Continued from A Brief Encounter
You start to prepare mentally about how your dreaded dialogue with the freaky cleaner would go. This time around it’s the weekend so you’ll be able to give him a piece of your mind when he comes knocking on your front door. You’re not only perplexed about what he did with your briefs since you can’t find them, but you still don’t know what he went to do with them when he was no longer within your spy camera’s view. The cleaner arrives and he’s barley picked up the nearby broom before you unleash a barrage of questions.
You take him through a courtroom ordeal examining and cross-examining the defendant. You ask him what he typically does when he cleans your bedroom. His answer does not mention anything about going through your dirty laundry. You know he’s not under oath so you remind him that he was being watched by your surveillance camera and that you noticed his every move. You show him exhibit A from your phone and he instantly goes pale and then he starts to sing a different and unexpected tune.
He tells you that he doesn’t know what happened and that it was the devil that made him do it. You take a good hard look at him as if to elicit a more convincing response but that’s just about it. He stares back at you like a deer caught in the headlights. Devil claim aside, you quiz him on the whereabouts of your underwear and he acts confused. He stammers and then admits that he went home with it. You accuse him of stealing but he insists that his plan was to return them. At this point you ask him if he brought them along but his silence and long face gives you the answer. He begs you to forgive him and he promises you that he will return your briefs the next time he’s on duty. ‘Really? Return them?’, you say to yourself.
You recall that these briefs were special not just because they were a designer brand – they were your lucky charm. You wore it to that job interview that landed the role you’re currently in. You wore it the night you your girlfriend agreed to date you. If it could be personified it would be comfort, confidence and charm all wrapped in one. And all of a sudden this underwear-sniffing, mop-wielding buffoon has stolen it for himself. You wonder what his grand masterplan is – to eventually steal your girlfriend, your job and your life? More importantly you ask yourself whether you should still employ his services. You can’t fault that his cleaning is immaculate. He’s still begging you and he resorts to bended knees.
You contemplate and tell him all is forgiven but with a stern warning that such should not repeat itself. He is overjoyed. You’re feeling a bit better, though the mystery around his dodgy behaviour remains unexplained. You sit back and relax to resume binging on your favourite TV series. Hours after the cleaner finishes his job he bids you farewell and when he brings up the briefs issue you briefly tell him he can keep them. This puts a sheepish smile across his face which you choose to ignore. As you get back to your sofa you remember you haven’t tipped him and you call out from your window to the cleaner downstairs. You throw down the cash and as he bends over to pick it from the floor you see the outline of your once treasured Tommy Hilfiger briefs. You watch in horror as the lying thief walks off into the sunset with his newly acquired lucky charm.
You’re up to your neck in what you’ve convinced yourself to be organized chaos but is in fact is an apartment that has suffered neglect. You blame this on your long office hours, late home arrivals and necessary cable TV binging. It’s not your fault that your bachelor pad looks like a pigsty – and that’s describing it lightly. The deadly combo of unwashed dishes, laundry heaps, Addams family-sized cobwebs and dust mites would drive any sane person to do what you should have done months ago – hire the services of a professional cleaner. Little do you know that you’re in for more than a clean sweep.
Living in Lagos does things to you. Even the most patient of hearts can get stirred up by the antics of inconsiderate human beings. Many Lagosians I’ve come into contact with are not keen on queuing even though it is a civil gesture designed to give some sort of order. How else would a cashier know who is next to be served?
As a little child growing up in London I got excited whenever I saw Tony the Tiger on TV promoting the addictive, mouth-watering Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes. The cartoon mascot was legendary – moving was such agility, strength and athletic precision when spinning that blue and white striped cereal bowl on his paw index without spilling a drop of milk. I couldn’t get enough of those ads and they worked like a charm on me – I needed my Kellogg’s fix. My mum didn’t disappoint – she took me through Frosted Flakes, Corn Flakes and Rice Krispies.
I want to make an appeal to Nigerian artists who insist on using the derogative association of the male genitalia with the innocent, beautiful, healthy fruit – the Banana in their lyrics. The fruit is already awkward enough with its suggestive shape and length. What pains me is the fact that children sing the catchy, banana-filled songs which invade our radiowaves, cable tv and consequently, our eardrums. Nobody is safe.
I have to admit – I didn’t have a plan when I sped off and left the traffic warden eating my dust (and pocketing my driver’s licence too). I was close to my parent’s house so I drove in and parked my car there. At least the car would be safe from impounding, I thought. But that didn’t stop me from looking at my rear view mirror every five seconds for a police bike on my tail. I met only my sister at home and broke the news (okay, that sounded kinda dramatic – to break news usually sounds like one is about to announce something tragic. I digress). My lil’ sister was in shock to say the least, like she had seen a ghost that was equally shocked that I had driven off without my licence. My explanation still left my sister’s jaw on the floor. She went straight into DLR (Driver’s Licence Retrieval) mode and ran some suggestions by me.