"How is this possible?" Victor questioned, his voice laced with confusion. "Oga, abeg, collect your disengagement letter and leave. Dead wife? Wetin you mean by that? Ru... Ru what? Which name you even dey call? We no sabi her name, and you're here telling us she's your wife wey don die 11 months ago. Oga, abeg, comot here. I no wan lose my job. If she truly be your wife wey don die, then make the two of una go settle am elsewhere. Leave my job out of this matter."
Edmond struggled to rise, but his body seemed too weak to support his weight.
To avoid further trouble with the new MD, we had no choice but to carry him out of the conference room. His disengagement letter was prepared in record time and handed to him.
Before leaving, Edmond pulled out his phone and presented a picture. "This was taken on our last anniversary," he muttered.
The resemblance between the woman in the photo and the new MD was uncanny, leaving no doubt in our minds.
Edmond and I had started working at the company on the same day, and while I didn't want to jeopardize my own job, the similarity between the images on his phone and the MD was too startling to ignore.
"Aaaahmmm," I began hesitantly, "here's what will happen. Everybody, return to work. Oga Edmond, give me your phone and go wait at the beer parlor across the street. I'll meet you there. And no make noise for that place."
Edmond reluctantly handed me his phone and left, visibly shaken.
Curiosity got the better of me, and I took the phone to Victor's office. Together, we scrolled through Edmond's gallery and found photos of him and his supposed wife—pictures of anniversaries, vacations, and even their wedding day.
The sight chilled us to the bone. The MD had been posted from Lagos—the same city Edmond claimed his wife had died in. The implications sent shivers down our spines.
As I sat in my office, trying to process the situation, Angela barged in, startling me.
"Madam wants to see you immediately," she announced.
"Which madam?" I asked, my voice betraying my apprehension.
"Who else? The MD. She's waiting for you."
Panic surged through me, but I mustered what courage I could as I walked to her office.
Inside, she sat with her back turned to the door. When I entered, she swiveled her chair to face me.
"Good afternoon, sir—uh, sorry, madam. Good afternoon." My nerves were so shot that I ended up greeting and replying to myself.
"Why do you look like you've seen a ghost? You're sweating profusely under the AC. Are you sure you're okay?"
I nodded, unable to find my voice.
"By the way," she glanced at her watch, "it's 10:37 a.m., so it's still morning. When it's morning, we say, 'Good morning.'"
"Good morning, madam. My apologies."
She studied me for a moment, her eyes sharp and observant. "Are you the ICT guy?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good. I have a task for you. What's your take on me firing a staff on my first day?"
"I don't have any issues with your decision, ma'am. You must have your reasons."
"Good. Pull up the details of every staff member and place hard copies on my desk by close of business today. Also, I want a comprehensive report on the sacked staff. Detailed information."
"Yes, ma'am. Is there anything else?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Are you questioning me?"
"No, ma'am. My apologies."
"Good. Get to it."