Synchronized Hearts

Whoever said life is not a bed of roses must have studied it critically from a broader view and successfully captured the raw factuality in a few words. Life is a chemistry set. Reactions waiting to be discovered, full of experiments and surprises. The mind must take what it is given and make best of it, never losing hope that more beauty will come.

For an organized and consciously meticulous person, I have had my whole life planned out. Graduate at the age of twenty, work and become a millionaire by twenty-three, get married by twenty-five. Have two kids by thirty and tour the whole world with my family. A perfect and organized plan indeed. But not until life decided to strike me with its own trials and tribulations, shatter my extremely thought out plan, leaving me in a puddle of a mess as I try to pick up my pieces.

Not in my twenty-three years of existence did I imagine that within the span of eight months, I would have swept the entire streets of Lagos clean with my feet and worn out my heels all in the name of searching for a job. If someone had prophesied this to me, I would have laughed in their faces and spat on their cheeks in rejection.

I have applied to various media houses. Film industry, advertisement companies, photography, television and radio production, and all I got in response was they will get back to me. When in Jupiter's name do they intend getting back to me?

The last straw that broke the camel's back was when I went for an interview in a media house and they gave me the job to work at a plantain factory? Who does that? When did mass communication ever affiliate with plantain factories? Plain cruelty in my words. Ever since then, I have been on the lookout for jobs in any company with good pay.

I have a mother that keeps pestering me about marriage, a cheating and a lazy boyfriend whose sole responsibility and goal in life is to sleep on all things in skirt before he dies. He eventually ends up apologizing and pleading for forgiveness till I welcome him back in a warm embrace. Quite stupid of me, I know but boyfriend just happens to be the last thing on my mind. 

I have a teenage brother who finished high school two years ago and is yet to gain admission to study his dream profession, Law. Because of the fucked up educational system in the country. Nigeria. He is currently depressed and has assumed that he is a failure. 

"Tife, when are you leaving? I want you to drop me off at work." My childhood best friend hollered from the living room.

"In the next ten minutes," I replied. She currently has accommodation problems and she is squatting with me. Harriet Unegbu is your regular fashionista with a mouth as blunt as a razor blade. She says things how she sees things without sugar-coating words.

I searched my surroundings frantically trying to ensure I forgot nothing. I once went for an interview two months ago, having sat for three hours, I was finally told to go in and at that moment I realized I forgot my résumé. I did my walk of shame with my head bowed and swore never to make such a mistake ever.

Résumé? Checked. Car key? Checked. Phones? Checked. Wallet? Nowhere to be found.

I rushed to my laundry basket to pick up the wallet I left in my previously worn cocktail gown and left the room.

The time is currently 8am and I plan to beat the usual Monday morning traffic on the mainland. I live in a small bungalow, I inherited from my late dad's property. Isolo-Ikeja, Lagos. And I'm currently heading to a telecommunication company in Surulere, where I have an interview to attend. It is a thirty-minute drive, to be honest, but Monday morning traffic can make one spend two hours on the road.

"Since morning, you should have slept in your room and wait for me to chase you out." Harriet hissed and picked up her designer leather bag as she sashayed towards the garage.

"I'm sorry now, I just wanted to ensure I forgot nothing." I sighed and followed her out.

"Whatever, you will make that witch of a boss see reasons to insult me this morning." She tucked some strand of her bob behind her ear and waited by the side of the car.

I chuckled at her tone and unlocked my Toyota Camry car that I got from an aunt in Dublin. 

"Madam, you both is beautiful." Kasali, my gateman came clapping and chuckling, revealing his deep tribal mark that ran down his cheeks in three lines. 

Pidgin language is a grammatically simplified form of English. It is use as a means of communication between people not sharing a common language. It is also a universal language that makes communication easier for both Literates and illetrates in Africa.

"Thanks, but open the gate." Harriet snapped and rolled her eyes.

"Bestest in your interview, o." Kasali wrung his hands like a little kid that was caught stealing cookies from the jar.

Harriet snickered and banged my car severally. "It is best of luck in your interview. You uneducated swine."

"Ah!" Kasali opened his eyes wide feigning shock and disbelief. "I wented to school too." He argued and continued adjusting his collar.

"And what did you study?" I butted in, brows raised.

"It is Yoruba technology now." He smiled brightly making us burst into laughter for some seconds.

"I'm sorry what?" Harriet mouth quirked in humour.

Kasali's eyes shifted between the both of us with a confused look on. Then all of a sudden, his eyes widened in realization.

"Oh!" He scratched his head with a sheepish smile. "Sorry madam, Yoruba education. It slipped my destiny." 

We burst into another fit of laughter while Kasali stared on in confusion.

"Sorry, it slipped my memory. I don't really know book like that." He concluded and began swinging his hands.

"Just get the gate, please. We are running late." I pleaded and slipped into my car.

"That guy is a clown." Harriet continued chuckling as she tried adjusting her short black skirt.

"I know right, he can be a pain in the ass and a clown simultaneously." I agreed, strapped my seatbelt and drove out of the compound.

"This one you are dressed like this." I blurted out and spared her dress a glance.

"Are you sure you aren't meeting up with your numerous sugar daddies?" I commented and horned severally at a danfo driver that tried to overtake me.

"As long as the sugar daddy foots my bills, takes me out for shopping, and sends me to any country of my choice for a vacation." She arched her perfectly concealed brow. "He is boyfriend material. A husband material to be precise and he is better than those useless small boys with nothing to offer that roam the city of Lagos."

"But that isn't love." I countered as my eyes shifted between her and the road.

"And tell me how dating your so-called boyfriend is love?" She threw a gum into her mouth. "You better let me hook you up with a better Alhaji that will change your life for good."

For a brief second, silence passed on with the fumes of car exhaust that wafted past while I pondered on her response.

To some extent, she is right. Dating my agemate brought me nothing but emotional pain, and more expenses to cover up for my boyfriend while I tried to act as the dutiful girlfriend.

"Mom texted." I blurted out. "There is a family dinner tonight, do you wanna tag along?"

She gasped, placing her manicured fingers on her cheeks as she stared at me like she just saw a ghost. Her fair skin looked pale.

"Harriet, are you alright?" I tapped her exposed laps.

"How could you invite me to such an evil lair?" She frowned.

"Evil lair?"

"Yes, anywhere your mom is within five miles is an evil lair. Abeg, drop me in front of my workplace." She waved her hands and picked up her bag.

"So you won't come?" I asked and parked the car in a suitable place.

She squeezed my palms and smiled. "I'm not ready to let her whiplash me with her tongue or burn me alive with her laser eyes." She opened the door and exited while I shook my head in amusement.

Mom has the reputation of a typical African mother, she is a no-nonsense person and has a way of scaring people away and even her kids are not left out.

So far, the road has been free with vehicles moving very fast in the express road. Within twenty minutes, google map told me I have reached my destination.

I drove into the garage of the skyscraper building with my hearts heaved up as I wondered what today's outcome will be.

I sighed deeply, hooked my sunshade on my business casual gown. I wore my nose mask and sanitized my hands while I muttered prayers and hope today's outcome will be different from the others.

With my chin up, shoulders straight, I strode elegantly into the building. There was a huge mirror at the reception. I paused a bit to check my reflection. My braids are in a tight bun and my red body con gown hugged my curves happily, matching my red matte lipstick. With my confidence on, I walked towards the receptionist.

"Hey." I began a little too loudly. The receptionist looked at me with a scowl, raising a bushy brow.

"I'm Boluwatife Coker and I'm here for an interview."