A Story by Rex AZ

A true life event that depicts how crime can be smart and depriving. This event actually occurred in the native city of the Writer; (Port Harcourt, Nigeria) who happens to be the consultant.

As usual, no sometimes, on a busy Friday morning at the Trans-Amadi Industrial Layout, he is a consultant who always goes to this area for his daily "belle", most times to collect money from his clients or to ask them for more commitments where it seems like they are slagging. Danjuma Drive was he's destination. He talked to Chima, they both smiled anticipating the arrival of their deal. He followed Chima discreetly as he walked behind heading towards the office of the new trainee lady who serves the chief Accountant as his secretary.

In the trainee’s very unusually big office, she said to him "abeg oga, sign here for me and write original copy collected by me on the cheque." She was not just saying that like the words have been given to her by her 'oga', the chief accountant, she uttered those words like an enthusiast; as if to say she wants more visitors to come and make same demand so that she can express her training experience. He signed as told by the trainee, signed again for verification, collected his proof of payment and exited her and every business hovering around the office.
Chima was waiting for him to return to his (Chima's) office to repeat again how the emails and quality of the job is of great concern to the MD and how his (Chima’s) reputation is on the line. He nodded in confirmation, and promised to deliver. Good! Money has come.
In a small burst of controlled excitement, he flagged down a 'keke napepe'- the Indian made tricycle, and headed for Garrison. On his way up, he removed his first white smartphone from his pocket and called Chika. Chika is his elder brother; they both run the syndicate together. In Pidgin English he spoke to Chika, "Guy how far, the rubis don ready oo, na to start d jab now. I don dey come office, I go halla you when I reach. No wahala na, anyhow." His words were so assuring and firm that in a couple of days, maybe a week, he was sure to have finished the job and delivered before time, waiting for his final recompense.
Despite his muted Gionee, the second smartphone he has bought for the year, not to mention the smartphone gift from his mother’s brother, the beeping sound of the Gionee battery alerted him of an incoming call from his Sweetness, Pinky. He does not fail on any passing day to let her know how she's been loved and cherished like no other. They spoke for a few second, hoping to freshen the dose of their love for that morning. The afternoon also shares in the bonding of him and his Pinky, and the evening never fails to place the icing on their "love cake." Their bond has always being a creative passion and a likeable union. He really loves her. He will always tell her how she's the only "Brazil in his World Cup” and how she's going to wear his corporate shirts and never let him go to work at the most adventurous moment of the day. The network communications in Nigeria are always concerned about corporate political competitions and not quality service comparisons. These have never failed to be a “norm” topic, especially amongst the 'waka waka' class in the country. Because of this poor Nigerian network palaver, he and Pinky could not talk love; they could only say greetings that were not common with lovers. Beautiful love, Bad network!
Back to his way up to Garrison. He looked at his dying phone and slides it back into his pocket. The taxi man continued driving to their destination. He gazed through the cracked window of the Madza cab and appreciated the exotic appearances of living and non-living things alike. The sun shun so well, showy housewives and unmarried menopause women with sun shades in their exotic Ranges and Rovers drove and winked at him as if to say "you should be enjoying in here with us and not in that ‘kabu kabu’;" (as Lagosians in Nigeria would normally call a crappy car used for taxi). The sweet swaying breeze of the afternoon splashed his punk hair, alerting him to wind up a little and re-comb it the 1000th times. On intervals, he would chuckle to the fulfillment of family and love, good radiance and undeserved kindness of God, he imagined.
Criminal Disaster waiting to be called up by the nature of stealing itself! Next to him in the cab was a Port Harcourt "area boy" with crime oozing from his restlessness. Ebola was the talk of the nation, gaining more popularity than the new 2-system political party in the country. They say the virus comes even by the slightest contact. He wasn't sure how true that was for a warning, but he sure wasn't going to let his quest for in-depth knowledge become a reason for Ebola mistaken him for 'Patrick Sawyer.' So he avoided body contacts with the next fellow at every prize. Unknowing to him, the fellow he was supposedly avoiding body contacts with in the name of Ebola, was on his own planning the crime of the moment, the theft from a Consultant.
Everyone in the taxi headed to the same Garrison, whether short or long cut, as it was popularly called. Traffic was friendly, very unlikely of a warm mid-Friday in Trans-Amadi road. No clue on what is to happen next as everyone anticipated the arrival to Garrison. Suddenly, in the middle of the mild moving traffic, the fellow sitting next to him made an impromptu decision and said in pidgin English; "driver I wan drop here." The criminally smelly fellow rushed out of the car like his life depended on his exit from it. He disappeared into the mixed crowd of daily hustlers, most; persons of his kind. The thief was gone! Who would tell he was a crime lord in the pick pocket act, not even the Mentalist can decipher his cold crime. It was stealth-mode and quick. Oh, crime is smart, I must say.
Without worries, everything seemed OK, promising and intact. He (the consultant) was going to call Pinky and relay the sweet news, “Am coming home.” Happily, he walked hurriedly to meet with Chika who was also headed to his office. It was a great flaw on his part, he always forgets. He lamented in Pidgin English "Oh my God, where is my phone eh... Where my phone dey? Ah, I don f**up! My phone don loss. Where is my other phone?"… He picked his other smartphone, dialed his number, and the lady on the other side that always speaks without consideration said, “the number you have dialed is switched off.
The Consultant has been robbed.
A true life event.

Written and Experienced By:
Rex AZ

© 2014 Rex AZ

Author's Note

Rex AZ
ignore words or statements in italics and focus on the flow and connection of the story.

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Added on August 25, 2014
Last Updated on August 25, 2014
Tags: robbed consultant, Consultant, Nigeria, port harcourt, Rex, Rex AZ, phone


Rex AZ
Rex AZ