That Silent Killer In Office… Me

image courtesy

image courtesy

I don’t gossip. It is a barbaric, ungodly, uncultured behavior. I don’t get it how someone can sit and talk about others. Honestly, don’t people have things to do in life? The time used for gossiping could have been used to develop a machine that can undo braids for women, or develop a cure for mood swings. But no. People sit in circles and talk about others for hours on end. Women gossip about you right in front of you and you’ll never guess. They’ll talk and look at someone else, yet in real sense, the subject is probably next to them. I don’t know how men gossip, but I hear it is a dangerous moment. Today, this strong spirit of gossiping has possessed me. Okay I lied earlier. Just let me talk. Let me open my heart. Let me tell you a few things about my office.

In this office, I arrive the earliest and plant myself in the corner like an overfed cobra that can’t move. With my compound eyes, I can see every single thing under the sun that happens in this office. Lisa comes to the office late all the time. She is classy. But lateness turns me off. Her favorite color is red. Red lip stick, red wrist watch, red belt. I am certain she is dyeing her hair red next week. I only like red when red tomato sauce is in front of me with fries. That’s all as far as red and I are concerned. Lisa is an editor. Imagining being an editor and wearing red lipstick, that combo makes you automatically mean.

Then there’s Mary. Archaic name. I feel like those having this name were let down by their parents.  After 9 months of waiting, they decided to just call you Mary. Not Mary Claire, Mary Stella, Mary Ann. Just Mary. They did not want to task their brains. Ok, the mother of Jesus was Mary too. Let it pass. Just so you know my late grandmother had planted that name on me too. She used to call me Maria even in her dreams. Back to Mary. Like the name suggests, she is simple in every sense of the word. She has short hair that she combs. She wears slightly raised shoes. All of them are black. She looks virtuous.  She is the editorial manager. Her managerial skills are not ones to gossip about yet.

Then there’s Antony. They call him Tony, or Anto but I call him Antony.  He is the photographer and from what I have gathered, I need to have chemistry with him for the sake of my job. I hear he and I will be travelling together to cover stories. He has a big bulbous nose. But he has white eyes which distract you from the nose. Who knows any photographer with neat hair? Antony’s hair is rugged, but thank God he hasn’t dyed it brown. From what I see, he’ll soon have studs and I will conclude he is gay.

And then there’s Mandela, my seat mate. I highly suspect he christened himself that name when he went to school in South Africa. Anyway, that is none of business. I am this close to stealing his id and finding out if his name is Bartholomew Mkabakoo. He’s from one of the coastal tribes.  Mandela’s lips are still big and he has a challenge with plosives. (Plosives are vipasuo, p, b). No single day passes without him saying I beg your  pardon. I am sick of this word. He is overweight and eats a lot of junk.

Then Ken. Ken is young, vibrant and this free bird that cannot be caged. He reminds me of myself and deep down I wish he was the photographer. He does IT stuff. He is super smart, but unfortunately he was born in Nairobi. This is such a tragedy. I wish he was brought up in Sondu Bay or Baringo. So he speaks a lot of English. A lot of it. I have this repulsion with people who speak English all the time. My bad.

I have come to know that the president of Prisms was the lady who interviewed me (read and the only time she spoke was when she mocked me about being too judgmental. She’s called Atieno Odhiambo. She is learned and wants to change the world with her revolutionary ideas gathered from her stay in Europe. Why do people who leave the country come back either too patriotic or disillusioned?

Lastly, the receptionist downstairs is called Wambo. She and I kicked it off well and she’s likeable. She is my favorite person. She has taught me a few tricks on how to survive here. She is the one who told me that Antony and I will be travelling together a lot of times. Wambo does her make-up like Alessandra Ambrosio. It is on another level. She should get a trophy for the best make-up skills. No smudges. No excess blushes. No clustered eye lashes.

I could talk the whole day but Mandela is looking at my screen. And it’s creepy. And I am uneasy. See you next time.

Have a great weekend!

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