You may find it a bit difficult to understand, but let me explain how a polished University graduate like me came to become one of the hordes of ‘yardists’ resident in a place as notorious as Number 28.
See, before my fall from grace, I used to work in a moderately sized Law firm on the Island. The salary was not eye-watering, but I was damn good at my job and picked up quite a lot of tips and gifts on the regular. The aggregate allowed me to rent a cute one bedroom apartment in a quiet part of Gbagada, push an almost new Kia Sorento, and still have enough coins to flash around during weekend hangouts at the club. From all estimates, I was keeping up with the Joneses’ quite well.
Moving ‘inland’ became necessary after I lost my perch on the hustle ladder.
My boss caught me feeding ‘banana’ to the wife of one of our premium clients, right there in the boardroom, one evil Wednesday evening after office hours. The horrible man didn’t even allow me to explain the situation before he tore my employment letter on the spot and kicked me out. To my surprise, he didn’t stop there. Sad and vengeful as he was, my boss went ahead to blacklist me from getting employed by any Law firm in the city. Not that there were many of those requiring the services of a Legal counsel specializing in Property Law to start with. If only he had heard me out before jumping to conclusions, I would have told him how I had only sacrificed myself to help keep that family together.
Our client, madam’s husband, was a Senator based in Abuja. The woman who I’d previously met on numerous occasions in the course of business and become quite close to had come crying to me that her husband had been denying her the magic stick, preferring instead to bless Abuja chewing gum girls with the sugar. According to madam, the man had complained about her being a cold fish. Distraught and confused, all she wanted to know was how she could win her prodigal man back, and the Christian in me was touched, so I decided to help. The first thing, of course, was to put the cold fish theory to test.
In truth, madam was a bit behind times on technique, but her engine worked just fine. Highly enthusiastic and quick on the uptake, we were working on taking her head game from ‘errrr’ to ‘ojigbijigbi’ levels that fateful day when my boss came back to the office to pick up his forgotten keys and met us in action. Usually, we used a Hotel for lectures, but madam had insisted on a quick lesson that evening as her husband was coming in with the nine o’clock Arik flight. Our classes normally lasted all night. With hindsight, I now see I should have insisted on taking her offline.
I still feel sad for that woman though, and I hope she didn’t lose her husband. I’m convinced if I’d been allowed to finish the specially designed curriculum, the distinguished Senator himself wouldn’t have been able to keep up with her skill. It would have been like a danfo bus morphing into a Ferrari, an absolute miracle, and it would have been marvelous in his sight.
The Angels would have been proud.
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