The weekend has just begun. It is 4.38 and you can’t wait for the wall clock to beep five. You completed tasks for the week on Wednesday so you’ve just been lazying around the office taking hot coffee, staring cluelessly at the laptop, disturbing everyone with weird crap about your village folk and their unexplainable desire for witchcraft, all along consuming company resources without any tangible output for the 40 hours you’ve been around. There’s no difference between you and the house wife in Kawangware who cares more about Patience Ozokwor than she does her hygiene. Both of you are jobless and full of anxiety.
Every once in a while, the boss pops in and since you have like 40 windows open, you scroll to a report you completed 39 years ago and pretend it’s what you’re currently working on. Being the idle one means your responsibility is to keep tabs on what’s happening on Instagram for wannabe office socialites and its also your responsibility to try and decipher who is threatening Waiguru’s life for the few male colleagues in your department.
Huddah has a Range Rover. You declare
“Doesn’t Vera also do”? The office socialite (I hear they prefer video vixens) states matter of factly
No Vera’s wasn’t hers. You retort.
“Whose was it?” Some weird, glass donning, geeky female colleague quips
I heard it belonged to the Saudi Prince. He also bought her a bed worth 1 mita.
The discussion goes on with video vixens defending their own and the clueless taking notes on what’s happening in the social circles. You watch on as your distraction brings out varied views on society but as soon as it digresses to Besigye, Mugabe, Tsangirai and their looks, the clock strikes 5.
Ladies rush to the washrooms to redo their makeup as the several drunkards decide on who is buying the drinks leo. Machines are flapped mid reports, 5 minutes later the place smells of cologne and perfume as the ladies with compromised moral compasses exit the washrooms in an extreme makeover. The excitement and relieve in the air is thicker than Kiraitu’s accent. This is the day ratchets show their true colors as fat, potbellied, ugly, loaded Nigerian men watch excitedly waiting for their chance to pounce.
Two or so hours later, the music is louder than attire colors from a guy in Emali during Moi Day celebrations. The ladies walking into the establishment are in dresses shorter than Duale’s memory with their heels longer than a stripper pole in some red light district in Hong Kong. Their clutch bags are held under their clean shaven armpits and the legs proceed from Egypt to Cape Town.
As the music rages on and drinks keep coming, morals start loosening and gradually a girl in a blue dress, matching shoes and nail polish is on top of the table gyrating and throwing her imaginary hips around for anyone with eyes. The lights in this establishment are bright at 8:09 but by 10:17 they are dim and sinful. Th walls radiate red and green shades of luminosity and guys and chics move further into dark corners as the cold gets hotter and thirst threatens survival.
To be continued…