Prequel: It's About Time

Time of writing. 8.17 am. The crunchy sounds you might hear – Me, having flakes o’corn!

Today I AROSE. And it just feels right saying it that way. Because I actually did. Early. It feels surreal – is that it? Where’s a dictionary when you don’t need one? The air. Freshhh. It was almost like I was in Triangle in a Squared Circle Yoga Type Mode. Perfect! Chalk one up for me. Like I’d been doing this everyday and it just came naturally. . . until of course, several days and sleepless nights which in future would become my, er, my Mr Hyde (if that’s the evil one).

But for now, this 7am thing didn’t look so heavy-handed. Especially considering I’d tossed and turned and . . . finally lolled off to sleep - you surely were not expecting me to follow up with ‘blew the house down’, coz if you were, that’s (awwww!) all cute and poetic but your nose belongs in another story, sorry - at some ungodly hour that was unworthy of my prized early rising. Hence the word, AROSE.

So, feeling all spiked up and Bhuddish with myself, I plunked me into the bathroom (ah, ah, ah, no more Shower Hour tales, I have learned the hard way). It could always be this way, all I had to do was chant the 7am mantra (I could tweet (sigh! Rolling the eyes!) Madonna, – don’t get it tweeted, Pete, it’s still the worst thing since Big Brother - she must still have her Bhudda notes somewhere, or at the very least I’d search the length and breath of google). OMG! I just realized I’ve been mis-spelling 'Bhudda'. My apologies, Great One. So you could just mentally replace ‘dd’ with ‘h’. I practically have to expel the ‘ha’ to remember to write it right (there’s an English word for what I just did) so it’s OK if you don’t get it the first two tries. Like me.

Anyways, as I was saying, I could get used to this! Or maybe it’s just all in the spirit of Day One On The Job.

So dressed in high spirits, black pumps, dark blue jeans, a yellow (yes, yellow; bright, for that matter. I’m in my It’s-Time-To-Step(but this is more of Jump for me)–Out-Of-My-Comfort-Zone-And-Take-The-Plunge phase)shirt, waist coat (I’m cringing, don’t know if that’s the word oh, but the last time I referred to it as ’monkey jack(et)’, Ndomo reported me to 1993 and let’s just summarize it as an experience-in-order-to-believe, er, experience. The extent of the tantrum a dead-and-buried (at least that’s what I thought until It exploded) decade-and-a-half year-old could throw! And on top of that It threatened to sue for Exhumation and Disruption Of The Peace Of The Dead and Buried! Still cringing!) and a blue neckpiece by Treasure (Eyza owes me for free publicity but she won’t read this so IK . . . you know what, forget it), in no particular order(sigh! Still talking about my outfit. You needn’t always get carried away by my sub-thoughtlings, like now), I did the rounds.

Meet-and-great. And of course in the spirit of the World Cup, I hailed the Germans. Don’t take it too P. This wasn’t ass-kissing rehearsal. I had just become souled out to RedBlackYellow&White (with such amazing colors, it’s astonishing how Hitler could still be racist, or maybe it wasn’t that then. I hate history). I’d become souled out to you too if you thrashed the Queen out England (pardon my Portuguese) and sewed Maradona’s pants onto his ( I presume hairy) butt – or butt onto his pants, order is of no importance! Seeing a 5-footer run around loose, nude and butt-naked (in this case, I can’t get them to mean the very same thing in my head), long dark hair flailing in the wind (amongst several other unmentionables) has never been on - and will never make it alive to (take pun as you may) - My Bucket List! SHUDDER!!! Forget grammar, “NYAMA!”

Where was I? Oh yes, the part where I was going to adopt ‘Guten Morgen’ as my ‘good morning’ and ‘Hail Hitler’ as my ‘how far?’ On second thoughts, that would be major ass-kissing. So, ‘nehi nehi’ (RTE again, that’s Indian, did you miss the no-German-ass-kissing line? Must I confess that I don't know ‘NO’ in German?).

So, I’m writing this and pretending I don’t know how to edit anything that comes out of my head through my fingers and onto my screen, which let’s face it, I don’t, while I await The Most Bearded Man I’ve Ever Seen In Real Life (I said real life so Osama doesn’t count, know-all!). Besides he’d slump Osama for creativity: red, brown and blond beard hairs(truly German) vs plain, boring, black. I am BORED. I know!

Clack-Clack-Clack-Clack! Ow! After four tries. My teeth hurt . . . My jaws hurt. . . Don't look at me like that. I just thought I'd give it a try. It seemed to work for Donkey all the way to Far, Far Away, at least until Shrek gave him The Look. So I guess it didn't work. So . . . . (a lot of that lately. Boredom has really hit. I can feel the twitch, I’m starting to itch) Punishment: I’ll just settle for an earful of my neighbour’s radio (which would become our little source of Coffee Break Comedy – you wouldn’t believe the unadulterated opinions of Nigerians about our shoddy leaders, politics and everything in between). Sin: Since I’m the only one on the planet who wants nothing to do with Steve Jobs.

