There is a popular saying in the neighbourhood I grew up in. Pardon my Pidgin, but it goes “pesin wey dey do you no far from you.” Essentially, your woes are brought about by those close to you.
For a while, I assumed that meant my village people, so I bound and cast the agents working against me to secure a job.
I was not asking for a job with a view of the lagoon and air-conditioned, aesthetic premises suitable for Instagram pictures. I was not looking for a job that paid for bone straight, Korean skincare, or a Buchymix blender.
All I wanted was a soul-sucking, barely-pays-the-bills, nine-to-five job that fills my belly with two square meals per day and keeps Baba Shukura, my landlord, on his side of the compound along with his proposition to add me to his harem of wives.
Look, it’s not like I didn’t want to rock a bone straight for the ‘Gram or use a Buchymix blender like all the food vloggers in Nigeria seemed to presume everyone had. And it’s not like I was being delulu for wanting a good job. I had a first-class degree from the University of Lagos. Best graduating student in my department.
I did have a good job once, but COVID happened and the Nigerian labour market unleashed the full force of its shege on me, making me shed ata gungun tears every day.
As I was saying earlier, I assumed my village people were the ones responsible for my woes, but yesterday was the day I realised it was Nigeria, yes, Nigeria itself that was after my life.
Let me give you the full gist.
So there I was, applying for jobs as usual after my delivery runs. Did I forget to tell you that I’ve started a chin-chin, plantain and potato chips business in my area, supplying the mallams and shops around my area? If I did, well, I do. In case you need some, you can find my number at the end of this rant.
Anyway, I was applying for jobs when I saw a LinkedIn job alert for the role of a junior accountant at a multinational FMCG in Nigeria. Looking at the job description, I knew that I was more than qualified. I sent in my CV and cover letter and hoped for the best. A few weeks later, I was invited to write their recruitment test.
I should have known Nigeria was after my life when our transformer decided to get short-circuited a few hours before my test, but I told my village people, “Odeshii,” and went to one of my customers’ shops. I took the test and passed. I got invited for the interview a few weeks later.
Again, Nigeria decided to prove it was the cause of all my problems. On the day of the interview, all the cats and dogs in heaven decided to fall, causing a flood that had to be a relative of the one Noah’s ark floated on.
I managed to make it for the interview, and I waited patiently for the email informing me if my application was successful or not. The mail came about a month later when I had already given up hope. My application was successful. I must have screamed the entire compound down. Mama Chibueze next door started raining curses on the person disturbing her siesta, but I did not care.
I was now gainfully employed again. God had finally buttered my bread and sugared my tea!
The compensation package was mouth-watering—a one-bedroom apartment in the company’s apartment complex in VI at no charge, a six-figure salary with wardrobe and leave allowance, annual bonuses, free lunch at work, medical insurance, and a quarterly shopping voucher—and I was to resume in a month.
Do you think that’s my happily ever after? Don’t, because Nigeria told me, “Dey play.”
Unknown to me, the government of Nigeria passed some policy that made companies in Nigeria with foreign parent companies liable to pay more tax. Coupled with inflation and the depreciation of the naira, the company I had just gotten a job with decided that they would be ceasing operations in Nigeria.
This is the point where you can cry with me.
As someone who doesn’t read or watch the news, I was in the dark, spending my meagre savings on first-grade okrika corporate wear, singing and praising God every time I remembered my take-home salary.
“Jehovah idi ebube,” I would start and sing enough songs to wax an album.
A week before my resumption date, I was in the market, haggling with the woman selling hair extensions, when my phone vibrated with an email notification. I smiled as I saw the sender. It was from my new employer. My smile faded as soon as I read the contents of the email.
I slumped in the market. When I was revived, I began wailing. Where would I start from? I had already bragged to Mama Chibueze that I was moving to VI. I had already fought with Baba Landlord. I had already connected all my clients to another chin-chin vendor.
Crying as I made my way back home, I knew I was finished. The company was kind enough to pay us the sum of fifty thousand for breaking the agreement, but how could that repair my dashed hopes?
I arrived back home to meet my neighbours yelling furiously. When I asked what had happened, I was told the state government was going to demolish the house in two weeks.
At that point, I started laughing. Everyone thought I was glad because I was moving out. Little did they know.
I wish someone, anyone had told me the truth—that it was Nigeria, not my village people, after my life.
Well, I’m about to be homeless and I need every kobo I can get. If you need chin-chin or plantain chips for Christmas, call me on 08012345678.
ROTFL!!!!! What????