Amicus Curiae 2: A Curious Welcome

law firm

Folayemi was welcomed to the firm with a growl by the Front Desk Officer, a fiercely dressed lady in her mid-thirties. After a few minutes of scolding for resuming late, Folayemi was directed to a large conference room where nine other law students were seated. She recognised a few faces from the Lagos Campus, but could not care less about exchanging silent pleasantries. A young man in denim pants, a T-Shirt and a face cap was having a chat with the group. Folayemi could surmise he was delivering a welcome speech, but from the way he was dressed, she could not tell if he was a lawyer or a paralegal.

He acknowledged her arrival with a wave of hand, directing her to a free seat.

Then he said, “diligence is the bedrock of the work we do here.”

The phrase lit a spark on Folayemi’s face. There was no chance that her mother’s spirit dwelt in this young man.

“A lawyer should do what he has to do when he has to do it,” the young man continued.

Folayemi’s face straightened out. No smile. No smirk. No emotions. This was awkward. Her mother’s spirit could not dwell in this young man right before her eyes.

“You,” the young man pointed at Folayemi. “Could you tell us: why are we here?”

Folayemi struggled with her seat as she got up.

“No, no. Sit and answer,” the young man advised.

“Ummm…” Folayemi slurred. “We are…here to …..”

To fulfil the damn Law School requirement of undergoing a compulsory tutelage at a Law Firm.

Folayemi decided against going with that thought. Instead, she answered thus, “we are here to contribute our quota to the development of law practice in our beloved country by fulfilling every tasks we are assigned. I believe in the process of doing this, we will also contribute to the growth of this firm.”

Her response sounded more like a quote from a textbook than a spontaneous reaction, but it appeared to have made an impression on her colleagues and the young man in denim pants, who all nodded in agreement.

“Quite impressive,” the young man said. “But that is the wrong answer.”

There was silence in the conference room.

“You all are here to make money for this firm,” the young man continued. “I believe by now you all know OakTree is not the conventional law firm around. Heck. We are not a law firm. We are mercenaries, soldiers, combatants, super heroes…. We fight to the death for our clients. We never take no for an answer. We fight dirty, we fight bloody.”

He paused to take a sip of water from a glass.

“Do you know our type of clients?” he asked the now more attentive audience. Then he pointed to a young man in striped suit. “You, tell us.”

The law student stood up and before he could speak, he was asked to return to his seat.

“You don’t need to get up to answer a simple question,” the young man in denim pants advised. “That’s the problem with our educational system – you guys are human robots: you were raised to know certain rules and you are expected to respond accordingly. Right here at OakTree, we act differently. In due course, we shall break you guys down and re-assemble you.” He heaved, then continued, “Now, to my question. What type of clients do we handle here?”

The law student stuttered, “Past Presidents…ummm… Senators, Ministers, Commissioners – I mean, Politicians generally,…Ummm, oil companies… multinational corporations, banks…”

“Stop,” the young man in denim jeans interrupted. “Right here at OakTree, we deal with looters, murderers, high calibre thieves, fraudsters, prostitutes, paedophiles, rapists, ritualists, cyber hackers, cultists, drug dealers, militants – basically, the scumbags of the earth.”

A wave a shock swirled around the room at this point. The law students, in all their innocence, looked shell-shocked at the revelation. They could barely believe the sort of practise they would have to put up with in the course of the attachment programme.

The young man in denim jeans sensed the tension and decided to cut through their consciousness with a clap.

“I know what you all must be thinking at this point,” he said and stopped clapping. “But really, that is not the case. We are not damned. To the contrary, we are fulfilling the gospel which is to give hope to the hopeless. Everyone deserves a second chance. Yes, some do get third, fourth, fifth chances…” he shrugged. “Humanity deserves that, for its own sake. No one deserves to be condemned. The good Lord would not permit that.” He paused, strolled over to a close-by bookshelf and pulled out a small book. “This,” he said in a deep assuring voice “is the Bible.” Then he flipped through the pages of the book and read out, “You have heard that it was said, “love your neighbour and hate your enemy.” But I tell you: love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, if you love those who love you, what reward will you get? Are not even the tax collectors doing that?” He stopped abruptly. “These are the words of Jesus Christ in Matthew five versus forty three to forty six. They are not my words.”

“Sir, I thought you said we are here to make money,” another member of the audience said cheekily.

