The Office Cleaner Who Married My Boss

             I nursed a strong feeling that if I left Nigeria for the white man's land, a charming man  would cross my path. The Nigerian man had played me way too many times or maybe I just didn't understand his interpretation of love? No, he was the problem; saying things he didn't mean, leading me on and bowing out of the relationship just when  he knew a ring on my finger could have done it for me. Perhaps the English man would love me differently. I had read in romance novels of the kind of love brewed in England, the near perfect kind. What many Nigerian ladies sought in odd places, ending up in the hands of these lying-cheating-bastards, was in England. When my cousin  of a wetblanket said, "these white folks kill their spouses," I replied, "Not Nigerian spouses!"
            I will never forget Claire's face at the mention  of my migration musings. She narrowed her eyes in a mocking fashion. Was she for it or against it? She didn't say but grinned and said, "Nigerians are better." I thought that was a dumb feedback to get from a white boss. And by the way, what did she know about Nigerian men? She was only posted to the Lagos office from London a little over eight months ago.

There were two male cleaners stationed at my office block and one ducked each time he walked past my desk. He came across as one of those very respectful, timid cleaners. I was buried in my backlog of paperwork and then I heard, "Well done Ma. Here's something small for you Ma," the cleaner said and hurriedly dropped on my desk, a small box wrapped in red shimmery sheet.

"Ah! Thank you but what is this about?"

"Happy Valentine's day Ma," he replied .

"Are you serious? What's your name?"

"Fidelis," he said timidly while taking steps backwards out of the door.

I waited till I got home to open the gift. It contained two packets of Indomie Noodles. I saw a cheap looking pair of earrings on the rug and realized it must have fallen out while I unwrapped the gift. I shook my head from side to side saying, "So this is how much I have suffered that a cleaner was now wooing me at thirty five years old?" I marvelled at this cleaner boy's guts as I gathered the items into a plastic bag.
             The next day, I arrived earlier than usual to the office.  I was still fuming from yesterday. I switched on my computer monitor and leaned back into my swivel chair. While my system was booting, I scribbled down a to-do list on a stick-on  and placed it on the edge of my computer screen. Number one thing to-do was to blast Fidelis! I was already far gone with my morning routine of making myself a mug of Lipton, when I felt someone's shadow walk past my desk. I looked up and our eyes clicked. Fidelis winked and made a confident attempt at a sexy smile.  I choked on my tea. Of course it was a cheeky gesture coming from him.

"Fidelis, don't try this kind of nonsense next time," I said trying not to raise my voice.His face didn't wipe out the wry smile and instead he just stood still, like he wasn't expecting me to respond in an unfriendly manner. "Don't you know your level? You are a small boy nah. You're not up to twenty five years." I gave a long hiss and  switched to pidgin English, "Water dey fin him level nah!" I yelled, "You're here to clean the office and not chase your boss's bosses!" By now I wanted to explode. My heart was pounding from the anger overload.

"I'm sorry Ma," he said.

"Just get out of my office!"

 The cloak of embarrassment clinched me all over. I had forgotten two junior colleagues shared  the office with me. They kept straight faces fixed at their display screens.  I knew this episode was going to make office gossip headlines like 'Fidelis The Cleaner Woos Madam Aramide' or whatever. I was glad I had dealt with the matter in my own way. Barely three months later, an envelope lay on my desk. The lettering was done in gold and burgundy emboss. It was a beautiful wedding invitation card. My eyes caught sight of Claire John-Stone and Fidelis Nwosisi. Shock flowed through my bone marrow. So Fidelis' love had now graduated to my boss? Was this a case of my boss finding love in strange places? We all knew that Claire had hired Fidelis on a part-time basis as her domestic staff. But what everyone never saw coming, was a wedding planned to hold in two weeks time. I stopped by Claire' s office to congratulate her. My God! Claire's face was red all over; strict boss now turned love-struck cougar. A part of her I'd never seen.

