9:30am

Industrial Bank Headquarters, Abuja

“Good morning, I’m here to see Mrs. Ida. My name is Bamidele Briggs, I have a ten o’clock appointment.” Bamidele readjusted her bag straps on her shoulder as she addressed the receptionist.

The stenciled eyebrows poised to disdainful perfection, matched the supremely unconcerned look finely etched on the face of the receptionist staring woodenly at her computer screen. Bamidele watched in silent fascination as the lady slowly whipped her blonde head up to reveal bright blue contact-lensed eyes. Her vibrant hued talons tapped along to a silent beat on her table as her siren-red lips opened and aggressively questioned “Who you say you dey fine for ya ma?”

Bamidele struggled to keep both her eyebrows at the same level on her oval face. “Mrs Ida. Please.”

“That na the one wey fat well well? The one wey sabi wear pink abi?”

Bamidele swallowed the biting retort her brain shot to her lips in response. It was that Nigerian Crisis, a moment she suffered everyday; deciding between a withering set down in response to an exhibition of foolishness or ignoring the same for the sake of peace. After considerable effort, peace won. In Nigeria, she had come to accept the absurd as normal; poor service was expected, although not always accepted. She did not complain about the system often but instead adopted the unofficial national slogan “No Wahala”, the West African cousin of Kenya’s ‘Hakuna Matata’. Nigerians, Bamidele thought, tended to laugh where a more appropriate emotion was anger or sadness. Bamidele could feel the helpless laughter building in her stomach already. She checked the Raymond Weil on her wrist. 9:39am? She had time to kill before her appointment.

Leaning conspirationally across the reception desk, she whispered “She fat well well eh?” It seemed Nigerians can only convey emphasis with the repetition of an accentuated word.

It appeared her interest was the key to unlocking the Receptionist’s mouth. The blond black woman vomited gossip in a hushed but hurried voice “My sister! She fat no be small tin! You know say na these I.B.N people dey enjoy pass! They don chop Naija national cake finish, national sprink roll and meat pipe, all join, Na why I been come work here now, I hear say politicians just dey carry money for ‘Ghana must go’ bag arahnd these big big government office, me sef I leave Owerri enter Abuja, I want chop government money now abi I no be Nigerian too?! Me sef I must hammer, pata pata na to born pikin for one Minister take solve my problem! Shikenah!” Her concluding shrug was the only full stop.

By this time Bamidele had dropped her briefcase on the floor, next to her decency, laughing noisily. “So you don find your ‘Messiah’? ” Bamidele asked conversationally. She laughingly replied “Ahhhh my sister! Na only level 4 civil servants dey follow me oh! I don fix fake die; hair, nails, eye, eyelash sef! Still na so so men wey I dey suspect say poverty don hold gun for their head, warn them make they never take their two eye see money! Na them dey come find me oh! I tire.”

The two young women collapsed into fits of laughter on the reception desk. Anyone going past would see two young women still straddling girl and womanhood. One artificially enhanced, the other more natural but both equally beautiful Africans. Their backgrounds were polar opposites but on that morning they had found the commonality all women share; men.

The loud revving of an engine cut their laughter short causing them to turn around along with the other occupants of the reception towards the source of the noise, the exit gate. An old red Sedan sat at the exit gate, windows wound up and driver staring ahead even as the security guards screamed and pointed, redirecting him to the entrance gate. The occupants of the reception looked on, some moving to closer to the glass for a better view.

“Some people no dey hear word!”
“Is he drunk?!”
“See how they’re waving their guns up and down for this small matter!”
“Na so them dey do oh! Small time now you go hear GBOAH! Na “accidental discharge” them go dey talk when they carry ‘im dead body go meet ‘im mama”.

Mutterings of “No mind them” swirled around the reception as everyone stared at the gate. The security man stationed at the reception marched out angrily, muttering to himself.

Bamidele and the Receptionist watched in silence for a few more minutes. The argument outside quickly lost its steam when it appeared the Sedan’s driver was willing to succumb to the power of authority and use the entrance gate.

“Eh heh…where was I before that onye-ara displayed his animalistic tendencies?! I no know why for this Naija we too dey behave like animal…that man no see sign for gate wey ‘im want…” The receptionist continued to Bamidele as she turned back to face the desk.

But the revving had gotten too loud to continue.

Bamidele whipped around to face the doors.

The car had gotten too close to the doors to continue, surely he’d stop!

Bamidele did not stop running even when she heard the car crash through the doors. She had witnessed two armed robbery attacks since her return to Nigeria and was always on alert, she wondered now if the emergency exit doors may be located in a separate wing. She could see people running towards the stairs, some hurrying down the stairs to see what the commotion was about and help the apparently inebriated driver out of the accident he’d created. She heard people shouting at the driver, and insults hurled his way. Her new friend’s voice reverbrating in the reception with anger shrieked “ Shey I talk say this man na animal! Oga commot for that car make we beat you well well! GOD!….”

Bamidele’s feet halted at the sound of the last word from the Receptionist. Sharp fear was evident in the timbre of each letter, replacing the anger. She turned around quickly.

“OGA, abeg drop that thing!”
“Blood of Jesus!”
Someone moved in the reception and Bamidele had a clear view of the driver. What was that in his right hand?!
“My friend please take it easy, don’t do this please”
“HEEYYYYYYYY”

Was that a grenade?!

Scream. Scream. Scream.

Feet. Feet.

“ALLAH AKBAR!!!”

Silence.

Photo credit: thesatorialist.com