Tag Archives: Igbo

My Name is…


I know I ALWAYS write in ‘first-person’, probably a sign of literary laziness?  I don’t know.  But today I thought to try something marginally different.   Still writing in first-person, but from the points of view of three different people – Abby, EnKay and Jide.  Enjoy, and when you’re done please let me know what you think.  Merci beaucoup.


It’s about 11.30 on this dusty Monday morning and a young man walks into the lobby looking lost.  My eyes, trained to spot money (or lack of it) a mile away, take in his frayed collar, faded tie and dusty shoes and I wonder what on earth His Royal Wretchedness is doing here. Yes, he’s handsome, but his one dimple and perfect eyebrows can’t make up for this contraption a very wicked tailor has sewn for him in the name of a suit.  I guess he’s one of those job seekers coming to drop another CV, the manila envelope clutched in his left hand sort of tells the story. Seriously, I almost feel sorry for him.

He seems to gain some confidence as he spots me at the reception desk, smiles and says hello.  “See my life?” I say to myself as I hiss inwardly, on a good day this one wouldn’t have the guts to look me in the eye if he passed me on the street, let alone expose teeth and “hello” me like I’m his mate.  But in this firm I’m paid to be nice to whatever brand of humanity the wind blows in through those doors so I smile half-heartedly and mumble a reply to his greeting, they don’t pay me enough to win an Oscar, abeg.  Then he gives his name as Jide and mentions he’s here for the 1pm appointment with the MD and something clicks! Read the rest of this entry