An excerpt from my book
For years I have battled with myself to just let go of the part of me that needs my written work to be 99.99 % perfect in order to present it to the world, as putting such a vulnerable part of myself out there is scary. But if I could lie legs spread apart to complete strangers at a hospital, while simultaneously pushing out a whole human, I can definitely share a fragment of an art piece I hold close to my heart. I won't be including a title, as I plan on having it published once it is completed, and I would rather not reveal too much. The only spoiler I will share is that the events in the book take place in both England and Malta, interchangeably.
Without further ado, here is an excerpt from one of my beloved projects …
The following morning I’m stuck in the middle of a large number of people on my way to work, all of us barely having managed to squeeze ourselves into a single carriage on the tube. It’s so overcrowded that I find myself subconsciously sucking in my tummy to create more space between myself and the next person. I inhale sharply as the tube jerks and a stranger presses against me. I feel a bulge close to my derriér and immediately move to avoid it, but my nose only comes up against another stranger whose armpit smells like dead fish. He looks down at me and smiles, and I fight back an immediate urge to gag.
It’s my first day back at work since I called off my wedding a week ago, and my hands are already sweaty from thoughts about all the possible questions my colleagues could potentially ask me. “How was the wedding?”, “Do you have pictures?”, “When’s the honeymoon?” The tube jerks again and the smelly stranger grabs my arm to prevent me from keeling over. Once I regain my footing, I look up and mouth my thanks as my stop is announced over the intercom. With relief coursing through my body, I twist and weave myself towards the exit, exhaling sharply once I step onto the platform and watch the tube race away.
I’ve just about stepped foot in the office when the newbie in my department, Shelly, jogs towards me. She’s barely worked at the company for two weeks, so I still see her as a newbie. Some of her dark strands have escaped her ponytail and are clinging to her face, her glasses slightly askew. She’s wearing a look I’m all too familiar with. I must have worn the same look when I first started working here and realised just how challenging things would be.
I work as a customer service agent for one of the largest and fastest-growing online clothing stores in the UK and, just a few months ago, right before I could start contemplating whether I should stay or leave, I got promoted to Team Leader. Because, in the words of my overly enthusiastic manager, “You’re perfect for the job.” This is, quite frankly, not my dream job, and I am desperately waiting for the day I can hand in my resignation and move on to focusing on my actual dream, which involves working with children with learning difficulties.
“I’m so sorry to bother you Chidinma, but a call’s just come through and the customer is being really difficult? He says he won’t hang up until he’s received the refund he asked for last week?” Shelly plays with the hem of her slightly oversized cardigan and chews on her bottom lip before adding, “only there’s no log about what product he wants a refund for?” Shelly’s every sentence sounds like a question. Like she’s never really sure about what she’s saying, and constantly needs confirmation.
“Jack the Joke?” I ask, forgetting for a brief moment that she’s a newbie and might not be familiar with the nickname we’ve given our most annoying customer.
I fail to tell our newbie that the reason there’s no longer a log on Jack the Joke is because he calls in so frequently about the same issue that we’ve decided to stop logging it. The only things we still log are his name and the dates he calls in.
“Ehm…huh?” A wrinkle forms between her thick and perfectly shaped brows (how I envy her for having naturally lustrous brows) as she tries to make sense of my words. “His name’s Jack McGee?” she says.
“That’s him. Just put him through to me and I’ll deal with him,” I say, easing into my office chair. How I’ve missed it. My office chair that is.
“Thank you so much, Chidinma.” Shelly almost flies back to her desk, and in the next moment, the phone on mine blinks green. I let out a sigh, something I’ve been doing quite a lot this week, and grab the receiver.
“Hello, Jack…Chidinma here…. Yes, I understand that waiting for it can be terribly frustrating.” I hold the phone at an arm’s length and check my emails while Jack the Joke rambles on. Surprisingly, there aren’t many emails calling me to immediate action. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do about it, although I can’t promise that anything will be done this week, but I will –” I hold the phone away from my ear again as he launches into yet another rant, raising his voice several octaves in the process. I’m sure I’m not the only one who can hear him at this point. I imagine his face turning the colour of a tomato; steam rising from his head and blowing out of his nostrils and ears. “As I said,’’ I say once he has calmed down, “I will do my best and have someone get back to you once your claim for a refund has been approved.” This seems like information good enough to ward him off for now, as the line immediately goes dead. “He’ll be back,” I mutter to myself.
I lean back and rub my temples. The soft sound of my name causes me to swivel around in my chair. My colleague Leonora is only inches away from my face, the brightest smile plastered on hers, and a plate with two baguettes perfectly balanced on one arm.
