First three years, I have been barely surviving on the meager income I make as a call-centre operator. To say the truth, the risks are high. If one is not thinking about these KAI (Kick Against Indiscipline) people, who would surface unannounced to raid, then one could be counting losses from troublesome customers who would not hear that they should pay for a minute when the timer
says 10 seconds.
“You deliberately allowed it to be reading’; “You want to cheat me,” “The phone was reading even before they picked the call,” These are some of the comments the customers confront me with simply because I am involved in this business.
How about the weather? Lagos with what it is can pass as the most unpredictable place in terms of weather. Most times, I don’t fear the rains because I am sure that the sun would also come to dry me up. After all, what protection would one get under an umbrella barely enough to cover my small table and stool?
The worst of all are card thieves. I don’t know how they do it. But the moment they buy anything from you, the shortages come in torrents. Some would pull up on a bike and ask for a recharge card, only to zoom off when you hand it over to them.
Yet one barely makes enough to afford decent meals.
Perhaps the worst aspect of our job is the nature of people doing the business. Unemployment situation has made it an all-comers affair. At the bus stop where I stay, there are over 12 of us, bonded by nothing other than greed and envy.
Yet one barely makes enough to afford decent clothing.
The other day. I had the worst brush with a colleague of mine. Someone wanted to make a call. Somehow that person walked past her position to mine. That was just the problem.
“Becky, I no like thing wey you dey do,” My colleague said,
‘Wetin I do? Sebi l dey my own wen the boy come my place,” l said. ,
“Na lie! You dey give am eye. You think say I no see you? You dey give am eyer’, she screamed,
“I no give anybody eye, I corrected.
The fact that the person in question made two minutes’ phone call which was worth 40 naira was not enough to dissuade my colleague. You won’t believe that what I got there as profit was just 16 naira.
Yet, she wanted to eat me raw. She even went ahead to touch the wrong nerves, telling me that my habit was what led to my predicament.
“What habit you dey talk. sef? You devil,” I shot back at her angrily,
“You be Satan, Why you no dey husband house? You no dey shame!” she yelled. I just had to lose my temper. I reached for her, Thank God 1 was able to deal her two blows before people milled towards us to separate us. I also thank God that my nails were able to draw a map on her face. That would serve as a reminder.
Yes, each time she picks up a mirror, she would remember the day she insulted me, Becky Odion.
Maybe I won the little battle. But in the battle of conscience I am losing. Honestly, since that very day, I have been thinking about myself and how I got to this crossroad.
The truth is that my emotions are boiling and sometimes. I just wish the earth could part and swallow me up. I sold
my pride at the market place and my dignity. That is why riff-raffs could talk before me.
Nobody who knew me six years ago would believe I am Becky Odion. It is hard to believe. It’s even harder to fathom the circumstances that led me to this quagmire, yet that is the truth. Nothing but the gospel truth.
I was doing well as Becky. The mistake I made was that I tried to become someone else, I tried to become who I was not destined to be, I was happily married, I had three children- one girl and two boys. I had a job. It was not a dream job though, it was far better than operating a call centre under an umbrella. It was far more rewarding.
I was a teacher in a private school. I was loved by the kids, husband and of course my acquaintances at school.
Everyone in the school had something good to say about me because I worked hard to earn respect of everyone. Like other teachers, I augmented the income with private lessons and coaching which we were doing here and there.
That incidentally was what led me into trouble. I will explain. There was this compound I usually go to teach for one hour every week day. The pay was by far fantastic (by our standards) at N10,000 a month. My job specification was to take the three kids of one man through their home works before returning home. I was enjoying it, even though it was hectic.
But the devil was lurking around. In that compound someone called Uncle Richard would always come out to greet me whenever he heard my voice. It was a large compound with at least five families, so much as I knew, that Uncle Richard was not part of the family I worked for, I was aware that he usually comes around from somewhere. But I could not tell where. However, he usually reserved some words of encouragement for me.
“You work so hard madam. How do you cope with this much work that you do?” he would say.
“I cope,” I would reply.
“If this was Europe, I bet you would be loading money at the booth of a car at the end of every month,” he
would say.
Sometimes, he would also tell me how my classes and lessons were rubbing off on the pupils I was teaching.
After a while he would vanish without a trace. People in the compound would only say that he had travelled. But where he travelled, me, Becky Odion, would not know.
The next time I saw Uncle Richard was the day I had a brawl with my husband, Basil. It would ordinarily have been a minor quarrel that should be resolved between husband and wife but the pressure of work made me to trash-talk Basil. I told him that he should be grateful that I was working and bringing money home, instead of sulking.
“Okay, you are indirectly telling me that I do not bring money home,” Basil had implied. This incident coincided with when his company had financial problem and had to halt production for eight months. That automatically transferred the entire burden to me.
“Basil, you said that. Becky did not say that,” was my reply. I do not know why this would infuriate him. The next thing I noticed was that Basil pounced on me, hitting me as if we were matched for a boxing contest. I ended up with a swollen right eye and a left eye that was blood shot.
That day I dodged schoo1. I also dodged extra lessons. I cooked up excuses. I had to wait until the next day.
By then, the bruises would have reduced and vanished. But there were still traces of the assault the next day. As I was walking into the compound to teach the three pupils, I encountered Uncle Richard at the front balcony. He noticed and asked me who hit me like that.
“It’s nobody;’ I lied. “I just fell down,”
“Madam, you could not have fallen like that. I know the handiwork of a bad husband when I see it. Why did he hit you like this?” he was like a prophet. He was
like a microscope, looking at the minutest details on my heart. He touched the tear nerves in me, so I burst into tears.
…To Be Continued
