On finding a girl at my desk
It was just another day at work teeming with dark clouds and crackling lighting and thunders. Oh look, here comes the sun.
I came back from the manager's office and there she was- a petite, dark-skinned girl- sitting at my desk like it was hers. Her slender fingers twirled my blue biro in lazy arcs while her eyes traced a path from my chipped mug to my laptop, skimming over the many objects on my cluttered desk in no particular order. She didn't seem impressed by what she saw.
I had to look around to confirm what I already knew. Mr. Akinluabi was in the cubicle on the left, his hands resting on his enormous stomach, as usual. On the right was Mrs. Olulaja's cubicle. The cubicle was empty, but the many photographs pinned to the wall readily identified the cubicle as none other than Mrs. Olulaja's. Therefore, this girl- however pretty- was sitting at my desk.
I had work to do, the same assignment that had just earned me a reprimand from my manager. I had mapped out how I would spend the rest of the day on my way back from his office: mainly wallow in despair at the possibility of getting fired soon. It seemed like a nice way to pass the afternoon, but my plan was already unraveling.
There was only one thing to do; she had to get up, and I was the one to tell her.
"Excuse me, miss?"
"Yes, Mr ..." she said with a look, akin to gratitude, on her face.
"That's a nice name, but surely you can't expect me to call you that."
"Because Mr. Omosejeje sounds like an elderly man with a potbelly," she smiled, "but you, with your wire-rimmed glasses and shy demeanor, are clearly more potent."
There was a lull, a promising one, in what was shaping up to be a beautiful afternoon.
Shola Olubunmi is ...