And this is only 7.47am. I drum my fingers on my desk. Hum wordlessly. Any sign of life, number of legs regardless (I'm not in a position to be judgemental and picky), against the pristine white would make BFF right about now. No Paris-Hilton-like interviews necessary. This is when I should be rounding off Jennifer Galiardo’s dance routine and heading upstairs for a shower. In my former life. Or frowning and turning my back on the Sun. In the life before that. But NO, there are more interesting things happening before me. Name one? Can you count the number of black dots on a blank screen? You may call me Edima Bored (Middle Name: IS).

AH-HAH! Light bulb! Facebook! Nah (with drooping shoulders), FB no longer serves as the antidote to boredom. NEPA has taken their light. Man, I miss my x-office! 24 hours light-speed internet. I used to check my emails before they even arrived, I was way ahead in my Sorority Life, I could shoe-shop endlessly or just add the newest Vince Camuto’s to my wishlisht (deep, threatrical, longing sigh). I used to discover a new site every single day, I could host that BBC tech-internet-show thingy. And then there was Limwire. Oh, for the days when I used to put Silverbird out of business, with an empty Search Box (synonym for Internet ‘blank cheque’) and ‘ENTER’, at least in my jurisdiction. Listen to me, moaning and whining. Just like a girl on a first date with a hot, new guy, whining about my X. Talk about breaking all the rules. Dr Phil would have a Phit! My chest aches. Not the usual dull pain-when-i-move-at-certain-angles-since-last-week hurt. More like a constant bang-bang, like my heart thumping against my ribcage. Like Jerry’s puny heart pounding when he’s been drowned in soy sauce, buried between 2 slices of white bread and (this close) to Tom’s mouth! And all this chest drama when I’m not in love. Sigh!

Bored. Waiting. Bored. Waiting. Bored.

But it just occurred to me that I had come prepared like a good scouts girl, girl scout, whatever. Prepared to write about my first day at work. I just didn’t expect to fill 4 pages of fool’s cap sheets with big ugly writing by 8.23!!! Perhaps I should pray, thank God for my day – and oh shit( I did not just say that loud) I forgot – or nearly forgot my brother’s birthday. I’ve never been so excited about making a phone call to remind the rest of the family to remember a certain fat boy born this day, years ago.

Yaaay, lunch time! The most horrible sound ever to come out of anything's mouth would come to be the symbol for, "It is 13 hundred hours, go feed your aching bellies, on the double. Quick march." Did I say my day was boring? Well, I went lunching with a certain colleague whose name I deign to mention until - well, let’s just say pause for extra drama! For starters (no pun, I promise), lunch was . . . think of the biggest, bestest birthday present you ever imagined, wrapped up in this HUGE box and handed to you, and you were so sure it was exactly the one thing you’d always dreamed you'd have on your next birthday, and you spent hours unwrapping the box in anticipation only to find NOTHING. Or, you actually found something and then discovered right in the very middle of your excitement pre-hugging-the-gift-tight-post-opening-your-mouth-in-joyous-exclamation that it was just a dream (and you have your you-truly-know-how-to-kill-a-person’s-dream alarm clock, to thank for that). Take that, and it’s not even close to beginning to describe my disappointment. But in the spirit of God-knows-what, I put up a brave front, smiled and waved - and settled in for the disaster of the start to my working career!

Talk about the Official JJC of the Year. Red Carpet Welcome? In your face! Left-over toothpick, spines of a poor fish that had been sawed in half, thoroughly dissected and left on the floor for me to almost step on, and odds and ends of someone’s obviously smaller-than-the-spoon mouth! Gross! I crossed my arms as I suffered through my new colleagues' lunch break. Not in defiance, I promise. There was just nowhere dirty enough for me to rest my definitely bio-degradable arms. Of course, I didn’t have any lunch unless a plastic bottle of Teem adjectified as 'sweaty' qualifies. Which it does. Bottled. Cocked. Green. My sentence in Benue had not been for nothing, after all. By the time I made the hot trek back to the office, I was saying things, feeling things and thinking things that would make the Webster’s dictionary look realllllly tiny.

I let the A/C fan away my flames of upset as I observed from my seat the way my co-workers challenged one another over a game of Solitaire (the very intellectual piece of property that leeches itself onto every Microsoft OS as a personal thank-you gift from The Bill Himself). And shook my head. 1.30pm. 5.30 was such a world away. I searched for a tiny bit of space on my sheet and began the draw-and-chant song: small circle, small circle, biiiig circle (the head and eyes), greet mummy, greet daddy, saaaay hello (nose, then mouth) . . . etc. The song that ends up with a teddy bear made up of circles and sixes, and a tail, remember?!

In summary, I went to work smelling Unforgiveably of Sean John and drunk with High Spirits, and came home sober and reeking edibly of 'If you Like Woody by Kors, You’ll Like Firewood By Cafeteria' . . .

Time of completed writing: Some Ungodly Hour. The perambulating you might hear – Me, “blowing the house down” to make it to work. Any time.

My name is Onu’a and I love my job!