Weird shit part II…

The part II of this Saturday story is the most painful part for me. Forgive me because I have to start from the beginning…

Some months ago, we did a recruitment project for a classy, 5 star hotel in the exclusive Victoria Island area. The job was to provide staff for all the restaurants and bars in the hotel. It was a really big deal because we had never done anything remotely similar before. For some roles, we needed highly experienced people, and for other roles, our client was willing to train on the job.

We started out by putting up adverts and the response was overwhelming. Every Tom, Dick and Akinjide who had ever worked in a hotel/motel/guesthouse/brothel/bang-as-you-go-house applied for the roles. In those months, I met all sorts of human beings… I met professional bartenders who could throw flames and knew the ingredients for cocktails that I had heard of only on Sex and The City. They dressed up in bow ties and waist coats, had excellent posture and called me “Madame”.

Then there were bartenders and waiters who showed up in ripped skinny jeans, whose highest level of experience was serving beer at Mama Iyabo’s joint behind their house.

The recruitment process was quite tedious. The first step was meeting with an interviewer. Then, if successful, the candidate will meet with a second level interviewer (yours truly). Then, if deem he/she worthy, they will meet with the client. That’s three levels of interviews. At the stage where you meet the client, the interview style is a panel interview. The panel consists of four big men (top shots in the industry) and little old me. So you guys can imagine how intimidating it is. And it’s not a one day process o… You can have your first interview one day, and not get to stage three till several weeks later.

Also, as an integral part of this gist, you guys should know that I have a reputation for being quite tough with candidates. Rumour has it that I am a rigid, evil, demon possessed witch. I can’t stand late comers, bad breath, bad dressing and bad grammar and I have a hard time hiding it.

Anyway, back to present day…

On Saturday, I got to the hotel and just as I hoped, the pool, the bar and the poolside restaurant were deserted. Only two cleaners were milling around with brooms and buckets so, with minimal shame, I stripped down to my bikini, with my stomach hanging down to my knees, and stepped into the pool. The pool is a small secluded pool, surrounded by trees and plants. I loved the level of privacy the place offered. I practiced my diving, I splashed about aimlessly, I dipped and made fart bubbles to see if the water would boil… I was having a blast.

Then, just as I was practicing my Baywatch ocean run, a guy came out of the bar and walked hurriedly towards me. He had THE DAFTEST SMILE plastered across his face. As he got closer, I recognized him as one of the candidates I had interviewed before. He looked genuinely happy to see me… Nigga couldn’t stop smiling. His head looked shrunken in his red bow tie and over-sized black suit.

“Goo morning ma”, he gave a small bow. “Well done ma”.

I didn’t know what to do in my half naked state. I thought of diving to the bottom of the pool to hide, but I was at the shallow end and I would’ve cracked my skull on the tiles. I lowered my knees in a weird squat-ish pose till the water was shoulder level and I was covered. The mumu guy was still standing there with a smile on his face.

As if I hadn’t heard him before, he greeted again but this time louder.

“How are you?” I asked.

“Fine ma. Taink you ma.”

“You work here?”

“Ehn. Yes ma.”

“What do you do for them?”

“The F&B supervisor ma. I supervise.”

“Alright…” long pause… “Okay… Well done.” There was really nothing to say. Still crouched awkwardly like a crab, I turned to half-swim-half-walk away.

“Ermmm… ma. Sorry ma. Excuse.”

“Yes?”

“Erm, ma, after that time you interviewed me, I’ve not heard from you. I don’t know if there’s any problem or maybe if I dinnor pass.”

I was already very close to losing my patience. The nerve of this idiot! What was I supposed to do? Check the pockets of my itty bitty bikini for his CV and interview rating sheet??? I didn’t even need his CV because I remembered him clearly. Yeah, the guy looks and sounds daft, but he’s an excellent restaurant supervisor. He was one out of about nine people whose names I had forwarded to the client for the final level interview.

With all the calmness I could muster, I told him that I was sure someone would get in touch with him at the right time. He hesitated, then fidgeted a bit, before grudgingly accepting my response. Maybe it dawned on him that there was nothing I could do at the very moment.

“Okay ma. Taink you ma.” He bowed again, then he left with the same stupid smile on his face.

My country people, my dilemma now is, how am I supposed to sit in that panel next week Thursday? Maybe I’m overthinking it but I can’t imagine that the young man will ever look at me the same way again, with fear and trembling. What will be the point of wearing my power suit and high heels if all he will be picturing in his head is me like this?

