Thomas Crooks Thomas Crooks was just an ordinary guy until he listened to his overtaxed brain. Brain: Do you know you can be famous? Crooks: How? Brain: By attempting the infamous! So, Crooks picked his father’s AR-15-style semiautomatic rifle. He listened to his confused brain again and headed to a rally nearby. Minutes later, he did a crooked thing by firing at Donald Trump! Crooks wasn't a known professional crook. But he obviously had a enough crooked mind to store explosives in his car and home. Yes, the Trump shooter was one man. But his name, “Crooks,” gave the impression of a multiple negative character. His crooked act and plans probably justified the addition of letter “s” to a his name, making him one but many crooks! Crooks’ “crooked shot missed Trump by an inch. Thomas Crooks was probably so crooked that he couldn't think straight. But thank God he couldn't shoot straight, either. Otherwise, the world would have missed a daring, straight...
Nobody ever taught me who a worker is. I found out by myself. On the job! Yeah, I became a worker from my mother’s womb. I worked so hard, sometimes, that I kicked her from the inside. I worked even harder in the cradle. As the first child, it was my job to wash all the plates in our house, even the clean ones, for my yet unborn siblings! It was also my responsibility to count all the grey hair on my father’s head!
So, when my daughter recently asked me who a worker was, I said: “Me”! The evidence? I trekked up the hills and down the valleys, each morning, to the village stream to fetch water. The stream was at the boundary between my village and the land of the ghosts.
Two trips, sometimes. Yet, I was just a kid, with a double-barrel head like mosquitoe! Meanwhile, I still had the self-assigned harrowing task of discovering where my mum kept hiding her cabin biscuit container. Very hard work, I swear! And, I hope with those few points of mine, I have been able to confuse you, and not to convince you that…
Come on! It’s Workers’ Day and we the real labourers deserve a cup of “ukot nsung”. Till date, I work so hard, though my wife complains sometimes that I overdo it. “Oga, why do you always spend all day reading scroll bar on NTA? Are you not overworking your eyes? Besides, why not ‘read’ other stations, too?” To avoid an argument, at such times, I switch to reading old newspapers, instead. Or my phone. No worker like me, mbok!
You see, the real worker is not the one strolling into the office in a weather-beaten coat. No! It’s not the one arriving bright and early, ready to tackle the day with all the fake enthusiasm of a kid on Christmas morning. Forget the pretentious gait and the sycophantic mien. I learnt early that a real worker must not merely watch a functional clock but must emulate it…work!
Don’t be decieved by those gathering at the conference tables like a group of lost sheep, only to spend the next hour arguing over who drank the last drop of water in the dispenser. Work is not endless bickering in the office or selling used clothes at the organisation’s car park.
Yeah, there are so-called workers who don’t like to lift a finger. In fact, if they were told that “hard work is the key to success”, they would rather pick the lock. Ask Claude McDonald. But me? Like Robert Orben, I check the Forbes list of the richest people in the world, everyday. The moment my name doesn’t appear there, then I must work - even if it means reading scroll bar!
I deserve an accolade, jare! So, today, I grab a cup of “hot ice water” and settle into my favorite chair. Like my Igbo brother would say, to survive in Nigeria “didn’t easy”! You must work! And, “praise the God”, the work is made easier by the very conducive environment we have been blessed with. Or, is it?
In the workplace - private or corporate - before you even say "good morning," you're greeted by the sweet, sweet sound of the generator rumbling to life. Ah, yes, the generator – that trusty companion that's always there to remind you that electricity is a luxury, not a guarantee.
Sure, that’s right, luxury! Like pen. Let’s hope there's one hiding at the bottom of your bag, because the office supply closet is as well-stocked as a desert oasis. Even government doesn’t supply stuffs anymore. You would be too lucky to find sandpaper, in place of tissue paper, in the toilets.
Oh, c’mon! What's a day in the life of a Nigerian worker without spending half his salary on fuel? In some cities, you just sit in bumper-to-bumper gridlock for hours on end. Or, spend the entire day in a “fuel queue”!
But never mind, for amidst the chaos and absurdity, there is still joy to be found. Like grumbling about the broken air conditioning unit. And the camaraderie that comes with office gossip – because nothing brings people together like a juicy rumour about office romance, who's getting promoted or who got caught napping.
So here's to you, Nigerian workers – including religious business centre operators and yahoo boys. You are the unsung heroes of the economy, the masters of multitasking, and the stars of making the best of a less-than-ideal situation. May your boss be too busy to notice that you've spent the last hour on frivolous chats or watching lewd videos on Tiktok!
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