‘Motola Buckley sat at her desk on a Wednesday morning. It had been a long and busy weekend coupled with some training she was forced to go on. Her husband had hosted the Gentle Businessmen annual meeting on Sunday and as the hostess, she had to up the standard so her husband would not be ridiculed. She clearly overdid it and that left her exhausted. Her hair was unkempt, her nails were chipped and she even forgot to wear her earrings. Simply put, she was a hot mess that needed a good makeover.
She probably would have managed through the day but Atolani, her prim and proper busy-body colleague made sure she didn’t have the last of it. ‘Were u robbed? Why do u look like you rushed out with all u had left in your hands?’ she asked with genuine concern. Atolani rushed over to her bag, grabbed her make-up bag and dragged a phlegmatic Omotola to the convenience.
As her emergency makeover was being done, Omotola wondered about her depleted store, her hair that had to be fixed, her pending laundry and several other errands that had to be run.
‘ ….so what do you think?’ asked Atolani who had obviously been conversing with an absent-minded Motola. ‘About what?’ She queried. “What’s wrong Motola? I’ve been asking about your need for a housemaid. I intend asking Olori to send me a maid. Would you want one as well?”. Motola smiled and turned down the offer. A househelp was the last thing on her mind considering that Raila had only recently robbed her of jewellery worth close to 2 million naira. She was a maid brought from the village by a colleague’s mother and to ask Olori, Atolani’s mother was like relieving the sad memory.
“The maids are palace maids Motola. I could easily get you one and she dares not misbehave because she knows her family will pay dearly for it. I can assure you of that” she insisted. “Hmm, you won’t budge right? Okay then, I will think about it and discuss with Olumide as well. You know how it is now, he has to sign off before a new maid comes in after the Raila saga.”
As ‘Motola made her way back to her desk, she brought out her grocery list and got online to make some purchases from the online supermarket that had been her ally since Raila disappeared. She placed her order and mused to herself about how she would have to go round the market to pick her long list of items if she were in another town. As she said a prayer of gratitude for the little pleasures of Lagos, her phone rang.
“hello, are you Mrs Omotola Buckley?”
” we would like you to come over to our station. we need you to …….. ”
the line disconnected ….