Bikini photo

Abeg, I think I’ll just call in sick on the day of the interview.

You guys should enjoy the rest of your week…

Weird shit… Part I

My country people…

One of the reasons I started this blog is that, at a point in my life, I felt like I always had a story to tell because the weirdest shit used to happen to me.  It was like I actively magnetized extra-terrestrial activities. I entered the strangest buses, I attended the scariest job interviews, I got toasted by the most abnormal men and, at work, I encountered the daftest candidates. It was so bad that someone once accuse me of “cooking up” these stories, but the truth is, you can’t make a lotta this shit up.

Let me tell you about my weekend…

On Saturday, I wanted to go swimming. I got dressed, got on a bike and headed for my bus stop. I noticed the bike guy was wobbling a bit, but because it was a really short distance, I figured I would survive the journey. I only warned him to be careful. We approached a junction at high speed and just at that moment, another senseless aboki sped into the road. I heard  a loud screeching noise from the breaks, neighborhood people started screaming, then there was a loud crash and the bike fell to the left.

But I thank God… all those nights of staying up to watch action feem came in handy. I channeled my inner Bruce Willis and somehow managed to jump to the right just before the bike hit the ground. I felt the exhaust of the bike scrape my ass as I leaped over it. I landed awkwardly on my right ankle and almost fell head first into the gutter.

The two bike men were spread in the middle of the road. My guy was lying on his side and had the bike on his left leg. The other guy was in the worst shape, but you wanna know the truth? I didn’t care. I patted the back of my jeans to make sure my ass was still a nice round shape… that the exhaust did not burn a hole through it. Then I walked away from the scene like…

weird shit part 1

Next thing I know, it felt like the entire village was running towards me. I thought I was going to be mobbed. I heard an old woman shouting, “Hol’ am o! Hol’ am!! Make she no comot!”

My Bruce Willis was tired and my ankle was sore so I couldn’t even run. I held my bag tight and continued to walk limp. A large man appeared in front of me and blocked me with his huge belly. He had a blue plastic chair in his hand. He put it down by the side of the road and asked me to sit down.

There was more shouting… “Sista siddon o!” “Make she siddon!!” “Hol’ am” “Wey water?”

That’s when I realized that they thought I was in shock. Maybe I was, maybe I wasn’t. I don’t know. All I know is they had ruined my action feem stagger and I didn’t like it. I didn’t sit on the chair, but I paused long enough for two men to look me deep in the eye before they concluded that I was ok and they allowed me go. The old woman (selling tomatoes and other things) was still screaming from the opposite side of the road that they should “Hol’ am oooooo!!!”.

I walked away as quickly as I could in case they changed their minds about “Hol’ing am”. This was in an area notorious for fetish practices. They celebrate every ‘celebratable’ traditional festival… they leave sacrifices in calabashes at road junctions and have small shrines around the area. The last thing I needed was for one of them to touch me. What shall it profit a man if he survives a bike accident and is turned into a three-legged chicken after they “hol’ am”? What if I lose a boob? What if my destiny is stolen??

I was almost at the bus stop when the bike guy rode up beside me. He apologised and offered to take me the rest of the way. If I had a gun, Lord knows I would’ve shot him dead on the spot. Instead, I told him to go to hell.

First thing I did as soon as I entered a cab, was narrate the entire ordeal to my siblings in our group chat. There was a lot of ‘Thank God o’ and ‘It is well’… but none of them offered to buy me a car. *side eye the three of you*

Have a fantastic week you guys!!! :-*

ps- watch out for part II…

3 billion kilograms of gist…

Hello beautiful people!

Forgive me please!! Yes, it’s been ages… months actually. At some point, my subscription expired and I didn’t even have a site anymore. Thank you guys so much for the e-mails and other messages you sent to make sure I wasn’t dead.

I hope you guys have been great. The amount of gist I have for you is immeasurable… it’s like 3 billion kilogists worth and it will be nearly impossible to catch up. I might as well start with whatever is going on now.

So, to begin with, I’m at home 🙁 I’m currently on suspension from work… two weeks without pay. It was a really big deal… bigger than I thought it would be. I had to face a mini panel and listen to all the reasons why I’m a bad girl. I wasn’t even given a chance to speak or defend myself so the process didn’t take too long. I just sat numbly through it all, feeling bad for all the wasted hours spent in front of the mirror practicing how I would point to the head of the panel and scream, “YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE TRUTH!!” or “OBJECTION YOUR HONOUR!!” at random moments.