             With this wedding underway, gist began to fly at work that Fidelis passed the nights at Claire's house and most mornings resumed his cleaning job at my office from there. She lived within the complex that shared a fence with our office premises. Soon enough it was no secret that Fidelis was officially her partner. Claire's scaly white skin began to glow and colleagues guessed why. Didn't she know that this gold digger of a Fidelis was marrying her red passport not her? A colleague made these remarks, "Ms. Claire was a single fifty-five year old lady and had never been married. Her pinchomic stature was deceitful about her true age." I didn't utter a word.  I had one regret; I desperately wanted to land a slap on the bloody cleaner's face.

So the wedding day came and I had to attend. It was my boss' wedding remember? Else I wouldn't have bothered. As they exchanged vows in the church somewhere on the outskirts of Ajah, all that came to my mind was, "these whites never cease to amaze me." I said that to myself in  Yoruba. Of course, next thing they were off on a week's honeymoon to London. I could bet my life's earnings that it was Fidelis' first passport document, it was his first time on a plane and it was his first time overseas.
           
Something bigger was actually bugging me; Whenever they got back, was I going to greet Fidelis differently since he was now my boss' husband? I was anxious about getting to the office on Monday. Claire hadn't returned to work which was quite strange.  You can guess the new office gossip headline was, "Fidelis The Cleaner Ditches Ms Claire!"  The rumour was that on arrival at Heathrow Airport, Fidelis went to the loo and never came back to meet Claire on the spot they had been  standing together. Claire sent me an email saying she fell sick and had extended her leave for another week..... (to be continued)*

*read my next blog post☺

I Went To The Latrine

When the automatic doors swiftly slid open, Jackson scuttled away. It was his first time at an airport. By noon, we would be aboard a flight to Abuja to attend my aunt’s wedding tomorrow.  I worried that we had misfired by allowing Jackson come with us on this trip.

Since Jackson’s arrival, it had been one drama to the other. Was it when I bumped into the toilet and found him seated on his heels, doing a number two right beside the toilet bowl? Or was it when I slipped in the bathroom because he had showered outside the tub flooding the floor? Or was it when we woke up to the morning after his arrival at our Lagos home and he was nowhere to be found? The hair on mum’s arms stood like the fur of our fuming cat. Jackson had run away leaving the kitchen door wide open. Mum and I hurriedly headed to the neighbors’ compound. And guess who we met walking leisurely up the dusty, quiet road towards us? Jackson! Then he said in Igbo “I went to the latrine,” pointing at the bush in a vacant plot of land. I began to wonder why there and then, mum didn’t bundle him back to Owerri. I was not having any more of this village boy's antics. In the past, mum had changed house helps like nappies and Jackson was one soiled nappy to be done away with quickly. Only last night mum had forgotten a pot of water on fire. I watched on as Jackson climbed the stool and bent over the gas stove. His mouth looked like a pumped up balloon. He seemed to be emptying his lungs of the oxygen; puffing nonstop air over the burner. The flames hissed as they doused into the gas ring. His fair cheeks had turned red like those of a wailing infant. Then, he took a long sigh. Mum rushed into the kitchen saying her nostrils were on a trail of the reek of cooking gas that had sneaked into her bedroom. “The water was boiling so I quench the faya," Jackson said without being asked. "What!" Mum yelled. She quickly turned off the knob, thankful that there was no incident. 

                                                       ***

Two days ago, at 6.30 AM mum had picked up Jackson from the bus terminal. He had travelled alone from Owerri on the Ekene Dili Chukwu night bus. Jackson walked dizzily into the living room, recoiling in his scruffy self. His arms hugged a small raffia sack to his chest. I overheard him say to mum, "Taateen." She had asked him about his age. He spoke unrefined English with an Igbo accent. No doubt he was an offspring of the heart of a village in Mbaise. My eyes ransacked through his feeble frame. As an eight year old lad, my clenched fist was way bigger than his. He fiddled with the rope dangling from beneath his extra large T-shirt. I narrowed my eyes to read the faded imprint on his chest, ‘ECONET WIRELESS’. The rope must have been torn off the rags of an old African fabric. It fastened the jumbo pair of jeans onto his lean waist. My nostrils didn’t miss the sting of a damp stench on him; a familiar smell on my village cousins who rallied around us during Christmas begging for gifts from the city. Mum immediately got Jackson to empty his sack on the kitchen floor; she tossed a satchet of Omo detergent at him and asked that firstly, he washed all his clothes. I hung around him close enough to have noticed a rumpled photograph beside his belongings. It held the faces of Jackson, a police officer, an aged woman carrying a suckling baby and four little girls seated on a pavement. Jackson said calmly, “Papa, Mama, broda na sista. I am number one.” He had caught my gaze and I greeted him with silence.

