i'm one of 'em.
Evajael, marianneada, queenitee, stephengee12, kimberlywest, pamelb, hadampson, maybelconor, swankmee, shalomdee... My boo gtin, and my buddy Kayo80.
Lleigh, hardeygbolar, Lesky3, u aint left out too.

Thanks namie!!!

OluwabuqqyYOLO:
This piece is so engaging. And hilarious. You're the cräck, miss!

Thanks dear! glad you liked it.

MhizDherbee:
Sorry boo!

I no vex again, belle. *chuckles seductively*

Debbietiyan:


Thanks dear! glad you liked it.

Kizzes.

MhizDherbee:
Following 100%. Lemme call my people even when they dont think i'm one of 'em.
Evajael, marianneada, queenitee, stephengee12, kimberlywest, pamelb, hadampson, maybelconor, swankmee, shalomdee... My boo gtin, and my buddy Kayo80.
Lleigh, hardeygbolar, Lesky3, u aint left out too.

present

MhizDherbee:
Following 100%. Lemme call my people even when they dont think i'm one of 'em.
Evajael, marianneada, queenitee, stephengee12, kimberlywest, pamelb, hadampson, maybelconor, swankmee, shalomdee... My boo gtin, and my buddy Kayo80.
Lleigh, hardeygbolar, Lesky3, u aint left out too.

Am present boo

MhizDherbee:
Following 100%. Lemme call my people even when they dont think i'm one of 'em.
Evajael, marianneada, queenitee, stephengee12, kimberlywest, pamelb, hadampson, maybelconor, swankmee, shalomdee... My boo gtin, and my buddy Kayo80.
Lleigh, hardeygbolar, Lesky3, u aint left out too.

Thanks for the mention dear. Ayam not understanding what you mean by we don't think you're part of us

Debbietiyan:

Thanks namie!!!

Uw swt@

EvaJael:

Thanks for the mention dear. Ayam not understanding what you mean by we don't think you're part of us

Dnt mind me... Hope ure free to update now? Anxiety z killing my younger sister. She wants to knw wen ull update

MhizDherbee:
Dnt mind me... Hope ure free to update now? Anxiety z killing my younger sister. She wants to knw wen ull update

Awwwn my regards to her. I've updated

CHAPTER SIX




The days roll into weeks. When I’m not locked in my room discovering new life hacks or surfing the Internet, I go ahead with mom to the supermarket where I help organize new orders or just sit around in her office using up her Wifi to download movies I never get around to watch. It’s nice, and then overpowering, and then frustrating having so much time to yourself but knowing absolutely nothing useful to do with it.

We are returning home from the store, Mom is driving and I’m in the passenger’s seat of the car. When mom asked if it was for her to be re-married, I thought she had asked so out of sheer curiosity, I didn’t know she had someone – much more some who’d already asked her hand in marriage. A tiny voice sings in my head, maybe, if you hadn’t consented, she would have just let things lie; never attempting to bring it up again. I wave off the conceited voice. I still stand by my words.

“How long have you known him?”

“About three years now.”

I turn to stare at her, my eyes theatrically expanded to twice their size, “Mom how come I’d never even heard of him until now?”

“Because he was just my regular customer then.”

“Ohh, so when did you start dating?”

“Why is this starting to feel like an interview?”

“Because it is. And mom you better impress me.” I say with a straight face.

She laughs.

“I wouldn’t call it dating. Dating is for kids like yourself. When you grow older and mature, you’d learn to go for what you want without necessarily beating about the bush. It was more like a consensus – if I could put it that way; I mean we were friends for a while and I respect him, and he does me, it was only recently he showed interest. After voicing it out, we decided on getting to know each other better, two months ago…he proposed.”

“That just it?”

“What were you expecting to hear?”

I sigh exaggeratedly, “Something less old fashion and more –“I close my eyes for effect, gesturing wildly with both hands, “– Va Va Voom!” I open my eyes, smiling. “I’m so happy for you Mom.” Or at least, I think I’m happy. “So when am I meeting him?”