“Oh yes. This class of people – the murders, fraudsters and looters – always pay through their noses, if you know what I mean.”

The young man in denim pants went on about how serving this class of people was also a fulfilment of the law and the expectations of the firm from the law students on attachment. He also took them on a tour of the office complex, which is an eleven storey building, introducing the students to the different departments within the firm, the lawyers, paralegals and the office appurtenances. The law students were thrilled and fascinated at the massiveness of the structure and its organisation. They walked in twos and kept engaging in chitchats amongst themselves as they paraded the corridors and hallways.

Folayemi walked behind the group, alone. She was never the social type. Back at the law school campus, she was never known to have any particular “best friend”. She never had any friends. Everyone was an acquaintance. This lifestyle earned her the title “snub” but she was not a snub. At least, she did not think herself so.

At this point, a male colleague walking in front of her started backtracking so he could be on the same walking pace as her.

“Isn’t this awesome?” he whispered.

“Ummm, I guess,” Folayemi retorted, not wanting to be distracted from the tour.

“I don’t mean the building,” her counterpart chipped in. “I mean the practice.”

Folayemi shrugged and shook her head. She was not in the mood for a chitchat.

“I mean, we get to represent drug dealers, murderers, prostitutes…Prostitutes?” Folayemi’s partner continued. She stole a quick glance at him for the first time. He was the law student in striped suit who had answered the question of the man in denim pants. There was so much glee spread across his face.

“And how is that fun?” she asked.

“Fun? It’s fascinating!” he almost yelled. “I mean, criminal law has always been my thing right from university – I graduated from the Great Ife by the way – I won the LAWSA award for best student in criminal law…. My project was centred around the practise of sorcery in traditional Nigerian society and its legal implications…. I could make a copy of my project for you if you care…”

“Oh, never mind.”

“My dad is a lawyer. He practices in Abuja…”

“Uh, yeah,” Folayemi said curtly, wanting to put an end to her colleague’s unsolicited chat.

“I decided not to do my attachment with my dad because…”

Just before Folayemi’s partner could complete his statement, the man in denim pants announced, “Welcome to your office.”

Folayemi looked around. They were in an oval-shaped office which housed a set of neatly arranged cubicles. The cubicles were numbered from one to ten. The office wall was white and spotless with a number of bookshelves standing against it. Split unit air conditioners clung, attached to the glittering emerald roofs, pouring their chilly breeze into yawning space. About six large-screen muted plasma televisions were strategically mounted across the room.

“These cubicles shall be your offices for the duration of your attachment programme,” the man in denim pants said. “But trust me, you will hardly sit in them as you will either be in the library or on the field, saving sinners,” he said with a wry smile. “You can use your intercoms to reach whichever lawyer or personnel,” he said, pointing to an intercom close by. “Each desk has one of thes…”

Just before he could complete his words, the intercom he was pointing at, buzzed. He picked it.

“Hello?” he said.

The law students examined the cubicles as he attended to the call. Then, one after the other, they scurried to pick choice seats. Folayemi waited until the kamikaze rush was over. Then she strolled to the only cubicle left unoccupied. It was cubicle Number Ten and it was stationed close to a wall of transparent glass which revealed the outside environment. She could see the Lagos-Ibadan Expressway, as well as the little CMD road from where she sat. She also spotted a few peasants plying petty trades by the road side.

“Murder? When?” the man in denim pants asked. “Which station?…. Okay. I’m on it.”

With those words, he replaced the intercom handle.

“Okay, listen up guys. Here is how we roll,” he said. “One of you shall be voted to be your Group Head. He or she will be responsible for interfacing with the Practice Manager on behalf of the whole group.” He paused. “For now, I need you and you to come with me now,” he said, pointing at Folayemi and the male law student in striped suit.

The three figures walked out of the oval-shaped office, heading out to solve yet another mystery case.

 

Saving Okon

iq-khampha-kenh14--03a-3178aOkon burst into the small room with grave expressions of disappointment and sadness sitting across his little face. Mama Okon and Papa Okon were seated on the old, worn-out sofa in the middle of the room when he came in.

Today was the end of the first term at school when report cards were distributed. Okon had come last but one in a class of fifty two students the previous term. He has always come last but one every term. Mama Okon and Papa Okon had threatened to disown him if he came last but one this term.

When they saw the expressions of sorrow on his face when he burst into the room, they knew it had happened again. Papa Okon slowly rolled the big morsel of fufu in his hand, his mouth agape, as he stared at his unintelligent son.

