Chapter 2: The Year-End Shock

At the year-end meeting, Chukwudi dey shine teeth, dey hail staff. Dem bring chilled Maltina, groundnut, chin-chin, everybody dey smile, dey gist, dey calculate how dem go use bonus—school fees, new Christmas cloth, small jollof rice party for house. Oga dey behave like say e get everybody for mind.

Except me—my own salary chop thirty percent slash.

As dem dey share joy, na only me dey feel like say arrow don catch my chest. I check HR email twice, dey sure say no be mistake. My spirit cold, like say NEPA seize light inside me. For this Naija, dem fit chop you for where you stand—na wetin I feel that day.

I no gree, but before I enter oga office, I waka up and down for corridor, wipe sweat from my face, even drop small prayer for under my breath: "God, abeg, cover me." Then I arrange my shirt well, deep breath, heart dey beat as if dem dey pursue me for dream, I knock enter.

Oga Chukwudi just dey sip him Lipton tea, acting like nothing dey happen. He cross leg, pinky finger up, aroma of Lipton and cold AC dey mix for office. Channels TV dey play for corner, but oga dey tap phone, no even send my face.

He look up, talk with that dry Naija style: "If you wan manage, manage. If e too hot for you, door dey—person no dey force goat drink water. For your position, abeg, no dey shout about your bachelor’s degree. If na postgraduates I want, dem full ground."

The words heavy for my chest, like bag of cement. For this Naija, people go use big grammar wound your spirit. My mind dey replay all those late nights, the times I work reach midnight—so na like this dem go just throway your effort.