My name is Gwamezioku. Mindlessly I drive through the early morning ritual of tedious traffics, bad driving, and terrible roads and not to mention Government and Police vehicles that breach every traffic laws. I am nonplussed about the driving on a One-Way road against traffic flow by a commercial bus driver, blaring of sirens sporadically by the Police, driving on the road partitions and curbs as a show of superiority and haste. I will rather say a show of stupidity and meaningless motions. To me, it seems like a game of chess; each player or rather each driver, trying to outwit the other with different moves towards winning. The question is; winning what? A Trophy?
The headache increased as the melancholy of the previous night still reflected in my drabbed eyes.
On arrival, guess who is patiently waiting for me at the lobby? Mrs. Fimie. Sometimes I wonder why the elevator does not go straight to my office, bye passing the lobby because she never fails to remind me of the culture of been early to work. Though I find the lecture and its timing annoying especially when she starts the monologue with “Young man, as the clerk to Mr. Wentworth in 1942, he made sure we all…” but I try to be objective as possible and agree with the morale of the lecture; she is partly right, I should be at work early but being an old lady makes arguing with her pointless; an old lady with a gait to her steps and air of sophistication. Mrs. Fimie is hard to forget not just because of her punctuality and poise but certain depth of live and zest in her eyes that reflects and resonant her personality. I had tried several times to pass her file on to another colleague to manage but each time a restraint, a reluctance, a…for lack of words, let just say “a something” stops me from doing so. It’s like a bitter-sweet relationship, the kind you have with your mother. You don’t like her scolding you for being right most of the times over the consequences of your stubbornness, and giving you “unsolicited” advice (which are true but you feel too big and arrogant to accept) but when she is not around, you feel….hmm!!!, “somehow” needing her around. It’s hard to explain but I vaguely remember my elder sister try to explain it like our relationship with God; you want to feel independent, you do not want to be bossed around and yet when HE finally keeps quiet and leaves you to your own devises, you feel lonely and abandoned.
She walks me to my office and as I open door, she helps herself with the chair and my day begins with attending to her first but she like to start with her normal pleasantries and attempts at talking about the Jesus as if the Sunday preaching’s in church and TV preachers are not enough but what I find interesting but in a tiring way is the excitement in her voice, her eyes, her whole being when she talks about Him; I mean Jesus. I don’t understand it, I go to church too and I know the bible verses too, so I know all she is saying but it’s like there is something she see that I don’t see, there is something she knows that is not in the bible. What is it?
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