Okon walked to a seat and sat, unperturbed by the presence of his parents. His big school bag clung to his back like that of a soldier in the battlefield. He kept breathing heavily and bowed his head in defeat.

“What happened this time?” Mama Okon asked reluctantly. She already knew the answer.

“I failed,” Okon whispered in shame. “I failed the challenge.”

Papa Okon slowly got up from his seat and like a predator bidding his time as he awaits his prey in the jungle, he carefully scanned the small room for his belt. He was going to beat the devil of failure out of his son today.

“What do you mean you failed the challenge?” Mama Okon asked.

“Akpanobong, my friend, challenged me to donate N1,500 to him today,” Okon answered. “He said the N1,500 was for charity and if I did not have the money, I would have to bath ice water.”

Mama and Papa Okon looked at their son, confused. What the devil was this blockhead of a child saying?

“Mama, you know how much I hate ice water,” Okon continued. “I have to give Akpanobong the N1,500.”

Nsi nam eyenem?!” Papa Okon barked in Ibibio. “What is wrong with this boy?! What was your position in school my friend?!”

“Papa, I …. I did not fail,” Okon said nonchalantly as he shook his head. “That is not the problem, Papa. I need the N1,500.”

Papa Okon looked startlingly at his son. Was this boy taking him for a joke?

“Okon, so me and you are now mates that you can lie to me about your result in school and then demand money on top?” Papa Okon said. “Nno belt ado,” Papa Okon said to Mama Okon, pointing to his belt which hung by the arm of the sofa. He intermittently twisted and stretched the leather belt as he approached Okon.

Okon tried to reach for his report card as quickly as he could, but it was too late. Avalanches of whips landed on his head, back, arms and every other exposed part of his body.

Sio iceblock ke fridge di!!!!!” Papa Okon screamed at his wife.

Mama Okon returned with bowls of iced blocks. She could not dissuade her husband from beating their son. The boy was simply too stupid academically and needed this kind of treatment to awake his brain. Papa Okon collected the bowls, smashed them into bits and rained the iced blocks on his son.

Ayom N1500? Unam ikot ke ado!” he kept cursing as he flogged his son.

After about fifteen minutes of intense “treatment”, Okon lay on the floor, bleeding and panting for air. By now, he had succeeded in retrieving his report card from his bag. It lay in a pool of his blood. Papa Okon pick up the report card, flapped it and flipped to this term’s column. Okon had come first.

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#Classic: Kill Me Before I Die*

This is an old post I published sometime in 2012.

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black-man-upsetWhat is the worst thing that could happen to a man? Losing a mega contract? Getting ditched on the eve of your wedding? Being caught in the act?
I think the worst thing that could happen to a man is going to sleep, on the wrong side of the bed. Relax. Don’t get me wrong. Any of the above would pass. But to put things in perspective, if you go to bed with any of them in mind, you definitely would be going to sleep, on the wrong side of the bed. And when you wake up the next day – anything you do, touch or say would be a mess, because you definitely would be waking up on the wrong side of the bed as well.
I recently happened to find myself in that annoying spot – going to bed on the wrong side of it. The night in question was supposed to be a unique one. Sandra, a girl i had been wooing for some time had just got into town and i was determined to give her a treat. The treat – i gave her; i took her shopping; and then we went to the beach; we followed that up with having a walk before we finally rounded up the night at the movies. As i drove her home, we talked about stuffs. Well, she did most of the talking – she kept blushing about the movie we had just seen, the clothes and accessories i bought her earlier in the day, my nice heart, how handsome i still looked….blah blah blah. All the while, i waited patiently for her to get to the part where she would give me her decision on my proposal – was she ready to be my boo? She never did.
We got to her parents’ house, alighted from the car and i walked her to the gate. I was determined not to lose two things that same night – her decision and a good night kiss (at least for a job well done – the treat). So i placed one hand on the wall, using the other to stroke her hair.
“So you are not going to even give me a good night kiss?” I said, trying to act cool even though i was desperate for it.
She smiled and pulled my hand away from her hair.
“Dear, you know i…i can’t do that – atleast, not at this stage. I know we are getting too involved by the day, but i still need some time to figure out what we are getting ourselves into,” she said, looking at me with her dreary, innocent eyes.
The atmosphere was becoming tense and i needed to diffuse it.
“I know why you can’t kiss me,” I said.
Surprised, she asked “Why?”
I made for her ear and whispered, “Because your dad is a Pastor?”
She burst out laughing.
“Ah ah, no nah,” she said. “My dad is a Pastor quite alright and yes, he would kill me if he knew a boy brought me home – but no, he is not the reason i won’t kiss you….”
We both laughed at my joke and i kept teasing her – even begging her, hoping she would let her guards down. I really needed that kiss. The teasing and begging continued for another twenty minutes. I had got her in the position i wanted. Her back was against the gate as she faced me; my left hand was on the wall while my right hand continually made for her hair.
I was getting there. She was beginning to trip – even though she claimed she didn’t like what we were about doing. Our lips were getting closer. And then, i heard a clang at the gate as it swung open.
The silhouette of a big man occupied the gate entrance. Sandra immediately swung around.
“Dad?” she gasped.
An avalanche of ice immediately trickled down my spine and my legs started trembling terribly. I searched for composure but lo and behold, it was as far away from me as the heavens is from the earth. My mouth immediately grew dry as i searched for words; my heart pounded like it would tear out.
Then i heard the man bark, “Sandy, whether you kiss him or not is your problem! Just tell this…this…this son of man to get his hands off my intercom! We all have been listening to you two in the parlour! My pastors, elders, deacons, ushers, choristers…everyone! Fulfil your immoral act and make your presence available!”
Without saying a word to me, her dad slammed the gate and stormed away. I stood, deep-rooted to the ground, hoping it would just open and swallow me up. But how impossible – and stupid was my wish! Now, there was no chance I was going to get that kiss anymore and worse still, I may have put the girl i cared about in some deep shit. I knew i was going to bed on the wrong side of it – and i knew the next day would be hell.