“Mornin’. Thought you might fancy some breakfast.” She sets the plate down on my desk and grabs the closest chair, leaning in to give me the biggest hug. I struggle against the tears pressing against my eyelids. Crying would feel like the greatest release right now, but I manage to make the tears forming in my eyes evaporate.
“Thanks, Leona.”
Leonora, known as Leona by her family and closest friends, started working here two months before I did. She’s since gone from being just a colleague to becoming one of my closest friends. And for very good reason. She’s one of the most honest, loyal, no-nonsense people I’ve ever come across.
“So,” she says, grabbing a baguette from the plate in front of us and biting into it. She looks at me with big, expecting eyes.
“So?” I say, shifting my focus back to the open page on my computer screen. My failed wedding is the last thing I want to talk about right now. But I know Leona isn’t going to shy away from the subject like most people already have. With her mouth half full, she says, “I want all the details about how you dumped that loser.” I snort in response, and she nudges me. “Just miss seeing that smile, you know? Gosh, I thought you’d died or sumthin’,” she says, taking another bite.
“That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”
“Well, it’s not like I could get through to you. You deactivated all your Social Media accounts. Even your parents weren’t getting through to you, so tell me why I’m being dramatic again?” She drops a bit of egg on her lap, but quickly picks it off her jeans and pops it into her mouth. I definitely can’t find the courage to eat stuff off anything. Once it’s dropped, it’s no longer edible.
“I met your mum at the supermarket the other day, by the way. Lovely woman, she is.”
I roll my eyes. “She’s nice to anyone who isn’t her child.”
“Come on,” Leonora nudges me again, “that’s not true.”
“Oh, Leona, you don’t know her like I do,” I respond in a sing-song voice as I pick up my lonely baguette and take a bite. I close my eyes to savour all the different flavours dancing around on my tongue.
“Better than sex, isn’t it?” Leonora says, and we both giggle like school girls.
“I’ve missed mornings like these so much,” I moan through my mouthful.
“Who knew office food could taste this good?” She wiggles her eyebrows at me.
Our shared moment of pleasure is curtly interrupted by the flashing green button of my desk phone. Another incoming call.
“I guess that’s my cue to leave,” Leonora says, jumping to her feet. “Later,” she mouths as she disappears behind my cubicle. I barely manage a wave before I turn my attention back to the phone. I reach my hand out and pick up the receiver.
There’s a rustling sound, followed by light breathing down the phone. A wave of silence follows as I ponder on whether the person on the other line is at all familiar with technology. We’ve had a few elderly people call in about how to use their phones, although it’s perfectly clear on our website that we do not deal with anything tech-related.
“Hello?” I breathe in through my nostrils and exhale through my mouth while I wait for the person on the other end to respond. “Hello?” I try again, trying my best to hide my annoyance.
“Hello, am I speaking to Nima? — I mean, Chidinma?” I recognise the voice instantly. It’s my friend, Neola. She never calls my work phone, so this must be urgent.
“Ola? Why didn’t you just call my phone, and why did it take you so long to respond? I thought you were an old granny.”
She laughs.“Sorry, I was busy with ChuChu, and I didn’t think you’d pick up, to be honest. You never do when you’re at work.”
“That’s not true,” I protest. My friend is silent for a second to demonstrate her point. “Okay, maybe half true. Anyway, what’s up?”
“Well, I’ve done something you’re not going to approve of, but even if you don’t, it’s too late to do anything about it.”
My heart skips a beat. This can’t be good. No surprise from Neola ever is. My grip tightens around the phone and I brace myself for the worst.
“Don’t worry,” she drawls, “I haven’t done anything worth being worried about.”
I relax a little in my seat, although not fully.
“What did you do?”
“So,” my friend takes a deep breath, “before you start freaking out, Ariana and I already spoke to your manager, and she’s given her okay.”
“What’s okay?” I ask, growing a little more impatient. “Just tell me.”
“We’re going on a trip to Malta!”
I can hear her Bichon Frise, ChuChu, barking in the background.
“Hold on a second,” Neola says, disappearing for a short moment. The brief silence she’s left me with is followed by her telling her dog off for almost knocking her laptop off her bed. Once she’s back, she says, “Why aren’t you more excited?”
“Well, for one, you didn’t ask me.”
“Come on, Nima. You actually need this. We didn’t get to do anything for your Hen do.”
I think about her words for a second. It is true, but it doesn’t mean I ever really wanted one.
