---------continue------- “What are you still doing there?” My boss shrieked, taking a time off from his mouth battle with igbo accent when he noticed I hadn’t moved a muscle.. ”You want to waste more of my fuel, abi? Don’t worry, if that fuel runs out before the end of the day, we’ll refuel out of your salary.” Then back to his slagging contest. I went to the stair well nearly in tears. “Ehen,” came a voice as I got to the ground floor. It was beauty salon woman. “Abeg, help me off…..” “LOOK HERE WOMAN!” I yelled.”YOU DID NOT EMPLOY ME TO SWITCH YOUR GENERATOR ON OR OFF! IF YOU NEED SOMEONETO DO THAT, PUT OUT A VACANCY!” “Ahn ahn,” She returned. “Na fight? No be jus…..” I Ignored her and continued my walk of black rage to the back yard. After flipping the generator’s engine switch to off with as much venom as I could withoutactually breaking it (my boss would probably deduct the cost of replacing it from my salary), I marched back to the stairs, taking care to leave beauty salon woman’s generator running. As I passed her salon, she had already congregated a small crowd of listeners to pour her woes to. “……No respet at all!” I heard her say as I approached. When she noticed my advent, she fell silent but her eyes told volumes of what she would have liked to say to my face but lacked the nerve to. Good for her then, I thought, ignoring her completely and beginning the climb up the stairs. As soon as my head was out of her view, she continued with venom. “You see? You see am? Na wetin I dey suffer for hia everyday.” (When in the world have I ever spoken with this woman except greet her whenever I sawher on my way up to work or when I was leaving?) “Na so im go just dey inult im mama for house. You no see dat small boy? I get am three for house, im dey hia dey do big boy for me!” (If I remembered correctly, my boss had said something about not going to her wedding last month. When had she given birth to three of me and stashed hem at home?) “Abi,” agreed one congregant. “All dis small boys get no respet at all! No respet! I had half a mind to go back and show them exactly where I wanted them to stick their nosey noses but decided not to. Engaging one of them in argument would mean engaging all of them and the last thing I wanted was to engage a gang of gossips ina battle of lip. Back in the cybercafe, things had got to a head. My boss and Igbo accent were physically ready to punch the living daylights out of each other, possibly knock in a few night stars as well. And they would have, if they were not being restrained by quite a numberof able bodied men who had materialised from goodness knows where. Lagosians and their penchant for showing up at people’s arguments! “Ya papa dia,” Igbo accent fumed. “Ya papa and ya mama!” “Just mention my parents again and I swear, na mortuary go be your bedroom this night,” my flung back. “Try me na! Just try me! E be like say you wandie today, try me!” I ignored them and set about rebooting the computer systems that had gone off. I switched the first system on and left it to start booting. Then went over to the second and pushed the power button. Nothing. I pushed again, a bit harder this time. Again, nothing. I pushed it repeatedly inanger. Still nothing. I gradually raised my head, expecting the expected. I wasn’t disappointed. Power was gone. “AAAAARGHHHHHHHH,” I screamed. “THESE bleeping BASTARDS! NA GOD GO PUNISH DIA MAMA AND PAPA FOR NEPA!” My boss totally ignored me as he was still straingin against the men preventing him from laying his hands on igbo accent. Unfortunately (for igbo accent, fortunately formy boss), one of the men slipped and, in falling, tripped the others, causing them to inadvertently let go of my boss. For a moment, my boss was stationary, not realizing that he was now free to wreak havoc on the bane of his afternoon. Just as he noticed his freedom and was about to land the first punch (or slap, or eye-poke, am not sure, the way his palm was positioned made it quite difficult to tell) on the still restrained (and obviously defenceless) Igbo accent, we hearda rap at the door. That knock froze us all in our tracks. Even my boss paused in his intended onslaught on Igbo accent. The knocker was short, dark and hard a rather intense pair of eyes. His hair, or what was left of it (he was balding) was a mixture of grey and black, what my boss once called “suffer head”. His shirt bore the PHCN crest. Behind him were two men, one tall and dark and quite unkempt, the other a bit shorter but wider and bearing quite an impressive pot belly. “Who is the owner of this establishment,”he asked no one inparticular with an air of borrowed authority. “Who are you?” My boss asked him specifically, his hand still raised for the strike on his hated foe. “Well, we’re from the PHCN,” the man replied pompously. “This building is yet to settle its bill and we’re here to disconnect…..” --------2 b continue---------
Posted on: Mon, 22 Jul 2013 14:46:18 +0000
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