Why I Hate Weekends
A new week is starting tomorrow. As a practice, I like to make sure that I prepare ahead for the week because I know how lazy I can be whenever I return from work. I had to wake up by 4 in the morning every day to take my bath, get dressed, and be at the bus stop latest by 5.
I would wait for my company's staff bus while listening to whichever music album or audiobook my mood chooses. The bus arrives before 5:30 am and the thirty minutes that I always had to wait were spent in fear of potential thieves, kidnappers, and any other threat to my life and every other property I had on me.
I had heard tales of people who had been robbed on their way to work. The ones who were forced to enter vehicles in the early hours of the day and were dropped in a distant location after being dispossessed of their belongings. Different stories of people who left home and never returned reiterated in my head every morning while I stood waiting for the staff bus to arrive.
This fear was what made me plug in my AirPods every morning from the moment I step out of my apartment till the time when the reflection of headlamps of the bus flashing in my eyes from a distance made the bus look like a mirage.
I could avoid the mental torture that I had to put myself through. I could stay back till 6 am and miss the bus, but that would mean that I was going to find a way to leave Ojota and get to Lekki before 8 am.
I have a very strict boss. I had never been late but I know the verdict of people who have been on that ship. He would give a task that he knows you can’t finish and frequently hurl insults at you as motivation. He doesn’t stop there, he would also seize your lunch break. So while others were indulging themselves during lunch, you would be in the office arranging paperwork from over a decade ago.
I like to think of it as a job but I am an intern in a reputable company. The fact that the company is a reputable one in the luxurious part of Lagos will suggest at the spur of the moment that I am being heavily paid. But that is not my case. I remember being in the HR office on the day I was recruited. She went on an endless talk about what I will be doing, who I report to, where I should be and when, resumption and closing time, and some other things that I didn't consider important enough to listen to. Then, she stopped for a few seconds. "About your remuneration..." she continued, "...since you're only an intern and you are learning from us, we will be paying you stipend..." The word "stipend" didn't sit well with me. I asked myself how someone earning ten thousand naira a month was supposed to feed and transport himself from the mainland to Lekki every day throughout a month.
I tried to hide my disappointment but my eyebrows gave me off. She saw it. She knew her last statement didn't sink well with me. I sat motionless in what was supposed to be a comfortable chair right across a well-arranged mahogany desk looking straight into eyes and allowing my face to do the yelling. "I understand it is not what you were expecting and the money is not enough, I wish there was something I could do but it's the company's laid down policy and there very little I can do about it..." She explained empathically. "However, if you can be up early, you can join other staff who use the staff bus to work, that would save you the cost of transportation at least."
These were the reasons why I had to join the staff bus every morning. I dreaded being punished and insulted by my boss and even if I wanted to be a truant, I didn't have enough funds to facilitate such perilous ambitions.
To meet up with the bus, I had to sleep early. To sleep early, I had to make sure that I had done adequate preparation for the following day. To ensure that I was able to prepare every day, I had to do a general preparation during the weekend ahead of the coming week because I know how lazy I can be whenever I returned from work.
I jostled back into consciousness. Again, I was aware of the disorderly state of my room. A muss. A noteworthy shamble. Entropy!
The room was originally not mine. My uncle had occupied it before relocating to Abuja and he was yet to exhaust his rent so I moved in. It was easier to stay in Ojota than to stay with my parents in Ikorodu. Being new in the area, I preferred to be indoors most of the time which explained why the room was looking like a war ground. From one end, my mattress was lying scruffy on the bed. A heap of washed clothes was sitting on the plastic chair in the room. My laptop was plugged into an extension box waiting for NEPA to restore the light and revive the laptop. Empty sachets water and soda plastic were scattered in every part of the room. There were unwashed plates that I used since yesterday. I had been too lazy to wash them. The plates made me remember that I had exhausted my foodstuff and I had to make stew ahead of the week. I looked outside my window, it was getting dark. I grabbed a nylon sack from the kitchen, snatched my ATM card and Airpods and I hit the streets.
It was dark so I took the opportunity to showcase my sleazy dancing skills. I stopped occasionally whenever I saw a car approaching. I didn't want to be the face of Instablog on a Monday morning. I find it hard to listen to music without lip-synching and articulating so I was enjoying my walk.
I turned to enter a short street that leads to the market. I discovered the route the last time I went shopping and it seems to be shorter than the one I was used to. The street was filled with boys standing in groups of threes and fours at different positions on the street. I counted about five groups and they were all smoking. There were so many cigarette lights on the street, you would think it was a candle night.
I wasn't bothered with these guys. I had no problem with them. However, I could not help but notice a slender lady standing at the edge of the street. The light from the moon was not enough to reveal her face but I could see that what she was wearing was quite revealing. She stood in front of a small building swinging her body from left to right. I stopped for a moment to look at her, she felt uneasy. I was certain that she was scared of passing that street because of the boys. It was understandable. These boys will likely taunt her and call names or even molest her if she passed the street. I ignored her and walked away, but I could not stop thinking about her. How was she going to pass? She would have to follow the longer route to get to wherever she was going. I pitied her.
For reasons I'm yet to explain to myself, I turned back and went to offer to walk her through the street. I stopped at her front and as I was about to greet her, she opened her mouth and made to speak.
I knew it. This young lady needed help and I came to rescue her. I found it ironic that I was someone's Jesus on a Sunday. Deep down, I was glad I could be of help to someone. She had a minuscule height so I bent a bit to let her talk the talk before we walk the walk.
She leaned forward and brought her face towards my ears. "Fine boy, make we go inside?" She whispered.
I shifted back in shock. I took another look at her. It was then that I noticed the building behind her. Women between their mid-twenties to late thirties were sitting dispersedly in a bar wearing either bra tops and bum shorts or remarkably short gowns. The bar had an unpleasant smell and I, standing in front of the bar, had found myself in an unpleasant situation.
She repeated her question and I recovered from my shock. "Oh! Oh! Oh!, Hoe my God", I exclaimed. She attempted to hold me as she beckoned on me to follow her inside. "No please, no, no..." I refused repeatedly as I walked away.
