It all began after the euphoria of my NYSC certificate had worn off. Colleagues were uploading selfies of themselves resuming in well-furnished offices, crushes were getting married, the girl in Uyo who looked after me was coming to terms with my departure, and i was faced with the reality of not applying to those big law firms on time, or at least trying out for scholarships. A life of mummy-thank-you and dishing out rations to Randy, our dog of mixed breed, was in store. The blues slowly set in.
I turned my attention to my (then) thriving literary blog, and made more friends in Facebook’s vibrant community of art enthusiasts, but likes, comments and shares could only do so much. Nights of having bedsheets damp from yearning for thighs that housed warmth became more frequent, the routine nature of the chores wore me out, and there was the small matter of a nagging mother. My knees darkened, but God appeared too busy. My curriculum vitae underwent re-drafts, and the email address of every law firm of note was at the receiving end of an onslaught from a young man with ants in his pants.
Asaba was not exactly a place known for worthy distractions in hand, and Louis Van Gaal’s tinkering a la Man United made it hard to focus on football, so off I went to Benin, CV and credentials in backpack. I was there for a week, my source of accomodation being a small room owned by a busty female student who loved Bollywood, but that’s other story.
I sha went to firms in Benin, and they all turned me down.
…to be continued