Dᴏᴍɪɴᴏᴇs

ᝨℍℰ newsroom was not as noisy as it usually was that morning. No one had the time to talk or gist about their roving the previous day, about politics, fashion, family or their job. However, it was still a mad room.

The reporters were all busy putting their reports in order before they would submit them to me. I gave them an ultimatum for all their reports to be on my desk before 9:20 AM. Most of them were head bent over pieces of paper inking vigorously, some others crowded the limited typists placating with whispers and lobbying to add their news reports to the days bulletin, while a few others where in the editing room merging their voice overs with rushes.

The morning news was usually aired by 10:00AM, although a good number of the reporters had arrived the office late because the company's coastal bus that brought them to the office broke down along the road that morning because of a bad spark plug. The driver had already received heavy tongue-lashing from Sir. Lamido for not taking the proper precautions a professional driver working for a media house as big as PTV was expected to do. The reporters were fully aware that the tongue-lashing the poor driver had received from the Head of Station would be nothing compared to what the crazy lusty old man would say or do to them, should I report any of them to him for being incompetent of doing their job.

Sir. Lamido was as tough as old boots when it comes to official duty. He believed he was never found wanting handling his job as the station's head, therefore, all these young journos must be up and doing, else, he'd fire them before the blink of an eye, parting them with words like: ' There are a thousand job seeking graduate seriously hungry to become a journo and all you do is make a mess of it. You've been served!' He'd push an envelope containing a sack letter before the staff and give an icy fuck off look.

One of the reporters dashed into My office with his report. 'Good morning Fred.' He placed his report before me.

'Good morning Mr. Nelson. ' I scanned through the paper. ' Twaddle! Absolute Twaddle!'

'Sir?'

'Stop giving me that face, Mr. Nelson, you and I know that this is paid news.'

'Fred, Fred. You too smart.' He said with a fickle smile.

I did not rise to the bait of his flatter. I hesitated. I wanted him to elaborate, so I leaned back on my chair and watched him with with my head bent sideways. Without a smile.

'Hum...' he put his lips in his mouth and stared around.' See, boss. This news, must try... No. Please I need you to help me make sure it gets on air. You know it's the deputy governor where talking about here o. Abeg?'

I laughed. I rolled my chair closer to my desk and started typing an article I was going to send to The Vanguard newspaper the next week. 'How much did they pay?' I asked, pretending to show some interest.

'Fifty-k.'

'Fifty-k? For this news? And you stoop so low to collect such chicken change, hope you didn't tell them you're a journalist with PTV?'

'No o! Fifty-K ke? You know I was just trying to be sure if you're on my side. Boss. Fred Oloye! Na one-fifty dem pay. Nothing more, nothing less.'

' Wow.' I continued typing with my face glued to my laptop's screen, ' Nice one. And Sir Lamido is aware right?'

'Aba, Fred. Stop all this womanic behavior now. Sir Lamido doesn't need to know.'

'If this news should be broadcasted, even a creche kid would know it was paid for. This is not news for Christ sake! This is a documentary. The Deputy Governor showing off his asset to everyone, claiming his not an embezzler, he is a decent man, yada-yada-yada and he pays the press to make the announcement for him. Mtchwww. Mr. Nelson please leave my face.'

Nelson still stood there sucking his lips until a cleaner came in to inform me that Sir Lamido wants to see me in his office.

Sir Lamido was cladded in a fine gray suit with a deep blue tie. He leaned against the wall close to his window staring outside through the plastic thin louvre with his hands in his pocket.

' I'm here sir.' I said, after entering with two quick knocks at his door.

Sir Lamido didn't look in my direction, he wasn't looking at anything in particular outside either.

'We've been served.' he said, raising his chin in the direction of two letters on his desk. He walked to his desk to resume his seat.

' I don't understand this sir?' I said. I picked up one of the termination letters, the one addressed to me and read.

' You should.' He said with a light smile. ' We're no longer of any use here. At least that's what this letter says.'

' I can't believe this!'

' I didn't see it coming as well.' He took a deep breathe in and exhaled with a whistle, ' He was like a son to me you know? I used to be his favourite uncle. I watched him grow, bought him toys, taught him to drive... But son. I have lived long enough to know that love is like dominoes, you might take all the time in the would to build it, but with just one push... Everything falls, shatters. There's no relationship in this world that cannot break. Ask God and Lucifer if you doubt me.'

Two weeks after I was fired, I received a call from The Manager of DCTV in Abuja, inviting me to come over for a job offer.

