"Good morning, ma" she greeted the light skinned faculty office secretary. She had some wrinkle lines at the edges of her eyes and her mouth. You could call her attractive, in a manner of speaking.
"Good morning my dear" she answered the greeting but didn't make eye contact.
Tanya continued. She wasn't taken aback because it was standard protocol in the reality of Unilag. The students weren't important unless there was some form of exchange going on. Schooling in a yoruba speaking state, that exchange would be called 'egunje'. It oiled the wheels of progress when you couldn't summon the time and persistent you would have to commit so that the regular office duties would be done. Her friend doing a masters in another department actually commended Science Faculty for being better than other department. She just snorted at that.
"Ma, I am looking for prof Adedeji..."
"You have to call him" she looked at her for the first time from horn rimmed glasses. "He rushed out of here 30 minutes ago to meet up with another appointment".
"Ok ma" she answered and turned around. In Unilag, it was customary to wait for hours on end for lecturers. If you didn't wait, you were termed unserious. "Can I wait here for him?"
She snorted in response. Tanya took that as a yes. She sat down and brought out her blackberry phone to update her twitter status with 'a long wait ahead of me' then started browsing through facebook. When her phone started hanging, she dropped it and began day-dreaming about the Nokia XI with amazing camera properties, that wouldn't hang and had the bbm advantage.
She adjusted her feet, crossed and uncrossed her legs, then adjusted till she was comfortable enough for the long wait.
******
Bright Okopi was one of those guys from the south-south with barely there dreams. The only important thing about the dream was that it still got him up at 5am, up and about and hustling. He graduated from the university 3 years ago and was yet to get a stable job. Being an engineer should mean something, least that is what he believed when he wrote JAMB 5 times before finally being admitted into UNIBEN to study engineering. He was the envy of many, all through school because he always aced his courses. And when he couldn't, because of some really terrible lecturers, being a class rep worked wonders for him. He finished with a 2 1'.
Where was the envy now? He was coming back from another failed interview. Just remaining the disdainful look of the HR told him he hadn't made it into that engineering firm. Too many creme boys with letter from mommy/daddy/uncle. He almost cursed his parents for being poor. Only the memory of his pastor telling how important the law of honour was stopped him.
"I no wan add curse to the one wey I already dey" He muttered under his breathe as he adjusted and grimaced, all kinds of smells reaching his nose from the people and his environment in the rickety bus headed for Ajegunle.
He lived at No. 14 Gbegiri street Ajegunle with his parents, two siblings and two cousins. They were 'managing'. He hated the word 'managing' but his circumstances and looks and environment spoke of deep poverty. The people were ugly inside and out and dressed it, looked it, embraced it. They even insulted themselves early in the morning at 6am, at noon, at 6pm and at midnight.
They probably saw nothing wrong with poverty. His pastor said, 'to conquer poverty, you must hate poverty, not the people but the thinking. Poverty is a thinking. By the word you must rise out of it. He had only been attending the church for 6 months but having a mentor who believed in him was refreshing. He heard his pastor's voice in his head say, 'Christ has redeemed you from the curse of the law, don't let your environment defeat you. Speak God's mind, say 'I am rich'.
He didn't know how much he believed his pastor or if he believed him at all. He knew that if he made a mistake of screaming 'I am rich', all the contrary people around him would laugh till they cried because their environment was screaming poverty, just not with words.
He bowed his head down and muttered "I am rich".
A dark skinned lady with bright purple eye shadow and bright red lipstick asked him, "what did you say?"
He turned and looked out the window saying nothing. The streets of Lagos passed before his unseeing eyes.
******
Mr Gbolahan Dada sat at his table, reading through 2.0 lenses at the paperwork on his desk. He dropped into the office and would be leaving in another 3 hours. He needed to sign some papers before leaving for Abuja on the 2pm flight. His driver informed him that they would have to leave for 10.30 if they wanted to make the flight. He glanced through, signed the papers and called his p.a to tidy up his desk.
As he walked to his champagne coloured Range Rover Sport. He climbed in and made two calls, one to his wife and the second to his mistress. He didn't call mama much these days, his eyes never could meet hers.
Her eyes could read deep into his soul. Even though she never spoke a word, he felt judged by those piercing clear sincere eyes. In the world he now lived in, sincerity was a liability and not an asset.
He shrugged off the bothersome thoughts and comforted himself with the words.
'Everyone is doing worse these days'.
He remembered Alhaji Sambo who he did business with, the man just took a fourth wife, a 12 year old. No one as much as batted an eyelid when they saw it. They assuaged their consciences with the lie that 'his customs allow it, let's live and let live'.
He wished for simpler days when all he had to worry about was if he remembered to spend time with His God?
He shrugged and caught some shut-eye before the next meeting to fulfil his goal of success. He stretched out his white dansiki clad body and stretched to catch some sleep in the popular Lagos traffic.
Bako would wake him up as soon as he got to the VIP lounge of the Lagos airport.
She is one of the leading Social Media Managers in Nigeria with the ability to foresee trends and build on it before it becomes commonplace. She is intelligent and strategic. She is also an amazing writer. To get in touch mail her at tessadoghor@gmail.com
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