“Who’s paying? You know I need to plan things at least three months ahead of time so I can actually save, right?”
“Will you relax? We’ve got everything covered. All you need to do is bring your passport, swimsuit, and whatever else you need for a trip to a hot country. Listen, got to run. I’ve got a video call with a Maltese club-owner in five, but I’ll come round later so we can discuss our trip.”
“Okay, but will you at least tell me when we’re leaving?”
“Tomorrow evening,” she says as if it’s nothing.
“TOMORROW?” I get a few glances from a couple of my colleagues on their phones. One of my colleagues, who is walking by my desk with a coffee mug, stops in her tracks and stares wide-eyed at me. I hold up a hand and mime an apology.
“Make sure you pack, Nima. No ugly turtlenecks, okay? We’re going to Malta. I’m coming by today, anyway, so I can help you pack. Bye!”
The line goes dead before I can argue the reason why this is a terrible idea. It’s just like Neola to expect everyone to jump on her wagon of spontaneity.
I unlock my computer and click on a direct message from Leona. She’s included a screenshot of bad reviews about our company written in the last few minutes.
I bet Jack the Joke is behind every last one of them (smirk). The little shit.
MacandCheese
10 reviews — 3 minutes ago
Terrible creatures, the lot of them! I’ve waited for my items for 4 good months and keep being served the same bullshit about being refunded each time I call in!!! I wouldn’t advise anyone to shop here if they actually want to receive their items. EVER.
My eyes roll so far back into my head that the action alone threatens to cause blindness. Maybe a free trip to Malta isn’t such a bad idea after all.
Neola stares horrified at my open suitcase and pokes at one outfit after the other like they’re dead rats. “What on earth is that?” she asks, wrinkling her nose in disgust and tossing a particular outfit onto my bed. “That is not coming with you,” she says, “and neither is this.” She fishes a similar outfit out of my suitcase and tosses it on the bed. “I knew your sense of style was bad, but I had no idea it was this bad.” Neola walks over to my closet, opens it, and crosses her arms over her chest as she stares at my collection of dresses.
“You did say I needed to pack a swimsuit and whatever else I would need for the trip.”
“Yeah, but not your grandma’s dresses, and certainly not her underwear,” she retorts with her back still to me.
I clutch my hand to my chest like she’s just shot me. “Ouch.”
“Actually, I take that back. Your grandma probably dresses better than that.” She runs her fingers through the dresses in my closet. “Seriously, when is the last time you went shopping, Nima?” Her hand has just caught hold of another outfit that she stares at with a look of serious contempt. “This stays,” she says, moving her index finger to the next dress. I watch as she rummages through my closet, her slender frame reminding me that I haven’t been to the gym in a while. I give my little pouch a squeeze and let out a dissatisfied sigh. I’m thankful Neola’s back is still turned towards me.
“Not everyone has time to go shopping every weekend,” I mutter, hardly loud enough for her to hear, or so I think.
“I heard that.” She turns around to face me. “I can’t tell you how glad I am that you got rid of that horrible excuse of a man, Nima. He turned you into …” she pauses to look for a suitable word as she shuts my closet, “…he was the worst thing that could have ever happened to you. “This” — she points to one of the dresses on my bed — “is atrocious. It has Elijah’s name written all over it.” She wrinkles her nose as if the clothes from my closet are emitting some kind of stench.
I mull her words over in my head. She’s right. Elijah is an asshole, and he made me lose the most important parts of myself, like so many women do when they think they’re in love. Being around him became addictive, to the point where I forgot what it was like to be alone. But it was just a temporary high. And when that high died down, I woke up to see him for who he truly was. What a relief it hadn’t lasted long enough for me to marry him.
I sit down at the edge of my bed and let out a loud sigh. The hundredth sigh today, I’m sure. What I really want to do is cry. I’ve been wanting to cry for the past week, but all I’ve managed to do is sit at home with my blinds pulled all the way down, watching movies, and tv shows, and eating takeaway food and ice cream. It’s not such a surprise that my pouch has grown even bigger since the last time I greeted it. I’m having a headache just thinking about the amount of work I will have to put in to get back in shape.
Neola pauses mid-scan to look at me. She walks over to my bed and plonks down next to me, grabbing my left hand.
“It will be hard the first few months, probably even years, but you will definitely get over him. I promise.”
And just like that, the tears I have spent so long holding onto flow like the Ganges river. I watch as my tears stain my jeans, and continue to sob uncontrollably while my friend holds onto me. We sit like this for a long while. Until I have no more tears left to cry.
