It wasn’t quite a good morning; the sun had been up early, and it beat us into the banking hall. We got in after the annoying door denied me entrance twice, but I tried my best to keep my cool. On entering, another event almost made me unleash my impatience. We had gone to pick teller, after asking the teller (hereinafter called cashier, cos that sounds more Nigerian) where to pick them. Before we got back to the queue two new persons had gone ahead of us. Malcolm tried explaining to them that we were supposed to be ahead of them, they only got ahead of us because they were faster in picking up tellers (Obviously, they were used to the bank), but they gave us a perfectly choreographed who-cares look.
So, jejely I stood their, like an angry snake which is better left alone; my face boldly saying “Just attend to us and let us get the H outta here.” And then, a young guy came in. He was handsome and well dressed in striped shirt and blue jeans with shoes speaking of his class. I admired him. But the first thing he did that made me want to change my mind on liking him was his asking me “Are you in the queue too?” I loved his spoken English. An average Nigerian would have said something like “Are you ON the queue too?” But he used IN rather than ON, and suddenly I imagined the kind of school he must have graduated from… Such a lucky guy. But the question annoyed me. How would he ask me if I was in the queue too? Was I so insignificant in that queue that he would have needed to inquire if I wasn’t just there to do nothing but waste my time? Or maybe he thought I was just in the banking hall just to use the air conditioner. I knew my thoughts were going wild, so I stopped thinking – about him. I figured my temper may have been heightened by the stress of that early morning.
But the next thing he did was further annoying. He spoke to the cashier in a very rude way. I don’t quite remember what he said, but it was rude; his self confidence belittled every one else’s. But the cashier, a very pretty light and succulent-skinned young woman, could only mutter a “We are sorry,” in the Nigerian-nice-costumer-respecting way. I looked back at him, trying to figure out if he’s the same man I had earlier admired, with so much hate! I regret to say it but I hated him.
Finally, as the queue was beginning to shine rays of hope, I decided to lean on the wall. And then he said to me! Oh yes, me again!: “That’s what you do to the wall when you rub your palms on it!” He said that pointing to the obvious stains on the wall. I was annoyed! Now his point was right. The wall wouldn’t have been that dirty if people like me don’t rub their palms on it. But the way he said it; like a perfect perfectionist. Someone whose house would have been the neatest in town. And then I pitied his wife. She must have done everything she could to please him to no avail. He would even have complained about the way she served him drink, something like “You should hold the glass with a handkerchief so as not to stain it for me!” He was simply a perfectionist.
What further annoyed me was that he said it to public hearing, trying to make me look like a village boy who was brought to town barely two weeks ago. And everyone around turned to look at me. I felt like a fool…. No, like a mumu!
So I knew I had to do something. He couldn’t simply get one on me like that and go untouched. No we weren’t taught that in church, but I’m telling you what I did right there. I knew if at all I had something to say, it had to be with a well-polished English. At least that would appeal to the people that I’m not bush. That I’m a Nigerian corper who graduated from the acclaimed University of Ilorin, from the acclaimed Faculty of Arts, from the acclaimed Department of Religions, taught by acclaimed erudite lecturers.
So I looked at him and asked (of course with a polished accent, articulating ‘are’ as ‘or’, and of course with loud enough voice to make the eyes pointed pinchingly at me to witness my victory) “So who are you? The wall Police?”
The people there busted into laughter. They couldn’t believe how such a funny and salvivic response could come out my mouth! Our dear client understood the defeat, and he let out a wry I-am-sorry kind of smile.
I enjoyed the moment. I enjoyed the victory. And the guy actually behaved himself for the whole time I spent there. So, after everything, like the captured who suddenly metamorphosed into the captor, I said to Malcolm: “My guy, let’s Roger!”
pendatruth 