I had just set down my plate to eat lunch, when I took a good look at what I was about to eat. It was white rice with palm oil stew; no meat and not even a piece of fish or the most miserable kpomo in sight. It was plain and very wretched looking.
I became depressed. I couldn’t remember when last I sat at table with a fork and a knife looking at a three-course meal, knowing that a plate of lovely food is going down my throat and I’ll be savouring every last taste of it.
I remembered all the nice lunches I’ve ever had: pounded yam with edikan ikong, afia efere or banga soup; with fat pieces of smoked fish, goat meat and snails. I sighed as I imagined that I’d rather have a nice savoury stew or fried rice or jollof rice with chicken turkey and a rich salad to this bland meal I was about to dig into.
I became weighed down by this sad realization that I’ve been broke for so long that the pleasures of life have become alien to me. What type of life would I tell myself I was living now? I used to be a big boy working as a branch manager in one of Nigeria’s apex banks.
It’s not that I stole. I was a clean banker with clean hands. I was sacked because of all this target wahala. The bank gives you an unrealistic business target to rake in every month. If you fail to deliver, first you’ll be the subject of ridicule during management meetings. Your ogas will rub it in; telling you how Mr. X met twice his target for the month and how Mrs. Y closed that business with an unbelievable amount. Then everyone would give you that look like ‘why is your own so different?’
It just looked as if all the witches from my father’s village did a collabo with the entire witches from my mother’s village to deal with me. Because no matter how I tuned on my ‘fine boy smooth talk’ on my proposed clients, they’d always turn their faces away from me like I hadn’t brushed my mouth for two weeks.
Before long, the management of my bank couldn’t stand my excuses anymore and they gave me the boot. Na so man carry briefcase come dey kack for house-o! Even my regular babe gave me space. According to her, the bank job was my main girlfriend, because I spent a greater part of my time buried in my work…moving from one place to the other to get business. And when I was free, I hung out with the guys. She said she managed to tolerate me because of the huge cash compensation she got from me. So now that the money was no longer there, why should she stay?
The one wey pain me pass na my guys!!! All my guys are behaving like I’m suffering from a contagious disease. These were dudes I used to buy shak for. Sometimes, I’d be minding my business in my house, when they’d call me to block them at one joint like that. Last, last…I’ll be the one to pick up the bills. If I dared to protest that I hadn’t factored that expense into my budget, one of them would pat me on the back and say:
“Funsho, why are you forming for us now? You know you’re a big boy…this one is chicken change for you.”
Yes..Tobi, Efe and you, Chukwudi with your triangle head…I know you’ll get to read this once Deeva publishes it. I must tag you guys on this link so you get to read it by force. F**k you all fake ass n*ggas!! After chopping my money, you’re now treating me like I caught Ebola abi? May craw-craw baptize your fathers legs! Oloshi!
Shebi, if I carry gun now to start armed robbery, it is still you people that will lead other Nigerians to deal with me Aluu 4 style abi? God is watching everything that’s going on in my life right now. In short, diaris God! Don’t worry. I’ll bounce back bigger and better. And when I do, I know just where to keep fake friends like you…far away from my life!
Funsho, the Angry Guy.