    ***

Today, as we prepared to head to the airport, Jackson cried all morning abandoning his bread and tea to the harmattan wind while mum shouted, waving a whip. I didn’t think Jackson loved the idea of living in the city. He moaned about wanting to go back to the village but mum shut him up. She had given his parents some cash, paid his transport fare and after two days he wanted to return? The agreement was to enroll Jackson in a city primary school while he helped mum with the house chores. Mum irritably went on and on about how Jackson was misusing a rare privilege because he was a stupid little boy. I thought his parents were dense to have let him out of their sight. At the airport, Jackson’s face was wrapped in fright. We had gotten to the top of the escalators when we realized he was left behind. Mum went back down, forcefully held his hands and tugged him on to the moving automatic stairs. They had announced boarding for our flight.  As we stepped on the tarmac on a queue to climb up to the plane, the unthinkable happened. Jackson on sighting the airplane began to scream in Igbo, "Big bird! Big bird!!" then turned around and fled into the building. Mum and I ran after him in an upsetting scene, surrounded by an unwanted crowd. Mum was beyond vexed and had Jackson put on the next night bus back to Owerri. And yes, mum had a lot of explaining to do when my aunt called asking our whereabouts. Of course, we missed our flight and my aunt’s wedding.

Cheating On FeBuhari 14

On New Year's Day, I surprised my parents with a family visit in their Lagos home. There was everything nostalgic about being with the parents and celebrating the first day of 2015 together. These grand parents had a specialty in spoiling their grand kids with love. We were enjoying every bit of our stay. Suddenly, my dad walked through the front door with a young man. We exchanged pleasantries and my dad introduced him as a Prophet. If I took a chance with his age, I'd say he was twenty seven years old. He was a Medical Doctor but had gone into full time prophetic ministry soon after graduating from Medical School. Since I found it quite odd, I was quick to judge his decision and I blamed it on the poor unemployment state in the country. He reassured me that it had nothing to do with it but had everything to do with a calling he clearly heard from God. Somehow we got talking and veered into politics as it was usual with my person. We hadn't chatted for about ten minutes when the young prophet got into his element and began to prophesy.

"GEJ will win the forthcoming elections and there will be post-election violence in parts of Nigeria but-," he said, and then paused. Silence overtook the living room. He raised his head to the ceiling probably listening to The Voice and then he continued, "-but Nigeria will not disintegrate.”

I heaved a deep sigh. I wasn't sure if it was one of relief or of fear. I quickly excused myself pretending to need the rest room. I was one who respected the things of God but this particular one didn't augur down well with me. I would confess to being a little upset with the young prophet's predictions about GEJ. I was one on propaganda for Change. I left my parents' home with a bad taste in my mouth.

 I worked in a government establishment and I shared an open office with a colleague.

"What are you doing?" Ibinabo asked.

"Booking flights to the US for my family. They must be out of Nigeria before the elections."

"What about you?"

"I'll join them after the elections," I said. The noise of laughter roared in the air. "Nigeria is not safe at a time like this and I worry about post-election violence. In that instance, I'll just cut out."

            My Twitter handle was @Iamforchange2015 and I enjoyed the attention I got from my 188,673 followers. I spent most of the office time tweeting about campaigns and the forth coming elections. Once I arrived at work, my laptop had Facebook and Twitter web pages open. In the toilet, I switched over to my Smartphone. How could I miss a second off social media in a heated period like this? I tried to convince friends that I was great at multi-tasking so could coordinate official assignments alongside managing my Twitter account all within the space of 8.30 a.m. and 5.30 p.m. Ibinabo had argued that it was unethical for one to give the establishment divided hours and attention during work hours but I had a different opinion about things. I was all about change. When the Head of Human Resources issued a memo to all staff regarding the new policy of deactivating social media sites from the internet, I stopped. My Samsung S5 was now equal to the task.