I meet him two days after. Over dinner at one of his restaurant – I found this out after the waiter addressed a complaint to him about a customer in the outer hall and he took permission from us to go sort it out.

I admit I was a bit skeptical about the whole thing, no one is ever going to be good enough for Mom – Dad wasn’t even good for Mom. The only good thing about their marriage is in fact ‘Me,’ and no, that’s not me being narcissistic. But I could tell he really adores her. He’s much older than Mom - I’m guessing he should be in his late fifties. He’s a widower, lost his wife twenty years ago and never remarried. He has two kids, a boy, and a girl. Both studied abroad, one is married and the other just completed his/her studies. At that point, I was more interested in the light tint of his eyes than what he was saying.

He appeared really modest and his charisma would have shone through a metal bucket, but that doesn’t mean I’m already swayed in favour of him.

Time would tell, but in the meantime, I’m really hoping all goes well. Just for the sake of Mom.

My mornings are a ritual. I wake up, check my mail. Head to the bathroom. Get dressed, depending on if I’m staying home or not. Given the former. Prepare breakfast for myself or myself and Mom, if she hasn’t left for work. Check my mail; sigh if there are no new mails. Go to my browser and live there.

This morning is no different, well except that I am half frozen, staring transfixed at my screen.

This must be some kind of joke. I blink and click the refresh icon on my Gmail app. The message still sits at the top of my primary folder.

An acceptance letter into Innovative Technology Limited.

I have a million questions to ask but no one to ask them to. I stifle the urge to send a reply, questioning if the message was sent as a mistake. Surely pretty boy doesn’t have a good thing to say about me, or maybe my résumé spoke a thousand times positively louder in my absence. But that too doesn’t make sense, he should have just tossed it into the bin as soon as I left.

It’s all so confusing but then what if he’s only giving me this job to get back at me, what if at the end he refuses to sign or stamp my log book. I’m not a pessimist but I’m not naïve either. Surely there must be a kick for him in giving me this job because let’s face it, the whole interview – pre and post, was a disaster.

It says to resume on the 15th of June, 2015 – almost a week from now. Exactly three weeks from the day of the interview.

I have less than a week to decide if, or if not to go. But who am I kidding? There are two ways to it though; He could either be so petty as to use the job as a bait to get back at me, or his heart is really as soft as his facial features and making me squirm (well, fume very much describes it)at the interview was deemed punishment enough for me.

CHAPTER SEVEN




We sit staring at each other, I, in smoldering silence, he, in reclusive sufferance at his failed attempts in striking off an open-ended discussion. Mom walks in and sits beside me, she soothes my left leg in what I know is a silent plea for me to be less complacent in my attitude towards him.

He looks older than I last saw him, the hair by his temple has greyed. He is decked in a black lacy material, giving him an air of hieratical divinity.

I laugh at the irony of that, and he smiles weakly at me. I resume my glare, trying really hard to ignore the similarities between the both of us.
This isn’t the regular, scrap that. Scheduled ‘family’ time, they both usually make out time for. It was arranged by Mom for a specific purpose. Something I wouldn’t have missed for the life of me.

Mom gets a bit nervous, her palms are sweaty.

“You look well,” she starts, managing a pale but sincere smile.

“You look really good too Tabbi.” He replies.

How can she still allow him call her that? His gaze shifts from her to me. “The both of you look beautiful.”

I don’t reply. Mom says, “Thank you.”

“How are the kids and your wife?”

A familiar question. Mom asks every single time. Dad replies the exact same way, I could close my eyes and still choreograph the response he’d give: adjust sitting position, succeeding blinking and reply.

“They are fine and they send their regards.” Dad has two boys from his first wife…his only wife. And they are both done with the university. The older one works as a real estate agent and the younger one should be leaving the country for his masters very soon.