Anyway, here I am today, trying to figure out what I’m going to do with myself for 10 working days. The only thing I have accomplished so far is learning the lyrics to Shakiti Bobo. I have a few other things I would like to do on my mind… I’ve listed them all down, but it’s a very restricted list cos my inner man keeps reminding me of the part of my letter that has “without pay”…

Yesterday, I got dressed to go to the gym. I wasn’t sure what time the Zumba class was supposed to be, I wasn’t sure of the address and I wasn’t even sure of the name of the gym. I used to go there with a friend for insanity work out classes. So I set out in the morning, got in a bus and ended up stuck in traffic for almost an hour. I made a mistake and came down one bus-stop too early, took several wrong turns, and by the time I found the gym, I was sweating like a horny goat.

Of course I was late for the class… the class had ended 7:30 in the morning. I sat in the reception and cooled off a bit, copied the workout time table and left again on foot. This time, I had no real destination. If you saw any fat black chubby dark-skinned lady roaming around Law School in VI midday yesterday, wearing sweatpants, sneakers and a black hoodie, then that was me.

I ended up under Ikoyi Bridge by the water. I got there just as the Yoruba apostles Oluwapaul and Shinapeter were sailing in with a boat full of sea creatures. There’s a market under the bridge where people buy and sell seafood. Immediately the apostles arrived, the market came alive… there was a lot of activity off-loading the boats. Forty minutes later, I was heading home with a bag full of snails, prawns, bell peppers and a fat ugly fish that the fish seller promised would change my life and make me a better person… or maybe he just said the fish “sweet well well”. All join.

There’s no proper update on my love life… I’m even more singular than the last time we talked. In August, three different people offered to hook me up with nice guys they know. Three times I almost panicked. I didn’t exactly say no, but I also didn’t jump at the idea either. I don’t know why. I don’t know what’s wrong with me… I’m comfortable being single, but me sef I know that time is going. These eggs are not going to hatch fertilize themselves.

And just to show you how un-serious I am, I have two clients (not one, but TWO different clients) who are trying to hook me up with one relative or the other. You know how it is; when you are relating with customers/clients you put on your very best behavior. These two think I’m the coolest thing since Agege bread. So both of them cannot understand why (despite my awesomeness) I am still single. It was all fun and games till the first person introduced me to his distant cousin.

It wasn’t a physical introduction, just an exchange of phone numbers. Not that it really matters, but this guy is Igbo. We talked for the first time on a Saturday morning some weeks ago and before that phone call was over, Nna bros had already disqualified himself.

What did he do? Well, in the first minute of the conversation, Nna bros asked how I was doing… asked about work and then BAM!! he asked for a picture.

If I had a picture of a crippled black woman with poor dentition, that’s exactly what I would’ve sent to him. Instead, I just told him that the only social media site where I have a picture is on Facebook. He said he was going to search for me and send an invitation. I gave him my full name knowing fully well that every Onitsha and Aba girl registered on Facebook goes by the same name. Ngozi is very common…

Of course he couldn’t find me on Facebook. I promised I would search for him instead and when I did, I found only one person by his full name. His picture brought tears to my eyes. In his picture, he’s wearing a white suit with brown pointy shoes. His black shirt is unbuttoned to show a heavy gold (gold plated?) chain dangling from his neck. I’ve never tried to zoom in but I have a feeling that if I do , I will see a few strands of thick, curly chest hair. The only thing missing from the picture is a walking stick in his hand and a container in the background.

He should have just allowed me fall in love with his wit and charm first, so that love will blind my eyes to his Aba pimp-daddy looks when I eventually meet him. Now I can’t get his image out of my mind. It’s getting harder and harder to manage the situation cos home boy wants to see me ASAP. During the week is mostly peaceful. It’s Friday evenings he starts to stress me when he calls to “casually” mention that he’s on the Island having drinks… do I want to come?

Of course, I never want to come. Even when I’m at home, in front of the Tv, I tell him I’m at work…

The other guy is Yoruba and lives in the US. I’m not sure exactly how he’s related to my other client, but after the trauma of Nna bros, I had to ask my client to hold on with the exchange of numbers. The last thing I need is some guy telling me about life in the Hovasieze…

Have a lovely week people.