"I am surprised you are still alive."

Omolara's voice hit me as I walk out of the lift. She is waiting in the hallway. I can feel it in her voice that she is battling with a muffled laugh.

"Yeah, make fun of my misery."

She walks to me and hugs me.

"Tell me you still have a job," she says, almost like a whisper, in my ear.

"Stop being dramatic." I ply her off of me.

"I called him boss!"

"Haaaa...no you did not."

"I was disoriented, sha."

She launches into one of her laughs again.

"Why doesn't he like being called boss, anyway?" I query hoping she actually has some genuine answers for me since she has been here longer than I have been. And she, obviously, is the boss' pet. Except she is not a kiss-ass and annoy-your-co-worker type of pet like Foriwaa in the Design Department. That lady is obnoxious. The way she sticks to Stanley like he is her life support, taking any chance she gets to be in his good books, makes me sick. Sometimes she pushes her luck too much and it gets distasteful. The least said about her the better. Besides, I don't want to be charged with the "pull her down syndrome". I am a woman too. I love my fellow women and love to see them rise way up.

But when they...you know what? Let's forget about Oforiwaa for now.

I turn my face to Omolara, making puppy eyes in a plea that she serves me with the juicy info about Stanley.

"Regardless of whatever silly idea you have in your head, Madam, Stanley doesn't tell me all his stuff. I can't possibly know why he doesn't want to be called boss." She pushes me aside, holds my hand and tows me in a way that I follow her like a sheep to the slaughter

"Enough of that. Tell me. What did you want to talk about?" She asks, evolving into this all-serious individual. Scary.

"Oh, it is nothing." I take the free road knowing how dangerous it can be.

"You know you never win in these games. Start talking," She says as she leads me towards her office.

Omolara Oluwakitan. Head Stylist.

I read over the gold nameplate in front of her door right before we enter her office. The office she moved into about a year ago when she got promoted to Head Stylist of SIKA after the untimely (or rather timely) resignation of her former boss. A promotion that was brimming with a lot of controversies. Not that I take delight in office grapevine but you know, word goes around. But the most despicable of all those rumours was the one about her sleeping her way to the office. Like when will anyone take a woman's success to be exactly what it is—success? The l-worked-my-ass-off-to-be-where-I-am kind of success. Funny thing is, it was some of these women, our sisters, those we fight to overthrow the clingy hands of patriarchy with who started these rumours. Talk of us women being our own wolf's bane...

Her office is a sharp contrast to Stanley's. Contrast in a good way, I must add. While Stanley's looked like it could house an entire generation with how huge it is, hers was a moderate office-size space with a touch of Omolara. And by a touch of Omolara, I mean there is a style in the way her office has been set up. There is a reason she is a stylist. Where Stanley's office is filled with books and arts, hers is filled with living plants harboured in very innovative, and mostly antique, vases. The life the greens of the plants add to her undiluted-white walls is magical. These two colour rows stashed against the framed portraits of her glorious self make the space even more exquisite. There is a touch of gold here or there—the wall cabinet carvings, the small pen holders, among others—that I have always assumed is influenced by Stanley. He wants that element of Sika in every office in this building.

"Now, have a seat and tell me what is wrong." She sits on the white fur-covered sofa beside her desk and beckons me to do the same.

"This is a safe space, remember?" She adds.

Having a fair idea of exactly what she is trying to do, I give in. I let out a shaky smile and do as she instructs.

"I have a date tonight." I drop the bomb, lowering my eyes to avoid any eye contact with her. A high-pitched squeal hit me right before two sets of hands wrap around me.

"Ekuwa! This is good news so why are you all that gloomy?"

"It is. It is. But there's only one problem," I say, my eyes still lowered as I fidget with a loose thread on my dress. She lets go of me and stands up in haste. A gesture that forces me to look up. My eyes meet with hers then regret my decision that second. She has this look on her face that suggests she has an idea of what I am about to say next and she has had enough of it. Well...she has every right to be fed up. We've been through this before. Not once. Not twice. That is why I dread altering my next words. I force the words out anyway, regretting the second they plunge out.

"He doesn't know who I am...he hasn't seen me before, I mean...you know..."

I look at her like she is supposed to guess the next words. She purses her lips and stares into nothingness for some seconds. I prepare myself for what comes next.

"Ekuwa," she takes her seat again, assuming the role of the therapist I have turned her into. She looks the part, I observe.

"Why do you do this to yourself? What is wrong with putting yourself out there? We talked about this." She holds my hands.

"There is nothing wrong and I have no problem doing that. It is just not everyone ready to embrace how I am."

"So you would rather set yourself up for heartbreak? Don't you think they should know exactly who you are and make a decision to continue with you rather than building something with them before they bail for you to hurt even more?"

She says that and I know exactly what she is alluding to.

It was my early days on LinkedUp. I matched with this guy and we started talking. The vibe was great. We had a decent conversation on the app. We liked almost the same things. I mean, the app's algorithm wouldn't have matched us if we didn't. But I didn't share my pictures with him and never asked for his. We eventually agreed to meet up within a few days. It was supposed to be a simple meetup. I looked good that day. Really good. I had a bit of makeup done. Not that the makeup made me any more beautiful. I just feel it is a good point to mention that I had one of those...so yeah, I had made an effort. I wore one of those straight-cut flowery dresses and a low-heel shoe I could manage. I felt like a woman truly taking control of her dating life as I stood at exactly where we agreed to meet and sent him a description of my dress for easy identification.

Be there in a minute. I am around the block.

I opened that message from him when it was nearly 30 minutes but he hadn't shown up.

One hour.

Two hours.

