“Madam,” the petite cashier’s impatient tone pulls me away from my thoughts. I offer a tight-lipped smile and mutter thanks as she sets my food on a plastic orange tray, “your money is one thousand two-fifty, cash or card?” I look in my wallet for the cash and hold it out to her. She snatches it from my hands and I flinch but don’t complain. She’s having a bad day.
I tap my feet as I wait, a song waltz into my mind and I hum and nod along. The cashier scoffs but looks away when I look at her. She holds out my change and my receipt, “thank you,” I say, smiling as I take them from her before lifting my tray and scanning the restaurant for an empty table.
I find a booth at the far end of the restaurant, by the window, and get comfortable.
Although jollof rice is a Nigerian staple, I’ve always been team fried rice. I watch a grain wade in the puddle of oil at the bottom of the mountain of over-tomatoed rice and want to discard the meal and go to get lunch somewhere not so obscure; I pick up my fork and start eating though.
“Esosa, you can’t just disappear from work because you’re upset.”
Chioma, my roommate, has become comfortable playing the role of my mother.
“Esosa, maybe you should slow down on the spending, we’re barely into the month.”
Remembering my substitute mother’s words doesn’t make lunch anymore appealing. Once I feel full, I wipe my mouth with a serviette and sigh as I allow my body to settle into a semblance of relaxation. In the parking lot, I observe a woman scolding a sobbing child.
Oblivious to her audience, the woman wags a stern finger and the little girl stands, tears running down her chubby cheeks, as she nods at the woman. I am terrible at placing the age of children, but I doubt this child understands much of what is being said to her. I laugh at the possibility that the child has learnt, too early, how to nod at the right times when dealing with a neurotic guardian. I think back to my childhood, the obedient nods and muttered apologies handed to my parents because I realised they cared less about my learning to be better than the desire to be obeyed. I let them be happy about feeling like the raised voices and subtle belittling ignited introspection when in reality the scripted communication is the reason I now call them thrice a month and rarely visit.
The woman hugs the little girl and gently dabs her tear-streaked face with a tissue she pulled out of her purse. The anger in her eyes has subsided to something more compassionate, and a smile slowly spreads across the little girl’s face making the woman beam, hug her and then lead her to the car. I watch her strap the girl in a car seat and as she moves to the driver’s side, mutter and laughs to herself.
I see reconciliation, a luxury I never encountered. I sip my coke and smile.
I look at my watch and it’s four-thirty; I ready my mind for the impending phone call from my employer. I look out into the street and by the kiosk across the road, a man and woman are arguing.
The woman, clad in Ankara iro and buba, is holding the man’s shirt as she gesticulates with her other hand and shouts what I decide is pidgin or a traditional language, I decide, Yoruba. The man whose dress shirt is now rumpled by her grip looks like he is stammering and his red-veined eyes wide with anger. The woman is unphased by whatever words the man can conjure; it is almost laughable. He concedes and the woman scratches her deep tribal marks as he reaches into his pocket and begrudgingly hands her what I presume to be money and stomps off. Proud of herself, she sits on her stool and stuffs the money in her aged Fanny Pack.
My phone rings and I ransack my purse.
“Esosa,” my boss, Hadiza, says once I’ve answered the call, “you’ve been gone for a little too long.”
“I know Hadiza,” I sigh, “I just needed an hour.”
“It’s almost up.”
“Okay. I won’t be late.”
“Good, thank you.”
After a heartbeat, I end the call and the hiss that escapes me is surreal.
It’s almost five now, I should be thinking about going home for a hot shower and a glass of wine, but no, I’m thinking about returning to the office. I’d rather not dwell on it, but I miss having a boss that didn’t feel this entitled to my time.
I sip some more coke and wait, tapping the table lightly.
“Madam, you have finished eating.” The frowning cashier says, holding my mind from roaming. I nod, “yes, I have.” I add a weak smile, “am I to clear it?” I look around for where to place the tray, I find nothing and settle on this lady’s confused gaze.
“Are you to clear what?” she scoffs.
“My tray.”
“No.” she picks the plastic tray, setting the bottle on the table “I will do that for you, that is why I came here.”
I nod, and she walks away.
An okada rider and a bus conductor are at each other’s throats. Both sweaty with calloused fingers and yellowing teeth, their readiness for a tussle clear in passion reddened eyes and the swiftness of their feet. A crowd forms and a man, who I decide is the bus driver, attempts to pacify both men, to no avail. It’s hard to understand where loyalties lie, but I guess that’s always the case with these things. People watch till the parties burn out, someone gets tragically hurt, or they decide to leave when boredom sets in. A man dressed in LASTMA uniform diffuses the situation by the frantic wave of his baton and gestures that could be perceived as threats. Both men separate. The taller one saddles himself onto his okada and zooms off, while the stockier one still shouts insults at him and ushers people into the danfo.
I’ve never understood the point of aggravated arguments. I’ve also never understood why men don’t seem to outgrow their raging hormones and bouts of uninhibited anger. Insert “not all men”, I hiss and laugh as I touch my phone screen, it’s a few minutes to five.
I stand in a huff and gather my things, and walk to the entrance where I bump into the grumpy cashier lady; her name tag I notice for the first time, Nike- it reads. She doesn’t frown this time. “Madam, you are going?” she stops sweeping and leans on the broom handle.
I nod, “yes, I am,” I reach into the side zipper of my purse, where I pull out my last one thousand naira note.
She smiles, “okay. Bye-bye.”
I extend the gift to her, “I hope you resolve whatever upset you today,” I say as she discreetly slips the note in her jeans pocket. She smiles and thanks me, her eyes expressing more gratitude than the faint smile that her thin lips hold. I smile one last time before walking through the door opened by a security man. He greets me and the gusto in his voice shows he witnessed the exchange between me and the lady. I take out my car keys from my pocket and unlock the vehicle.
I sit and I breathe as I yearn for a weekend of luxury I have not earned.
“Esosa, you’re my executive assistant. Start acting like it.”
I remember my university days as an editorial assistant; I remember my stint as a Copy Editor; I remember the subsequent months that I ran a small newsroom. I remember what made me apply for and accept this job that has steadily felt like a demotion, and I want to scream.
So I do. Aware of the futility of my action.
When my mind feels weightless and my brain a little stronger, I stop and slide my key into the ignition.
Alright, Esosa. There’s no food for a lazy girl.
