The danger I now remember clearly, showed its face the very first day I went to submit my application for the job. Hunger and desperation, as in capital Hand D, however blocked all view besides the hope for employment. It was getting to three years since I collected some salary from an employer, and what I refer now to as a salary could not be voted as one day’s meal allowance for one of our legislator’s fowls! Whoever suggested a paltry N8000 daily feeding allowance for one honourable fowl in the hallowed compounds of our power-punchers certainly would end up patched up in Plaster of Paris!
I had seen the unintelligent advertisement for a driving vacancy the previous day in a posh street of Ikeja GRA, I wondered briefly what connection such person that advertised for “Experienced Driver” had with a Governmental Reserved Area, But I was simply too hungry to dwell on the irony of a comfortably quartered illiterate calling for :An Experienced driver WASCE Holder.’ I had prepared my application that very evening. By eight the following day, I had stormed the marble house in front of the advert board.
A corporate guardsman peeped at me through the security bole. I showed my envelope of application and raised my left hand also. Assured I was an unarmed applicant, the corporate guard unlatched the bolt with a clang and opened the pedestrian entrance just wide enough for me, I wondered if he thought I had company who probably crouched to rush in after me.
“See the reception,” The guard pointed to the most conspicuous of two entrances into the magnificent building. ‘There is a girl in there to attend to you.” .•
The guard stopped short of a word he barely managed to keep back. I was sure the word was ‘Sir’. He was evidently used to the humble suffix. But a flat-bellied application like me didn’t fit into the league of usual visitors who most probably left tips as they existed.
‘Thank you SIR!’ I emphasized the Sir for the apparent benefits of the guard’s ego. He was the already employed servant. I was still applying, If I succeeded, Mr. Guardsman would need to be understood as the servant!
1 left the trail of thought for another one as I apprehensively turned towards the indicated reception, Where had I come?
Was this massive compound a hotel or a private residence? Did private houses have receptions and receptionists?’ I held the big glass door handle and pushed in hoping to God it was not meant for pulling outwards, I struggled into the room, ruffled at the resistance of the door which twisted my arm as it sprang back to close. A woman and a young lady sat inside and they managed to subdue their dignified smiles. My cumbersome entrance was obviously pitied. But my woes were unrelenting. I suddenly didn’t know how to effectively greet a lady and a woman sitting together especially when it was obvious the lady was the receptionist apparently in the employ of the woman. Was ‘Good Morning’ okay for both? How would ‘Good morning Madams’ sound before a woman and a young girl?
The woman asked, mercifully.
“Hand over your application to the girl”
‘Thank you ma’, I said, indeed grateful that she effectively undermined the need of Formalities.
The receptionist stretched out her hand to collect my envelope but her gaze was so derisive I was tempted to simply turn back and go. She was in her mid-twenties, the girl, but she was obviously full of airs. Did she look at me hatefully because of my timidity or because of my conspicuous poverty? I was probably 20 years older and what did this kid in an air-conditioned office know about life and pains? I handed over the envelope of application.
“Where do you live, young man?” The woman asked as the girl was uninterested collecting my envelope,
I looked at her, she was drifting through the pages of a newspaper; yet looking at me with what I considered more than a passing interest. After the cold gaze of the snobbish receptionist, a glint in the eyes of an elderly woman was easy to notice. She was probably 50 or slightly less. But the superfluous make up, the sleeveless gown rolled too high up her thighs as she sat back on the side cushion, added to a snare-like smile to suggest the vanity of a much younger one!
Was this the boss of the house or was she the boss’ wife? Was she the employer or part of it? “l live at Agbado Crossing’. I answered, almost plaintively. I needed all sympathy I could get.
”All the way from Agbado Crossing!” she exclaimed. But there was still the smile. I chose to simply cork my head to one side in a gesture of helplessness.
“Can you live with us … that is, if you pass all tests and we decide to employ you, would you be able to live within the compound?
How would you react to such scenario?
Famished and almost dyeing, help appears in the horizon and implores you to accept her! You would be almost ashamed of your own luck. I held myself back from answering with jubilant songs of praises. “It would be wonderful, Madam. A favour indeed, Ma, I saw that confusing glint reappear again in her eyes. I hoped I knew why the girl behind the desk appraised me with disdain while the big woman before me glinted.
“Give me his application Gloria.”
My enemy from behind the desk handed over my envelope to the woman with something like a bow. I took note of the servitude with sadistic glee.
“I am Mrs. Obiefule”, Madam said as she tore open and extracted my handwritten request for driving job.
“My Oga is a politician and a business man and runs around a lot. If you qualify, I can go ahead and employ you. Whenever Oga is available, he will ratify the appointment.
All the while she talked she glanced through my application but with scant interest. I had a strange feeling I was already qualified in the eyes of this woman. The qualifying qualities however; were obviously outside of the scribbled words and testimonials in the envelope. I kept quiet still. When the gods worked for you, you let them finish the work.
…To Be Continued