On Wednesday morning, two days to Valentine's Day, I escorted my wife, three kids and the nanny to the Nnamdi Azikiwe International Airport Abuja. They were en- route Heathrow and headed to Baltimore. As I drove out of the airport, my phone beeped with a text message, Hey babes.  Have they left? Pick me up on your way home. I grinned. It was from Amara my girlfriend. She knew how to show up in the nick of time.

#Votenotfight was now a cliché. #SaiBuhari, #FeBuhari14, #Change and #GMB15 were familiar hashtags on Twitter. I had stirred up quite a number of supporters online for the pro-Buhari campaign. Somewhere in my head I hoped if he won the elections that he would recruit Twitter lords like me to work in his government. Senior Adviser to the President on Social Media sounds like a feasible role to be created. Or maybe something like Reenor's position. The dude earned a living from tweeting effortlessly yet tweeting was what I did as a hobby.

This was going to be my first Valentine away from my wife and I truly was not thankful to INEC for making this possible. As citizens, INEC's message was obvious; Couples were meant to play romance at the polling boots or better still couples should romance their preferred presidential candidates on Valentine's Day. On some days I found myself exhausted from typing 140 characters in frenzy, telling stories of how my beloved Nigeria deteriorated to this point. Sometimes I sent fifty tweets in ten minutes. I was that good and that addicted to Twitter. At Town Park Garden, on Friday evenings guys would meet up after a long day at work. Take note, I said long day. But a long day doing what? Tweeting I hate to say. Okoro said, "Do you know you work harder than the MrFixNaija Twitter handle. The job description is basically to tweet-promote PDP even if the tweets make no sense." I burst into a hysterical laugh. Whatever Okoro meant, truly I didn't understand. So far it was a jab at PDP, it sounded funny and I owed him lots of laughter. As we sat around the table, no matter how I tried, my eyes and right thumb wouldn’t let go of my keypad. My eyes were teary and the tip of my thumb had a flat funny shape. They had begun to hurt but it didn't matter. These were some sacrifices I had to pay for Change. I tweeted, "Corruption and insecurity are two life lines to be fixed to get the country back on track". Instantly, Retweets followed and in a short time span, it earned 297 RETWEETS and 124 FAVOURITES.

I returned to the table from the rest room. I signaled to the waitress to get me roasted fish and another bottle of Star. This was my third bottle since we got there two hours ago.

"Those trains amuse me. If I asked you now what GEJ has done, you’ll pull up the picture of trains," I said. In recent times, my discussion of politics was one-sided. I was fanatical about my new passion but receptive to opposing opinions. Yusuf was the only one in our midst that bore his mind openly about giving GEJ another chance. He would go on and on about the trains. My God! Core PDP fans had an unsold book titled; The electric Train and Other Senseless Stories.

"Haba Tunde! How can you say that? He has tried in the areas of infrastructure, agriculture and employment. It's just this insecurity messing him up. Corruption sef, he is tackling with IT. Cut him some slack please."

"Please I want Buhari and he's the change Nigeria needs with or without a WASC certificate. It doesn't matter. 70 is the new 30. We pray long life for him and good health," Ibinabo said and puffed balls of smoke from his cigarette stick.

"My guy, PDP can't convince Nigerians anymore about what good lay in store if the present government came back to power," I said looking at Ibinabo.

"Abeg, I am not voting Buhari. He doesn’t look like one who would elect any women into his government," Ibinabo's girlfriend said. She came across as one who would choose the Complete Fashion magazine over a Nigerian newspaper any day. I didn't pay attention to her weightless and uninformed statement. I turned to Amara and stroked her thigh, "You've been quiet. Are you alright babes? "

"Tunde, you've been on your phone tweeting politics and you ask if I'm alright?" she said and shrugged her shoulder.

"Sorry nah. You know how these things can be distracting." I moved my plastic chair closer to hers, emptied the bottle of Maltina into her glass cup and leaned my head on her arm. I used my hand to chase away the mosquito singing in my left ear. The life band was setting up their musical instruments. Everywhere was a bit dark. The roasted peppered fish had just arrived and we began to dig in with forks.

