Aisha.
The sound of my alarm clock is the one thing I hate as much as Mondays. Why do we even need alarms? Why do things have to be done with a time limit? Like waking up in the morning on a Monday morning at 6 am because you have to be at work by seven and the Lagos traffic might be an issue?
Who starts work by 7? Employers are monstrous. I feel like they slowly derive pleasure in sucking all the life out of their employees. Work doesn't need to start so early but they just like to see our faces.
The sound of my phone by my bedside table rings so loudly that my sister Hussaina jolts up from the bed and smacks me dead in the face with one of her pillows.
''Wake up now.'' she groans.
I sit up on the bed and watch her as she sinks back into the bed and snores again. See, that stupid alarm reminded me that I have to get up and face another freaking day of work. There is one thing I hate and it is having to wake up every morning for work.
I still don't know why I decided to enter the corporate world. Why didn't I just start a business like my sister? At least, that way, I wouldn't be conformed to the life of suffering.
The fact that I am complaining before I even get to the office is typical of me. I do this every day. Wake up, silently nag in my mind and then drive to work. It is usual for me but at the end of it all, I never quit.
Getting ready is a process, I usually spend about an hour in the bathroom. It takes me that long because I like to drag things. The more time I spend getting ready, the later I will be to work. That is how it usually goes for me.
"Get out of the toilet jo,'' I hear a knock just as I am coming out of the shower. I share a room with my sister Hussaina. Even though I have told her that from seven in the morning to eight is my bathroom time, she still always has something to do inside.
"I will soon be out,'' I return the same aggression she used. My voice is usually loud when I am trying to be expressive and right now, I am trying but it fails as she enters the bathroom without even as much as a care in the world. Luckily, I have my towel wrapped around my waist, as he pulls down her shorts and sits on the toilet.
"I don't know why you spend so much time in the toilet. You might as well just move in here and call this your room,'' she accuses me with an eye roll. Her braided hair is up in a bonnet this morning. She can't talk to me because once she is done, she will go back to bed and continue sleeping. I am already late for work, but the fact that I am known as the usual late comer helps me.
"You could have waited five minutes,'' I hiss at her as I walk out of the bathroom. If there is anyone that I fight with—Hussaina is that person. We have this love-hate relationship. I get angry at the stupid things she does and she gets defensive about them. It works well for us because usually after our fights, we end up settling by either going to a movie or trying out a new restaurant. There is a scar on my leg from one of our many sister fights. Granted, it was a mistake and it was for something as stupid as wearing one of my dresses but the moment she pushed to the glass cupboard—the scar came about.
Even till today, I remind her about it whenever I want to guilt-trip her into something. Slowly walking back to the room, I stand in front of my closet. I hate dressing corporate. I hate jackets, pants, I hate the kinds of clothes I have to wear. Working in an investment company, means I have to stick to those rules. Give me jeans and a pair of sneakers any day and I will be happy.
"Ugh,'' I run my hands through my curly hair. This week, it is blond. A decision I regret the minute I did it. I don't know what I was thinking. Dyeing my hair the lightest blonde was an experiment that failed. I can't even wear it to the office because to my supervisor, it is unprofessional. My hair is short and thick. I have never been able to tame it and I am at that point where I don't even try anymore. I leave it the way it is because as a black woman, my hair is my pride and the fact that I can't even wear it to work has been irritating to me.
"You should just quit,'' Hussaina walks into the room and jumps on her bed "Put off the light. I want to go back to bed.'' he tells me as she covers herself.
I roll my eyes "How am I supposed to get ready?''
"If you quit, you wouldn't have to get ready.'' She tells me like quitting is a good idea right now. I am twenty-five years old and I still live in my family home. A typical Nigerian home with my mother and father. We are not from a very rich family and in Nigeria that basically means you are poor. There is no such thing as the middle class in this country, with the depreciating economy. My father Danjuma struggled to take care of us. Growing up, I would barely see him, as he would usually leave the house as early as five in the morning, for his journey from the mainland to the island in Lagos State.
When you hear it like that, you think that it is far but the problem is just the traffic. My father is a lawyer and he worked in a firm until he retired 5 years ago. I see him and he is everything I don't want to be. I don't want to spend the rest of my life in a job I hate. I don't want to have to suffer and not have anything for it. I look at him and I know the things I don't want.
Both my parents aren't really the kind of example I want. I want to be different. I know I have been saying this for a long time. I have thought about leaving the company and starting something. Making a difference in my life. I just hope I get to that point in my life where it will finally happen.
I just hope I find my adventure.