After dropping the call, I called Nike immediately. I knew it was her doing and she confirmed it. She was married to the son of Akintola Adesina, Tariq.

Adesina was a very prominent and influential member of the People's Progressive Party (PPP). A good friend of his and member of the party, Sylvanus Idahor owns DCTV.

Nike must have told Tariq about me because she wants me to get a new job as badly as I needed it as well. From the tone of the Manager's voice, I could foretell that I was only going to be used as a pure puppet journalist, a PPJ, me? A muppet. God forbid. Besides one doesn't want to be caught in-between them.

There are only two political parties in this country; ADC, the ruling party and PPP. The hundreds of others are mere jara.

I told the Manager that I didn't have to come to Abuja at all because I don't need a job from him, Akintola or Sylvanus before ending the call.

Tariq and Nike paid me a visit later that evening. They tried to talk me into taking the job, that I still had the chance to. I told them that I'd rather not be a journalist at all than become one PPJ who takes dictations from people that should be reported. What is the essence of journalism for Christ sake?

Reporters would kill themselves over news beats like the government house, House of Assembly trying to get themselves where the money is at. I'm not saying I'm better but the job is trash. Only a few. Very few, still practice journalism and observes it's ethics.

What should we expect when someone like Nelson who had studied political science in school is out there being a reporter for the biggest television station in our country.

Our problem too long abeg.

'Mr. Afolayan, I really appreciate your efforts. Sincerely, I do. I'm sorry for doing all this. A got to stand up for something you know. This is it.' He shook my hands energetically and gave a respectful nod.

The last time I had a face to face discussion with him was at their wedding. Well, I did all the talking that day. It was more like a threat anyway, I told him if he ever pinches my sister and a ball of tear roll down from those her beautiful eyes, I was going to single handedly give a blood eagle execution.

I had never taken him seriously untill now. That gesture of respect. It automatically change my perception of him.

I thought he was always looking forward to to pleasing me with all his good gestures. He wasn't. I have been judging the fine man for the sins of his father.

Nike gave me a passionate hug as they rose to leave.

'Tariq.' I called with an intention to apologise. Rather, it was a 'thank you for everything' that got out of my mouth. He nodded gracefully again with his arm over her shoulder as they leave.

I danced like a poorly animated character for hours. It was awesome nobody really noticed my foolishness. I even got a dance with a couple of hot girls, some others just pushed me aside when I danced close to them like an advancing rooster and the more polite ones would tell me their boyfriend or their fiance is there.

The party was lit. An impressive percentage of alcohol had gone out with my sweat, other's I micturated. However I was still high.

The DJ systematically changed the temple of the song from some fast rhythm zanku music to some more calmer afrobeat sound. I was lucky enough to be dancing behind a girl at the time. She rocked me as if we knew each other on a personal level.

She was a thick chic. Curvy. She was one beautiful fair damsel, not as beautiful as my Cynthia though. Despite the sweat, her fragrance reminiscent of vanilla was irresistible, and her curly fully tinted hair felt like a Bichon Frise furs on my neck. She wore a very light vintage jumpsuit and from what I felt as she wined her waist before my groin, she had no panties on.

Our Astaire and Charisse dance soon attracted spectators, other dancers that had retired to their sits watched us with glee. Some even recorded us with their phones. I spotted Okemute recording with a big mischievous smile on his face too.

The girl seemed to have loved the attention we were getting. She made more erotic moves. Nice and slow, nice and slow, we took the dance to another level. Groin to groin, breast to breast and brow to brow. She twisted the soft tenderness of her body on me with some fetish ballerina girl moves. I played along also, until she gave me a long deep kiss at the end. Everyone applauded.

She walked away elegantly with her behind shaking like jellies at every step she took to meet some of her cliques at a corner of the bar.

I went to sit beside Okemute on one of the tall wooden stools before the bar.

' The enchanter!' He hailed as if I had won an award, showing me the video he recorded.

' I want to go home bro.' I attempted to stand up but he held me back.

'James with the shawty o! Mhen, you're trending on insta o. Omo, Cynthia Okonkwo's blog don post the shit mhen. You don blow!'

' Cynthia what?' I rubbed my face with my hands before staring at the video playing on his phone.

' Man, you guys nailed this shit mhen!'

I had started whimpering already. She posted it everywhere. She was making sure that I know she knew.

I need to die. Now!

NEXT CHAPTER: 'POWER' coming soon.