*Fiction. Adapted from a joke.

 

Photo credit: Single Black Male

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Amicus Curiae 1: Ambulance Chaser

Yayy! It’s finally Friday and here is the first episode of my new series, Amicus Curiae. If you did not read yesterday’s teaser, you can do that here before proceeding to read this episode one. The teaser sets the tone for Episode one. More like a prologue…. Episode two will be posted next week Friday. Let me know what you think of this episode in the comment column below. Happy Weekend, people!

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AMBULANCE CHASER

 

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Folayemi alighted from the rickshaw in haste when it got to Magodo Brooks gate. Today was the first day of the Chambers Attachment – a compulsory programme on the Nigeria Law School calendar – and she was already late. The words of her mother whizzed into her head:

“A good bride must be diligent in all she does.”

These words of her mother – now, more of a proverb – have been used in a plethora of situations – instructional, correctional, motivational and directional. Whenever Folayemi fell short of an expectation, her mother would use the words to caution her – as she would a bride – and whenever she exceeded an expectation, her mother would also use the same cliché as an affirmation of what would be expected of her in marriage. There was no limit to whatever situation the cliché could be applied Continue reading

#NewSeriesAlert: Amicus Curiae

So I have been on vacation in the past month and I used that period to make a strong resolution to start a new series. If you are a regular visitor to my blog, you’ll know  by now that I don’t really write series. It’s such a daunting task. I would rather post a short story and call it a day. Or week. I give it to bloggers like Tomi Adesina and the grand Master, Lord Tunde Leye (though he has stopped now) who post on the regular! Lord Tunde has kinda taken a sabbatical at the moment…

So I have resolved to start this new series titled “Amicus Curiae”. It will be posted every Friday, starting from tomorrow. Here is a teaser subtitled “The Wages of Sin”. Give it a read and let me know what you think in the comment box below. Gracias!

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THE WAGES OF SIN

Civic Centre, Lagos www.haroldwrites.wordpress.comIt happened the night before. Bamidele Odusote had just returned from a business seminar organised by the Lagos State Ministry of Commerce at the Civic Centre along Ozumba Mbadiwe road, Victoria Island. Being a young, successful entrepreneur and chairman/C.E.O of Bamz Holdings, a billion naira annual revenue conglomerate that has investments in many facets of the country’s economic ecosystem ranging from oil and gas to manufacturing and energy distribution, Bamidele was invited to speak to young budding entrepreneurs on the myths and realities of operating a successful business enterprise in a difficult ecosystem as Nigeria. He had kept his message precise and straight to the point. He was very critical of the Federal Government for failing to provide enabling environment for small scale businesses to thrive. He was also critical of commercial banks operating in the country for exploiting local business owners.

