₦airaland Forum

15 years and out of secondary school? Hmm. Well, the fact you actually decided to write is encouraging. Thumbs up.

As there was no stipulated time to expect feedback from the interview, the next few days made me frantic with expectation. I had my phone with me always, even in the bathroom and toilet. I had heard stories of applicants who missed jobs because they failed to pick the calls that would confirm their appointments. And such calls, I heard, never came twice. I frequently checked my emails and called back unknown numbers that flashed me in spite of myself. Every ring of the phone quickened my pulse. I even changed my ring tone to a loud rock music, in case it rang when I slept. I decided to get a grip on myself when I started rushing to pick the phone only to find out it hadn’t actually rang.


After five days of crazy expectations, the frenzy died down. I decided to ease off. I started leaving my phone on the table to go and watch Premier League games, but I would still return to check for calls and messages. I got angry when there was none and angrier that I still expected to hear from them. I regretted that I didn’t get the phone number of any of my co-applicants; at least I would have called to find out whether any of them had been contacted.


Then one Saturday afternoon, I got a text message from the company. I had just returned from watching Arsenal settle for yet another draw against a smaller team. I wasn’t happy. I went to the fridge and poured myself a glass of water. In the sitting room, I stared at the phone in ambivalence. I already felt bad because of the match, if I checked the phone and there was nothing, I might burst a vein. I ignored the phone; then it rang. I leaned forward to be sure it was actually ringing. It was, and the caller was not on my contacts list. My pulse quickened. I let the phone ring while I composed myself properly. I breathed in and out, and then I picked it.


“Hello, baby,” a familiar voice burst through as soon as the phone touched my right ear. I fought the urge to let out a long sigh. I squeezed my face in bitterness and replied “Hello”.


“This is my etisalat line. You don’t have it?” I said nothing. She continued. “Well, did you watch the match?” I sensed the mockery in her voice. My girlfriend, Ify, was a supporter of Chelsea while I was an Arsenal fan; so there was always an opportunity to have a dig at me. “I’m not in the mood, please,” I said almost pleadingly.


She laughed. “Should I come over and make you happy? The test didn’t hold anymore.” She was in her final year at the state university.


“No,” I blurted, although her presence would surely smoothen out things, but since when did she really have to seek my permission before coming to see me? She said “Eiyaah” and cut the call. As I made to drop the phone, I saw a message notification and clicked it open. For a moment, I couldn’t feel my environment; it looked like I was floating in the clouds. The chair I sat on and the rug on which my legs rested suddenly felt feathery, airy, like a powerful force has possessed me. I muttered “Thank You Jesus” severally as I re-read the message. I dropped the phone, sprang up and pumped my fist into the air, shouting “Yes! Yes! Yes!” and pacing around the room in careless happiness. The company has asked me to print a confirmation letter from my email and come with it for my appointment letter on Monday! The day after tomorrow!


I switched on the home theatre and played Nathaniel Bassey’s Imela, then I sent Ify a message, informing her about the good news and asking her to come over.


That Saturday evening was like no other before it. Before Ify came, I rushed down to the nearest ATM and withdrew five thousand naira to take her out. When she walked in, all smiles, we hugged and kissed affectionately. I offered to take her out, she declined; she had another idea. She had bought frozen chicken on her way and offered to make a special chicken stew instead. My disappointment was only brief. After all, my pastor had enjoined us to be very careful when we were happy or angry. I joined her in the kitchen, slicing onions, refilling the kettle with water, talking a little too much, occupying space.

I don’t know much about fashion, but since a bank CEO I often admired said, in an interview, that he preferred his ties in Windsor knots, I googled Windsor knot and decided to wear only Windsor-knotted ties. So on Monday morning, I wore my tie in a Windsor knot, threw on my longsuffering suit and went for the interview. There were about sixteen applicants. The process wasn’t long; we were done in an hour, dismissed with a transport allowance of two thousand naira each and a promise to ‘hear from us’.


Schools were on holidays, so I wasn’t in a hurry. After the interview, I took a bus home, changed into a faded jean trousers and t-shirt and went to the market to buy some things for soup. I had wanted to drop at the market straight from the interview, but I didn’t want to draw weird stares from people when I haggled with fish sellers in my suit. I had also planned to buy a few things and create a semblance of jollof rice, but with the money from the interview, I could afford a decent pot of soup, a custard bucket of garri, a packet of sugar and a bottle of groundnut. I bought all these and went home to find my door unlocked, Luther Vandross playing on my home theatre. It can only be one person.


I slowed down briefly at the door, put on a smile and walked inside. She was sitting on the chair opposite the TV, wearing only my boxer shorts and my singlet – braless – the glossy, taut side of her firm breasts considerably visible from the side of the loose singlet, and the rest of it clearly outlined. I felt a weight in my chest. “What are you looking at?” she asked, a disarming smile spreading across her face. I exhaled. “Nothing. How are you?” She stood and I moved closer and kissed her briefly.


“How was the interview?” She took the water-proof bag from me and, on her way to the kitchen, added, “Don’t look.” I had already taken in the firm bulge of her buttocks outlined in the shorts and the effortless swing of her hips.