This I know, because I might have looked them up on social media, once or twice or maybe ten times.

It’s called falling into curiosity. Nothing sentimental about it.

I must have drifted because now both of them are looking at me.

I look from Mom to Dad and back to Mom “What?”

That’s when I realize there’s a wetness on my cheek. I brush it off, wondering how the hell that happened. “It’s the eye drop, I’ve been working too long on the computer.” Dad lies must have really started to grow on me, or maybe it’s hereditary. “It’s nothing.”

Mom replies in her dialect. “You can go inside, I can handle this.”

A pang of guilt sweeps through me, she thinks I decided to stay because of her. I feel ashamed knowing I should be here to protect her, but instead, my spiteful trident holding mind-attachment just wants to revere in his reaction to the news of Mom getting married.

I reach to clasp my hand in hers. She squeezes gently.

Turning to him, she announces – she thinks she announces, it comes out like a feeble statement. “I’m getting married Ejiro. That’s what I wanted to tell you.”

When Mom told me she was going to tell Dad, I was a bit angry. I told her our lives didn’t revolve around him anymore. I stated it was okay for her to do things she wanted, whenever she wanted without having to involve him. I told her it was justifiable to be happy without him and not depend on his approval. But thinking about it later on, I got selfish and vengeful. What better way to shove him out of our lives than throwing Mom’s marriage news in his face? And so, I got back to Mom and apologized, assuring her that telling him was quite sensible. Meanwhile looking forward to the satisfaction of seeing his reaction.

Dad looks momentarily shocked, his lower lips droop for a fraction of a second and he clenches his jaw. It could just be me or his lower lip is actually trembling. He seals his lips to form a flat line, and he clears his throat.

“Congratulations Tabbi.”

I don’t feel satisfied. Far from it. I am Furious.

Who the hell does he think he is? “Congratulations Tabbi.” I mime “Tabbi?” I repeat, getting up.

Mom tries to hold me down, but I wriggle her arm off. “What right do you think you have to call her that?”

He’s taken aback, he looks at me but says nothing.

This infuriates me the more, “What fucking right do you think you have?” Mom screams my name but I pay her no attention. My sight is blurred, but I find my way to him and scream, “Get out of our house. You shouldn’t be here!”

I don’t see him get up, I don’t see him leave. I don’t see anything, blinded by my tears… I run out into my room and lock up my door. Mom comes to knock afterward bearing dinner. I know I messed up, big time.

I don’t open but I slip her an ‘I’m sorry’ note through the gap between the door and its bottom frame.

It’s a thing Mom and I do.

When words don't suffice, we scribble.

I wake up at midnight. I reach for the little mirror by my bedside and peek into it, the reflected image doesn’t look familiar. I trace the protrusion under my eyes, and head to my mini fridge to get a bottle of water to suppress the swell. I start at the firm in a couple of hours. The last thing I want is for pretty boy to see me this way.

Pretty boy? Why is the first person who comes to mind? I walk back to bed and placing the bottle across my face. I close my eyes, wallowing in its numbing effect.

The morning light falls in streaks into my bedroom, painting golden stripes on my white washed walls. I get up groggily, feeling a little light-headed, nothing a hot cup of lipton wouldn’t fix. I’m heading to the kitchen when scenes from the previous day come pouring back to me. Why the hell was I even crying? My flow is due in three days, it must be the stupid hormones.

My thought drifts instantly to Mom. Mom is so sensitive, I shouldn’t have acted so brashly. I lost control. I seldom lose control. Making a U-turn, I steer to her bedroom instead.

The bed is made and mom is nowhere in sight. I glance towards the wall clock, it’s a little past seven. I walk up to the window, shift the curtains and peek into the compound. Her car is still packed downstairs–

“Jeez! Mom you scared me.” She walks into the room, sipping warm water from the long glass.

She stares weakly at me. “How are you feeling?”

