The End of All Things

He was interesting because he had that drive, that passion peppered with a dash of adventure that told me that while this was business for everyone else, to this kid – this black boy with the yellow wrist band – there was only fun to be had here.

 

—

“Why should I employ you instead of the 23 other people currently waiting outside?”

Because I will fondle your breasts for free, is what my brain said. Luckily for me, my mouth was acutely in favor of my getting employed as soon as possible, so I delayed in responding.

I raised my eyes a bit and was mildly surprised to realize that the breasts interviewing me were attached to a woman, and she appeared to have a face.

Not a bad face, considering. But the breasts, guy.

“Mr. Salami?” (Yes, my name is Salami. In 2014. My parents and I are still not on speaking terms)

“I have the skill set this company requires for the position advertised.”

“But you have no experience.”

“Which is to your advantage, actually.”

She leaned forward and I actually heard the breasts call me. On speed dial. Guy. I leaned closer and pretended it was because I wanted to hear her better.

“Oh, is it now? How so?”

“For one, I have not been polluted by the traditional ideologies of the working population and you are at no point in danger of having me import some obsolete work ethic from some mammoth organization where I used to work.”

“Interesting.”

“Also, I am fresh blood, and thus very eager to make my mark. Who knows, I might just be able to infect the entire staff with my personal drive. No Ebola.”

“Ebola?” Her face crimpled in disdain.

“That was a joke,” I said quietly, allowing the soft chair take more of my weight as I lay back. Be like I don mess up.

She flipped through my CV like she was reading it, but I knew she was only looking for some harpoon with which to stab me in the heart.

“Mr. Salami,” she began. “Thank you for your time – “

“No, thank y – “

“ – we will contact you if we find you suited for the position. Please call the next person on your way out.”

Man I wanted to do stuff, like, you know, jump on her table and twerk or do a handstand or juggle something. I wanted to impress the makeup right off her face, man! Hey, I had one chance to make a first impression and here she was asking me to call the next guy on my way out. Wetin be this?

When I got to the corridor, I tapped the grinning guy with the pink long-sleeved shirt and told him “you’re up,” and he had the effrontery to ask me “so guy how was it? Any tough questions? Yarn me please.”

I smiled at him and said, “she likes flattery. Tell her her dress really brings out her curves.”

The guy smiled and clapped me on the back.

Fool.

I stepped out of the phallic building and crossed to the other side of the road.

Lagos, city of hustlers. I felt in my breast pocket. Two polymer notes greeted my fingers, and I knew one was a fifty and the other a twenty. E go carry me reach house if I no buy anything for go-slow.

Speaking of traffic, there was a crazy one in front of me, and since I was in no particular hurry, I watched the gala sellers and La Casera fellas dispense their collaborative refreshments with an air of brisk entrepreneurship.

A boy (I pegged his age at 16, tops) balanced the carton of gala on his head as he darted back and forth across vehicles ensuring all was well with the gastric economy. He was interesting because he had that drive, that passion peppered with a dash of adventure that told me that while this was business for everyone else, to this kid – this black boy with the yellow wrist band – there was only fun to be had here.

He could have been playing real-life GTA for all anyone knew. I smiled a little.

The traffic jam cleared up abruptly (you know the kind; those ones usually caused by a fallen trailer as opposed to a police‘cheque’point) and I saw the boy had just handed three of his goods to a faceless passenger on a bus. The bus sped up, and the boy ran after it, but the passenger’s hand had retracted into the bus.

The boy ran, hitting the side of the rapidly accelerating bus before realizing neither the bus nor the passenger had his best interests at heart.

This realization must have been sudden for him, because he stopped abruptly.

In the middle of the road. It was almost inevitable, what happened next. A black Pajero made impact with him, screeching apologetically as rolls of the beef snack scattered about the road.

Roadkill.

I watched the bus, the one he was chasing, disappear around a bend and I sighed.

Tomorrow, I would attend another job interview. For this kid, right here, this was the end of All Things.

 

(Image credit: SoulCaste.wordpress.com)