You no longer believe your mother that Jesus can make a way where there seems to be no way. You slowly, sadly, silently unstrap your black bra, exposing yours breasts that are as firm as a fist. Then you pull off your white, spotless pant, exposing a bum (that increases the degree of lust in a man’s heart) and clean-shaven privates. And you climb on the massive bed in room 101 of Petals Hotel, waiting for the CEO of Life Bank, who is taking a cold bath in the white ceramic bathroom.
Then you remember your father: a fifty years man who is a local carpenter, probably the age mate of the CEO you are obscenely awaiting. Your father will surely disown you and kill you if he catches you doing this. And bury you with probably an atom of regret. But you don’t care. He had assured you that you will get a good job after graduation, but he lied, he lied hard.
You know your father always wanted the best for you. Only the best. Although he could not continue his education after he dropped out from Form two, he ensured you made it to the university. You, his only child, his heartbeat, his dream, and his project into the future he missed. Your father was forced to drop out of school for his younger brother to continue schooling. He became his polygamous father’s apprentice, learning carpentry. Sadly, his younger brother was shot by an unidentified policeman during a student protest while he was in his penultimate year, studying Chemical Engineering. The sad news cardiac-arrested his mother to death. And your father’s sacrifice became a waste.
A picture of your father sitting on a shabby sofa, reading a newspaper and eyes-hunting for job vacancies in his one-room apartment in Ajegunle fills your vision like the moon eclipsing the earth. Then you remember all the application letters you have written for the past seven years at home:
I write in response to the advertisement on… to apply for the post of….
So many application letters to so many companies, even when you know that you are not qualified enough, you still wrote. You have gone through countless tests and interviews, but you have not been lucky enough to get a job, a decent job, your dream job.
You graduated with a Second Class Upper in Economics from the prestigious University of Lagos in 2008. You used to share your parents’ (especially your father’s) dream of getting a good, well-paying job that will catapult your family from a one-room apartment to a beautiful bungalow in maybe Lekki, Ajah or V. I.
“I can see that you will surely make me proud.” Your father smilingly said to you on your convocation day, his arm wrapped around your shoulder, making a statement like you are the true daughter of your father. Your mother smiled at you too.
“You go get good job, build me and your papa fine house, and buy one fine car for us. Me, I want correct car, or even jeep. I go just dey do pee-pee-peep whenever we go village or enter market.” Your mother said to you. You smiled at them, watching somewhere in the cinema of your mind how you will fulfil their dreams, and elongate the smiles on their faces.
A (wo)man must dream. Always. And life must happen. However, most times, life is the irony of one’s dreams.
Last week, you met Chief Lowo, the CEO of Life Bank. He promised to give you a job, your dream job of becoming a banker in a big bank. He promised to promote you if you are a good girl, and you are passionate about your job. But the job has terms and conditions: you will have to lubricate his widowed loins occasionally.
You thought about his offer for three days, then you said yes, a yes of frustration and fruitless waiting for a miracle. There is more than one road to the market, probably this is the road the god of fate has chosen for you.
And here you lie. Completely naked. Waiting for Chief Lowo. He will come with his paunch, probably naked too, smiling and telling you how he can help you fulfill your dreams. He will tell you that he will even sponsor you to go for your Masters in any country of your choice. He will also tell you that he will buy a house and car for you and your parents. Is that not what you want and pray for? He will then open your lusciously long legs like an erotica novel, and come into you, pounding and panting. He won’t caress you to make you feel that wet, kinky mood. He will just come into you like a crashing airplane. Pounding and panting.
By Samuel Oluwatobi Olatunji
Writer. Editor. Human