“Oh my lawd! What, is this the end of me? Please don’t do this, just bury me! Am I going down to the after life of pure darkness? It all ends now” – That is the usual cry signifying death.
Let’s start from the beginning.
I won’t pretend that I know you like that, but we do know each other. I’m tired of hearing people complain about their jobs and all. I mean, why would someone complain about a job that gives him/her the opportunity of coming to work the following day? Do you not know that some people’s jobs end on the first day at work?
Let me tell you about my family. I’m from a very polygamous family and not just a polygamous home but a large one with stepmothers from Umuahia to Pluto. Imagine a family where the children are referred to as indigenes and citizens with indigenes representing the ones born of a Nigerian mother while the citizens are the ones with Oyinbo mothers.
It may sound as crazy as akuko onye egbuwara isi but in my family, your mother’s race determines how you are treated and how quickly you can get a job.
As a family, our heritage is farming. We provide services similar to a nanny-recruiting agency but the difference is that we have to stand in shops to attract possible employers who require our services for farming purposes only. Our positioning is also determined by the skin colour of your mother. The ones by foreign mothers stand in the front while those of us mothered by Nigerian women stand out of sight and in some cases, are not even allowed to appear in some “Employers pick up stations“.
The situation is worse on the Island in Lagos as Indigenes are not even allowed to stand in certain shops due to what they refer to as being ‘Out of place‘. Because of this, most of the indigenes end up standing in front of clubs waiting to be picked by ‘Employers’
The truth is, if we have our ways, we won’t even show up for work because the stories that we’ve heard from some members of my family who have been to work in people’s houses but returned to the shop due to one reason or the other, are the sort of stories that will make you wish you weren’t born.
The society believes that our family workers are good at what they do but then more respect is paid to the foreigners who they believe to be better at the job and in most cases are the most trusted except few of them with Chinese mothers.
Everyday we stand, praying not to be picked because it’s usually a crying marathon when someone gets picked and because of our specialty in cultivation, we fast against the spirit of swampy, smelly farms. We pray against being taken to a neighbourhood farm.
Everybody prays to be taken to a farm managed by one (male) owner, supervised by a lady, cultivated once in a while. The issue of farmlands that are owned and managed by men are discussed in hush tones. No one prays for that.
The thing about farming is this, the land area matters a lot. Some lands are put in use almost on a daily basis and while some lands are just not ever cleaned properly but like the slave drivers our employers are, they don’t really care where we work as long as their interest is protected.
Bad as the situation is, everyone loves to work in farms managed by a woman because she has a way of alerting us when the boss is coming. We hear things like “are you coming” and then replies saying “I’m coming”
We all get scared whenever we hear the boss is cumming coming because when he comes to you that may be the last thing you will remember.
Life should never have to be this hard.
This is life as a dlog elcric modnoc.