Her eyes look strained, almost like she hadn’t gotten any sleep. I drag my feet towards her. “Mom, I’m sorry.”

She waves me off. “Haven’t you got to get ready for work or training or whatever?”

“Mom…”

She exhales, nodding slightly. “Fine, we’d talk about it when you get back.”

I give her a quick hug and dart towards the door.

“You can take the car.” She calls after me.

“I’m sure you need it more Mom.” I call back. I hear a faint chuckle and realize she meant it as a joke.

I glance over at Adanna as she takes notes furiously, trying to look as attentive as she can, her caked up face makes it funny and I try not to laugh, I bet she hasn’t gotten three lines in, of anything he said. She notices my stare and looks up to face me, I frown and nod curtly at her.
She throws her face and stares confusedly at her note pad for a second, trying to resume her train of copious writing.

“You would all be shown around the complex and introduced to the various staffs. Your Identity cards are been prepared as we speak and should be ready in say, two days, these when received, should be worn at all times. You all are required to read the company’s code of conduct, and adhere strictly to it. Every information you need to know is documented in the files you all hold in your hand, but in case you have further inquiries or any suggestion. My door is always open.” Mr. Korede finishes. He is one of the CSI managers and would be directly in charge of us.
Mr. Korede smiles briefly and nods, in response to our greeting of appreciation as he leaves the room.

Philip gets up from his chair, walks over to me and raps gently on my system. “Good to see you again.”

“Good to see you too.” I reply as he sinks into the seat beside me.

The room is fairly big. A large mahogany table sits in the center surrounded by eight red velvet padded chairs. A marker board is fixed on the opposite wall which; from the presence of the projecting device hanging from the ceiling, is used in ordonnance with the board.
We are five interns in the room, two I already met weeks back, three I only just introduced myself a couple of hours ago; Hakeem, Daniel, and Alphonso. We are all seated around the three sides of the table. The three guys who look strongly acquainted are seated by the farthest end in an engaging conversation with each other. Adanna – who is now busy taking pictures of her oval claws – how she manages to write with them, beats me; is seating by the head of the table. I am seated on the same side of the table as the other guys.

“So what department are you opting for?”

“I didn’t know we were supposed to choose, thought maybe we’d be rotated.”

“Rotated?”

“Yeah, like we’d be trained basically on everything related to the company that has got anything to do with our course.”

“Right.” He laughs, usually, that’s my line. He continues. “We’d even be grateful in they cover 20% of what there are supposed to, well, not supposed to…they are the ones doing us the bigger favour. But no, they aren’t going to go deep into fine tuning us for the job market or turning us into trained experts. Theirs’ is just to expose us, more or less like the actual reason behind SIWES.”

“That makes sense.”

“Yeah, it does, so you have to have like a basic one. Which might or might not have anything to do with the course you studied. As long as it appeals to you and you can defend it. There is no problem; I’m speaking for myself now. I study Physics, but look where I am…In a telecommunication’s company.” If I think there is something wrong with his sense of reasoning, I don’t say anything, but however I do conclude that he either attends a private school or a foreign one, one that encourages student to wholesomely digress into fields that have nought to do with chosen disciple: as long as the enthusiasm to explore is present.

He continues, “It doesn’t really matter sha, seeing as we might spend most of our time in here taking notes.”

More notes? Great “You seem to know so much about the place.”

“A friend of mine did his IT here, got acquainted with the company through him.”

Baby, if they don't commend you, stop posting!

Thank you! @Divepen1, you're the best thing that has happened to this section

OluwabuqqyYOLO:
Baby, if they don't commend you, stop posting!

Aww, you're vexing on my behalf...that's so cute. I don't need a crowd, I just need one person, and besides, I wouldn't have gotten this far in this story if I didn't think I had an obligation to fulfill (posting weekly).

Thanks Love, but I'm good...Promise.

