Resurgence

8. Love Thorn

“There are memories that time doesn’t erase. Forever doesn’t make loss forgettable, only bearable.” – Cassandra Clare.

•••

“Uh, Miss Olaere, the driver has started that annoying thing with the continuous horning again.”

One of three stylists in her team, Sarah Durueke―a free spirited, charismatic woman, who was just fresh out from college with pitch perfect grades—informed her as she stood static by the archway of her office. They were on their way, heading out to purchase the items enumerated on their furniture list, sketched out for the villa of the Tijanis and she was loading vital accessories into her bag for the journey, but apparently she was taking too much time to descend down.

“The guy keeps acting like he can’t get sacked,” Sarah waltzed into the room with grace, just as Lani zipped up her bag and draped it over her right shoulder. Sarah was always a sight to behold and today was no exception. Her pink cashmere sweater decorated with oval beads at its cuffs was very much resplendent. That coupled with a navy blue pencil skirt and black Louboutins held enough power to go in for the kill. Sometimes Lani envied beauties like Sarah because of their light skin tones. They could blend colors in whatever way they wish and still come out on top.

“Actually, he can’t.” Lani replied, stepping out of her desk cubicle. Mr. Imakhai wasn’t in the office for some curious reason―probably in some secluded part of the building placing an urgent phone call that couldn’t wait for work to be concluded. She didn’t want to be judgmental, but the man’s excesses were becoming outrageous. “He goes way back with the husband of Mrs. Adeyemi.” Mrs. Adeyemi was the eminent head of the firm. “Something about him being the long time driver of the man’s mother or something. Point is that they respect him too much to sack him no matter how many his shortcomings are.”

“Ah, I can see why he is here then.” Sarah’s eyes narrowed in a knowing manner. “Obviously, he was relegated to the position of bus driver here since they didn’t want to sack him and tolerate his nonsense back in their house. So, simple solution. They dump him and his wahala here and leave us to deal with it and to think, that this firm had good customer policy. Such cruelty.”

Lani couldn’t help but chuckle. Sarah was indeed her favorite person at the office. Gesticulating forward with her right hand, she indicated that they started the short hike down to the vehicle.

“And the lorry drivers too? Are they ready?” She probed further for more information. One bus might be enough to convey them to their destination, but the same couldn’t be said for the furniture. A heavy duty vehicle was usually made available for such hefty carriages. “What’s the name of that one that is obsessed with Fuji music again?”

“Mr. Okereke,” Sarah replied, as they stepped into the broad hallway. “I really don’t get it. The dude is Igbo. How can he love Fuji so much? It just doesn’t make sense. And he wears Ankara clothing way too much for an Igbo guy. Do you think he is Yoruba pretending to be Igbo, though?”

“Why would anyone do that?” Lani returned the question. “There isn’t some sort of preference for Igbo people on the job that would cause such a thing. And why would an Igbo man pretend to be Yoruba in the first place. An average, Yoruba family without liberal views, see themselves as the perfect tribe―and usually flaunt it way too much in the face of other tribes. So I don’t see why an Igbo guy should be enthusiastic about faking such.”

“Anyhoo, it’s a good thing he is a lorry driver and not the bus driver.” Sarah pointed out. A number of staff members had walked past them and had exchanged pleasantries with them. The folk consisted majorly of young, ‘peng’ men who threw in a suggestive wink for good measure. “Imagine actual people cooped up in his vehicle and having no choice whatsoever to listen to such music! And you know how loud the speakers of vehicles usually are. Even with earplugs you won’t be able to escape the sound.”