Two of us on the table had shipped our families overseas and were marking time with the girlfriends except Yusuf. Yusuf had a zealous stance on marching his entire household to the polling booth tomorrow. He had ensured his wife, two cousins, a nanny, the gate man and mum-in-law got their PVCs. 

"I can't play with the chances here. This is a very tight contest and every vote counts. My house people know it is GEJ all the way."

My phone buzzed with a text message. While reading it, I patted Amara' s back to calm her down. It was from The Missus.  Just woke up. Only got a sim today. We've been travelling like forever. Still having jet lag tins. Kids are cranky. Talk later Love.  Amara always knew when I read my wife's messages. How these girlfriends could tell, walahi I don't know. Our relationship wasn't an extravagant one. Yeah, we had done one or two trips to Lagos together. She claimed to be with me because the single Abuja boys had broken her heart to pieces; A story for the gods. I remember her speech to me at the bank, "Being with a married man is more reassuring.  You're married and knowing that doesn't give me a headache because that’s where it stops." Amara wasn't prettier than The Missus. Nothing about her was better yet I found myself stuck with her. Maybe she was using jazz. She worked in one of those banks.

"Guys, the elections are tomorrow. We will party hard tonight because I know it's about Buhari. He has won in advance," I said in excitement.

We hooked up with more friends in another joint and afterwards bar-hopped with the ladies around the city. Of course Yusuf didn't join us. I stared at the numbers on the door. Room 63. They looked like B3. It was about 5 a.m. when Amara and I got to our favorite secluded hotel in Area 11, Garki. The staff had gotten used to us by now.  I opened the fridge for a bottle of water and emptied it into my mouth. I peered into the bathroom mirror and my bloodshot eyes stared at me. I had connected with alcohol well and now high enough to cuddle Amara. But before I jumped into bed, I made sure I texted The Missus, Happy Valentine’s Day Love. Kiss the kids for me. I love you dearly. Call you soon. I littered the text with kiss emoticons.

                                                                  ***

I stretched for my wrist watch on the bedside table. 3 p.m.! How could I have overslept? Today was FeBuhari 14. The long awaited day I was to 'Romance Buhari'. I rolled over my side underneath the duvet. Amara 's large busts nudged me in the face. My foot could tell she was dressed as Eve in the Garden of Eden. I could tell she was not asleep. I thought, last night was something else with the sexcapades. Here were some good tidings beside me and I had to choose between them and Buhari. If caught, I was guilty of cheating on FeBuhari 14^. Firstly, cheating on The Missus and secondly, on Buhari. I rubbed my sleepy eyes with my knuckles. They felt sticky. I needed a towing van to pull me out of bed. In my head, I had begun creating a million excuses why I could dodge the polling booth. I reached for my wallet and gazed at my PVC. The more I looked at it, the more it had a semblance to a Drivers License. I switched on my phone and a barrage of voice mail messages flowed in. Of course Yusuf had called severally. Ibinabo too. My Black Berry Messenger was full of unread messages. I thought aloud, “You know what? I'm just going to stay indoors, watch Channels TV, tweet about the polls and have nonstop sex. After all, Nigeria wasn’t that safe and I won't kill myself for Buhari.” I scrolled down my Timeline on Twitter and typed, “Happy Valentine’s Day folks! Happy FeBuhari 14th! Let’s make history with our votes. Are you at your Polling Stations?” My followers began the Retweet tradition and were tweeting back at me.

My ticket to join The Missus and kids was already booked. The next day, I hopped on the British Airways flight as my annual leave had begun. I wasn't going to stay behind to witness the aftermath of the elections. I planned to be back in a fortnight. The young prophet's prophecy resounded in my head. I had social media at my finger tips. And yes, I continued to tweet like I was in Nigeria; acquiring more followers with my "powerful" political tweets, gaining more grounds on Twitter as a Twitter Celebrity and sometimes a Twitter Tout. Twitter in Nigeria was in its hottest state with the PDP and APC fans having a go at each other and waiting for results to be announced officially.