We’re still discussing the training prospects when the door opens. Standing at the entrance is Pretty boy. He looks better and nicer than I remember, which might be due to the fact that his eyes aren’t totally hidden in anger beneath his lashes. He is still wearing the same serious look on his face as of the day of the interview, which admittedly matches perfectly well with his outfit; he is decked in a dark blazer, covering a checkered t-shirt and blue jeans, the overall effect, given him a model on the runway look. He scans the room as he walks in. His gaze drifts to me, and from what I can tell from his placid expression, we couldn’t have met from adams.

Sour grapes, but at least now I know he’s not still angry.

“Welcome to ITL.” Walking to the center of the room, he stops with his back to the board and begins in a brisk tone, a tone which hardly matches the person in which the voice is coming from. “Trust you all have been given the proper Introduction?”

We all have. Echoes of approval are being bass-ed out by the guys when an unnaturally high stringed voice pitched out, “Actually, not really…erm…actually, we are yet to be introduced to the company’s staff, and so an introduction from you wouldn’t be out of place.”

We all turn to the voice source Adanna as she stands to speak, and for a second, I think she has got something blocking her respiratory tract. I pretend not to see her hand go all the way down the hem of her already short skirt and tug at it, making it shrink further up her legs.
If pretty boy notices this, he doesn’t show but goes on to reply her. “You don’t have to concern yourself about me, as you won’t be seeing much of me in this company.”

I’m wondering why she would want a re-introduction from him, as he was the one who interviewed us, and then I remember I don’t even know his name. Seeing as we now work in the same company – well he works, I intern, not like it makes much of a difference. Still, I definitely can’t go around referring to him as P.B. My mouth opens before I have the chance to curtail it, very characteristic of me around pompous guys.

“Considering you came all the way to meet with us, don’t you think you should at least tell us your name?” I finish with a smile I hope to placate the intensity my voice carried with the question. Although I’m still curious as to why he’d come all the way here to tell us not to expect him when we have no idea as to why to even expect him in the first place.

He observes me for a second and looking through the other faces, he nods knowingly and says. “Denola – Denola Andrews.”

“Nice to meet you Mr. Denola.” Adanna mimes coyly. The other guys accompany it with greetings of acknowledgment, except Philip who mutters under his breath. I turn to him and whisper. “What is it?” He doesn’t seem to hear me.

Denola goes on to wish us good radiance on completing our internship and leaves almost as abruptly as he came.

I would have paid more attention to what he was saying, if I wasn’t suddenly so attracted to the mole of the inside of my left wrist, well...truthfully, the abashed feeling that I might have looked exactly the way Adanna had done then, which in one polite word is ‘lost.’

I appreciate good things when I see them, and even though he acts overbearingly snobbish, there’s no denying that he’s worth looking at.

Philip is still soliloquizing. I thump on the table and every one looks up, I wave an apology to them.

“Sorry I was trying to recollect something.”

“What? You were gone for like fifteen seconds.”

“The guy –“

“Pre – Mr. Denola?”

“Denola…Oh, Yes. Him.”

“Okay?”

“He - But it can’t be possible, he’s too young.”

I’m exasperated by his ramblings but too curious to let him off without hearing what he has to say.

“He’s too young to work here?” I suggest.

He laughs humorlessly, “He owns here.”

“Owns here?” I repeat. Pretty boy looks like he can’t even fetch his own clothes, much more run a company.

“Are you sure of what you’re saying? The name of the CEO spells differently.” I scan through my copy of the document on my lap. “See…” I say, tracing a name with my index finger. “Dr. Ayogu D.

“It’s him. He tries to keep his profile low.” He states, and then mutters under his breath. “…must be like six years younger than me but he owns this multi-millionaire company.”

So that’s his problem. His age. But something else is nagging on my mind.

“If he owned this place, why was he the one who interviewed us? There must be about fifty official staffs in this company and three in this section who could easily have done it.”

He stares at me like I’m suffering from dementia. “He wasn’t the one who interviewed me.”