“Shut up,” I said playfully and took her position on the leather chair. “The interview went fine, by the way.” She wasn’t aware of the doctored CV. I didn’t think she should know. Not yet. When she returned, we discussed about the interview and made love. She cooked the soup; we ate, and had another round of sex.


When she left, I considered that the sex may work against my prayers for a job and quickly knelt down and asked God for forgiveness.

SUGARBEE:
Waiting anxiously. .



[size=15pt]#SUGARBEE[/size]

Thanks. Oya...

Whenever my neighbours flog their dog, I remember Seun, the enigmatic owner of nairaland and his crazy love for pets. It’s happening now; the unfortunate dog is getting it full dose as usual. As the dog yelps in hapless agony, I imagine Seun in my shoes. I imagine him cringe, suffer an instant loss of appetite, and go over to the culpable neighbour, his large eyes narrowing slightly and his dimples disappearing in genuine concern as he gives a brief lecture on how not to treat your dog. Of all things to care about, he chose dogs. I gave up on the guy the day he appeared to argue for a pack of dogs that went for a little boy’s scalp! I had wanted to take it up with him but realized I had around twelve megabytes worth of data to handle him, send my CV to a couple of offices that couldn’t care less and, of course, chat with my girlfriend. I decided to fight another day.


My neighbour’s landlady had to shout her reproaches from the window before whoever was handling the dog decided to let it be. I scrapped the last blob of pap with my spoon and into my mouth. Wetin concern me? I had enough things to worry about than some errant dog that probably deserved some beating. There were CVs to fire out to offices, prayers to back them up, and my girlfriend’s birthday that comes up in two months’ time to worry about. Then there was, at the background of it all, the looming shadow of house rent. The rent will be due in five months, and with what I earn as a secondary school teacher, I’ll need a miracle to raise that amount. I’ve calculated it back and forth, no point in flogging a dead horse. I can’t call my aunt for help; she has done enough by paying a year’s rent and leaving fifty thousand naira for me before joining her husband in Dubai. My main concern was how to retain the lovely apartment she left for me. After that, who knows, I could even buy a dog.


As I rinsed the plate in the sink, I considered the other accommodation alternative there was: moving into the teachers’ quarters in school. I almost spat into the sink. God forbid! Many things would be at stake. My colleagues would know more about me than I would normally permit: who comes, who goes, what I eat and whether I eat at all. God help me.


Back in the sitting room, I sank into the consoling softness of the leather chair and scanned the local TV channels, knowing I won’t find anything worth watching. My eyes caught the DSTV decoder. I had foolishly subscribed it once after my aunt travelled, with the fifty thousand naira still adding extra dimension to my bank account. Right now, I would gladly unwatch all those silly channels for half the subscription fee. But in all fairness, DSTV should have two or three free-to-air stations, I thought. Suddenly, it struck me that I could sell the decoder. I never thought about selling any of the things that were bequeathed to me, but now that it crossed my mind, I saw nothing bad in it; it seemed like a cost-saving measure. I began drawing up a mental list of potential buyers when my phone beeped – text message.


On a Saturday like this, I rarely expect important messages (unless my girlfriend felt like acting civilized for once and informing me that she was coming for weekend). True, I had no cause to expect a bank credit alert, but I often thought of it whenever I got a text message, only for a majority of the messages to turn out as one of the many ubiquitous unsolicited advert messages from MTN. I reached for my phone and opened the message. I froze. I scrolled up and down; the text message was for real. A job interview! I felt hollowed out with excitement. Then, as quickly as the excitement had come, it gave way for a numbing uneasiness.
I checked the message again, slowly this time, a strange sadness enveloping me. The interview was in two days’ time – Monday – at a big pharmaceutical company. I had my suit, shirt and tie hanging in the wardrobe, ready for the big day. I also had my determination to land a better job and upgrade my living. But, against all these, I had a doctored CV to defend on Monday. I suddenly started sweating from my legs. I decided to inform Bright, the guy that manufactured the CV for me. He had invented the pharmaceutical company in Ibadan where I had supposedly worked for two years as the personal assistant to the marketing manager. I dialed his number.


“Hello, Brighto.”


“Chief,” he said in his usual excited, playful manner, “how is it going?”


“I thank God, bro. There’s a little development though.”


“Hmm, development,” he repeated to let me know the word could mean a thousand things. “Is your girlfriend pregnant?” I imagined him grinning at the other end, revealing his perfectly carved gap-tooth.


“No, that’s not it,” I said in a serious tone, hoping my mood would rub off on his. When he said nothing and I sensed his excitement wane, I told him about the interview and asked whether the company actually existed. He assured me it did; one of his aunts had worked there. He promised to send me some information about the company later in the evening as he was about to go and watch the English Premier League. He reminded me to find him something when I finally land the job.

DEDICATION

To Simonhabby, for planting the seed.

(I was supposed to submit this for his competition, but I didn't have enough time, and I didn't want to subject the story to the injustice of rushing it)

Hey, please your comments are really needed to encourage me. Even if you read only one sentence or paragraph, tell me what you think of it. Thanks. Oga Larrysun , OMA4U, and anyone with an eye for a good story, please drop a comment.

Whispers by Dean Koontz

I don't like horror books, I shouldn't have read that.

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