Three.

Four.

He never showed. Best guess? He came around, saw me and eloped.

Then there was that time I tried another date with this guy. For him, I had told him I was plus size and he had said he had no problem with it. That made my day. I was delighted that finally, someone was coming around. We arranged for a date night. He wasn't there when I got there so I made the reservation, and ordered a glass of wine as I waited for him. He took longer than usual. Against my thoughts, he showed up and was more handsome than I had imagined him to be. But his looks were not the highlights of the night.

That dude walked up to me and said "I have to go".

I asked why and he said "You're too fat" and he just left. Just like that.

It made me angry and upset. And not because he described exactly who I am but because he in a way that felt less than an insult and more of a curse. Like I was condemned and doomed to be in this body. Like an abomination deserving of being locked away and not shown in public in a beautiful dress with the hopes of finding love. How he said it made me question my stupidity for believing that anyone will have "no problem" with me being this way.

"Ekuwa, take the tissue." Omolara's voice breaks into my thoughts. Recognition dawns on me and I realise that I have been crying. I snatch a tissue or two from the tissue box and clean the trail of tears housed under my eyes. I know my eyes are red at this point.

Omolara sits beside me and pulls me in for a hug.

"I am sorry but you have to do it," she whispers. I nod, pull out from her embrace and reach for my bag. I know exactly what I have to do. I take out my phone, open the LinkedUp app and send a message to my date.

I am sorry but I have to cancel. I don't feel too well.

His reply pops up a second after but I don't even wait to see what it is before closing the app. Whatever he has to say has to wait. I give a "thank you" to Omolara who is now standing by one of her plants—a devil's ivy, I think. If I take any of her plant lessons seriously—looking at them with such awe and reverie. She smiles at me and I feel the warmth of the smile right in my stomach. She walks over to me and hugs me again. I know I want to say something to her but I can't think of anything. My mind is just a haze right now. I choose to keep those words in.

***

Back in my office, nothing eventful happens during the day.

I had my "Popular Depressing Pop Songs for Depressed People" playlist on repeat and that was all I did. The day rushed by quickly without me noticing. I got no work done. Nothing. More reasons for Stanley to dismiss me.

And right now, as I sit beside Omolara in her car, I know my night isn't going to be any different. She had offered to take me home earlier after we closed from work and I couldn't say no. I needed her. It was not like she was going to accept no for an answer anyway. Throughout the ride, we haven't talked. I know she wants to engage me but she also wants to give me space. The space to think through everything she had said and everything my mind tells me. She knows I am beating myself up for what happened with Koku and she isn't wrong. It will be a while before I can get out of this funk. It is impressive how one can wake up full of luminous energy and feel like the whole world crumbled on them by evening. Just within twenty-four hours and a lot has changed completely. Totally. This world that we live in is just a witty place to be. It is all fucked up!

"We are here!" Omolara announces, her voice, high-pitched than usual which is unusual, hits me and it makes me smile.

"Thank you, Omo," I say as I make my way down her car.

"Are you going to be ok?"

I nod and wave her off.

She drives away seconds after, still unsure whether to leave me on my own. I sigh, letting out this stack of air I don't know I am holding in, ready to face the night. Another lonely night.

That is when it hits me again. The sound of music from a very loud speaker. I can't believe he is doing this again! I turn around and make my way to my new neighbour's house. My deductions are right. He is the one. The high-pitched spikes of musical chords emanating from his place are unmistakable. I recognise the song immediately. We Weren't Born To Follow by Bon Jovi. I know this because it is part of the top 5 songs I listen to when I want to feel powerful. But I don't exactly feel or want to feel powerful tonight.

We weren't born to follow

Come on and get up off your knees

When life is a bitter pill to swallow

You gotta hold on to what you believe

Believe that the sun will shine tomorrow

And that your saints and sinners bleed

We weren't born to follow

You gotta stand up for what you believe

Let me hear you say yeah, yeah, yeah, oh yeah

I press on his doorbell with all the strength and frustration I can grasp hoping he hears it over that loud but assuring voice of Jovi. He doesn't. Then I try pushing his front gate which opens with ease. Dude doesn't even lock his gate! In a matter of seconds, I am inside, past his main gate, making my way up to his front door where I hope he can hear me bang. But I think he sees me before I get to the door. It swings open as he walks through it, the songs still so loud.

This one's about anyone who does it differently

This one's about the one who cusses and spits

This ain't about our livin' in a fantasy

This ain't about givin' up or givin' in

Yeah, yeah, yeah

I don't wait for him to make it to me before I launch my attack.

"I am sorry but do you mind? I don't know which wilderness you have been living in but you do realise you have moved among humans now, right? And spoiler alert, we do things differently here among humans!"

He seems stunned but I don't relent.

"Since your self-serving brain isn't profound enough to notice that you have neighbours around who, unlike you have actual jobs and brains that need to rest at night and they can't do that over this loud noise, I want to be the one to tell you. Tone this down! Seriously?"

At this point, I am out of breath and feeling numb. I turn to leave.

"I am sorry wha—" He tries to say something but stops himself against his best judgement, I suppose. I don't wait for him to rethink his decision to not engage me. Right when I make it to my door, the song changes. Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen plays now. Another feel-good favourite of mine.

Is this the real life?

Is this just fantasy?

Caught in a landslide,

No escape from reality

Open your eyes,

Look up to the skies and see,

I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy,

Because I'm easy come, easy go,

Little high, little low,

Any way the wind blows doesn't really matter to

Me, to me

He has good taste in music. Too bad he is an inconsiderate asshole. 

This is where I meet my next milestone with 10,339 words. whew!