“The banking system has failed us as well,” he said. “Our banks would give a six percent interest rate to foreign investors who take their loans – and this, they would do without requesting for any security, but would slam a gargantuan twenty-six percent interest rate on local companies who apply for the same credit facility. And of course, collaterals must be provided.”

Bamidele Odusote also blamed local entrepreneurs for being ignorant of certain investment incentives which abound. Then, he went ahead to briefly lecture the crowd on the Pioneer Status Certificate issued to local businessmen who invest in certain business areas.

Jaguar F-Type S at www.haroldwrites.wordpress.com

As soon as he was done with the lecture, Bamidele scampered out of the hall, rushed to his Jaguar F-Type S in the parking lot and drove out of the Civic Centre, heading straight to Club Uno at Adetokunbo Ademola street. He had a date with Bimbo. They had gone three weeks without speaking to each other after she found the nude picture of another girl on his phone. He wanted to make everything right tonight.

E1sXz8P24uPDh2ZqVMQcpN9SJust as he was approaching the gate of the club, he perceived a foul smell oozing from the backseat of his car. He kept driving but the smell became stronger. Then he heard a movement behind him. Bamidele knew he was the only one in the car, so his blood froze for a millisecond. He turned on the inner light of the car and looked into his rearview mirror. The car was dimly lit, but he could spot an object on the backseat of his car. It appeared to be a wrapped polythene bag. With his left hand on the steering, Bamidele reached for the object behind him with his right. The bag seemed to contain some pieces of something firm. At this point, the foul smell in the car had increased. The air now smelled of dead meat.

Bamidele, with dollops of sweat trickling down his face, drove into the parking lot of Club Uno and jolted his car to a stop. He turned around and reached for the bag which emitted foul odour in his car. As he pulled the bag open, the battered, disfigured face of a human rolled out and dropped to the floor of the car. It was the chopped head of Bimbo. At this point, Bamidele could almost feel his heart stop beating. He pushed the bag away as he took short breaths. The weight of his own head grew too heavy for his neck as he felt sharp pangs of pain biting into his skull.

Oh God, Oh God, he gasped.

Red liquid trickled out of the now agape polythene bag, onto the footmat of his car. Bamidele felt his stomach churn in disgust, then vomited at the sickening sight and smell around him. He sat on his seat, shell-shocked for a couple of seconds, trying to come to terms with reality. Then he heard a knock on the pane of his glass window. He threw a quick look at two figures standing by the side of his car. They were not the club’s bodyguards. They were men in uniform. As he lowered his window, the closest of the men to him pointed a card at him and uttered some words Bamidele could barely hear. The man opened Bamidele’s car, pulled him out and placed a cuff around his wrists. Bamidele could hardly fight back. He could hardly breathe.

 

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James Hadley Chase vs. Mario Puzo

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I’m currently on vacation and I had reason to visit my library. Guess what I unearthed? Don James Hadley Chase’ books. I can’t begin to explain what role JHC played in my reading habit.

I wasn’t always a reading freak. I hated books. School literature bored me to death. One faithful day in Junior Secondary School,  a friend gave me a “pamphlet” novel with the title The Vulture is a Patient Bird by James Hadley Chase.  I was amazed how intriguing and interesting I found the book. That was the beginning of my voyage into crime/thriller/detective novels.  I enjoyed the book so much that I started hunting for other JHC’s books. And over the years,  I have read quite a handful of his books.

Having enjoyed JHC books, I ventured into – or should I say, I was introduced to Mario Puzo’s The Godfather. And boy! Did I enjoy another work of literature!

Till date, I still think both writers are my favourite crime writers. There’s been this debate amongst my circle of “literature friends” who between James Hadley Chase and Mario Puzo is better. Many have voted against JHC just because his books are usually small. I don’t think this is a good criteria for judging the writer. In fact, if anything,  the fact that he tells  fascinating plots in such few pages should be a credit to him. The suspense in JHC books is always riveting to say the least. I have only been disappointed by just one of JHC and that was “Knock Knock! Who’s there”. There was no twist to the end of that book, which is a stand out characteristic of every JHC’s work. It ended like a typical Nollywood ‘blockbuster’ – you expected the end.

Well, I have also been disappointed by one of Mario Puzo’s works too. And that was the book “The Last Don”. I know you might have a different opinion, but that book didn’t go down too well with me. Maybe it’s because it was his next work I read after The Godfather. Maybe I was expecting so much more after the treat I got from The Godfather. Humans are quite insatiable, I tell you!

Whew! Which of the two authors is your favourite?

My Romantic Rules of Engagement for a hitch-free World Cup Season.

My love,

It is with great pleasure and a deep sense of responsibility that I write you this letter. I trust your night was awesome. I am sorry I could not make it home last night. I could say that I was working overnight in the office, but you would know I am lying. I was re-scheduling my diary for the next one month. That brings me to why I am writing this heart-felt letter.

As you already know, the World Cup starts today. Yes, the one I have been talking about in the last few weeks. Baby, isn’t this exciting?! The World Cup actually starts today! Whew! So I have written down a few understandings you and I will have during this period. I know you love me and you’ll do anything for me, right? Remember how I stood by you and endured you during the BBA last year? Yeah baby. This is my BBA and I expect you to stand by me. You will stand by me, baby. Right? Right.
So, here we go:

dv18190401. If you call my line twice and I don’t pick, don’t call it the third time. I am not dead. I am watching a game. And oh, don’t expect me to return your call immediately. I am watching a game. If you call me the third time, baby, I will block your number. I love you.

2. If I don’t return home on time or if I don’t return home at all, no baby, I have not been kidnapped. I am watching a game at a sports bar or I must have crashed at a friend’s place after watching the game. Please don’t ping me incessantly, asking if I’m safe. I will delete you with love.

3. We can’t attend any parties or events on Saturdays. My Saturdays have been fully booked. I will be working overtime at my friends’ place. Don’t call my friends to confirm. They have my instruction to block your number.

4. If I return home on time, the only chats we’ll be having will be football-related. No, don’t tell me what the Landlady did. Or what your boss said to you at work. Unless he said something about football. Baby, you know the world has been clamouring for gender equality? I have come to agree with these clamours. During the next one month, you can take charge of everything in this house – fix whatever is broken, give the house a make-over, pay the bills, empty the trash can, arrange for Baba Tobi to come and fix the plumbing works, take your car to the mechanic workshop…and mine too, do the garden etc etc. Don’t discuss with me before taking any decision. I love you and I know you can handle stuff by yourself.

 

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5. The sitting room and its ‘hereditaments’ belong to me for the next one month. I have ordered for a new TV to be placed in the bedroom. Baby, you can have it all to yourself. I love you that much. Just don’t tamper with the sitting room TV or the DSTV decorder/remote. If you must visit me in the sitting room, kindly enter and leave without a hush, like the proverbial thief in the night. I must not hear your footsteps. I mean it.

6. No. Your friends can’t come visiting during that period. Unless they are male friends, then they have my blessings. And when they come, they’ll be restricted to the sitting room. If I sight a female friend walk into the compound, I will accidentally feed Bruno, our dog with beans and dry gin and I will thereafter, accidentally release him. And he will accidentally bite her.

 

food

7. This will be our food roster for the next one month:

Breakfast: Any food you decide to prepare.
Lunch: Don’t worry, bae. I’ll be fine.
Dinner: See Lunch above.

8. You will support any team I support. We have always had things in common, right? It must remain that way this next 30 days. If you scream the name of a team I don’t support, even by mistake, you are moving out of the house. I am not joking.

sad black guy

9. If my team loses and I feel bad, you must feel bad with me. If I laugh, you must laugh with me. If I’m pissed at a Ref, you must be pissed at that Ref. Anything short of this, then the house-keeping money for next month will be short too. And our planned vacation to Dubai during the hols will be cancelled indefinitely. Baby, don’t test me.

productivity-sticky-notes

10. I bought a sticker note and a pen. This will be our mode of communicating during the next 30 days whenever I’m not at work. Tell/ask me whatever you want to on the sticker notes. However, you are only restricted to use one page per day. And I reserve the right to reply in whatever manner, language or abbreviation I want. If I write “K” it means “K” and “end of that discussion.” If I write “No” it means “think of another option and execute it without involving me any further.” If I write “LMFAO” and I keep the straightest of faces, baby, ni tori Olorun, joor keep away from me for at least two days.

Baby, I hope the foregoing is sufficient to ensure we have a smooth relationship this next 30 days. You know I have listening ears? So, I am open to any reservations you may have about any of the foregoing terms and conditions.

Kindly document your reservations in the box below.

comment box

 

 

Love,
Harold.