THE NAKED TRUTH

THE NAKED TRUTH

We are not born with a shame of nudity. It is something we learn to conform and operate in human society. Animals are naked, even though some have furs, scales and feathers, but human beings are ashamed of being naked. We perceive it as a bad thing and avoid it. Society prohibits it.

Interviews are often nerve-wracking experiences but my most memorable and comfortable job interview was when I wore my birthday suit. I probably should have more interviews in the buff. I was relaxed and open during the entire session. I had sent a job application to a company and completed an online profile questionnaire. I was told to expect their call at any moment. In anticipation of this call, I went everywhere with my phone including the bathroom.

It was a Tuesday morning when the call came. I was having a shower and covered in soap suds when my phone started ringing. I immediately recognized the phone number. There was no time to rinse off the soap bubbles and towel-dry. I stepped out of the shower at full tilt and picked the call. The recruiting agent introduced himself and we exchanged preliminary greetings. I was without a stitch and water dripped down my unclad body. He gave me the lowdown on the role and how the company operates. I didn’t think it necessary to mention that I was stark-naked.

Recruiter: Is this a good time for you to have a formal interview? I’d like to ask you some quick questions based on the résumé you submitted.
Me: Absolutely. Go ahead.

I didn’t feel vulnerable in the raw. I was actually divested of any clothing discomfort. There couldn’t have been a better time.

Recruiter: Tell me about yourself.
He asked and so I unveiled myself to him bare-skinned. I got the job.

BLURRED LINES

 

BLURRED LINES

 

I began to hate Judith when she turned fifteen and grew breasts the size of watermelons. She is now eighteen and dashes about the tenement house in skimpy clothes. She talks loud in their single-room apartment so everyone can be tormented by the sound of her shrill, teenage voice. A cloud of bewitching fragrance follows in her wake when she walks down the passage.

 

Judith is my co-tenant’s daughter in our face-me-I-face-you apartment building. A housing system in which single rooms are built in two rows with a passage in-between that leads to the back of the house. Amenities like the kitchen and bathrooms are communal and located at the rear of the building.

 

The only child of her single mother, Judith draws the attention of the male gaze in the compound. The men whistle at her firm backside and seem disoriented by her coquettish charm. I am convinced the slip of a girl is trying to seduce my husband. Nobody else sees anything wrong when she gives him effusive welcome greetings as he comes back from the office.  

 

Welcome, sir. Good evening, sir. How was work, sir?

 

His eyes linger on her provocative hips for far too long, all the while grinning like an idiot. Judith genuflects to greet him in low cut revealing tops. Teasing my husband with her lovely, perky breasts. Her garish hair and makeup belie the childlike innocence of the teenager. 

 

The final straw was the dream I had last night. The power to dream lucid dreams that foretell the future is not given to everyone. With great power comes great responsibility. I must therefore act now and decisively too.

 

In the dream, Judith kissed my husband as they embraced under the shade of a mango tree. She stood tall with long black hair, round face, dimpled cheeks, pretty smile, and perfectly shaped eyebrows. Her black, body-hugging top, which clung to her body like a second skin, showed off her ample bust. It was slutty fashion as far as I was concerned. Brothel style. She had both arms around his neck and crushed her voluptuous bosom against him. She only broke away when my shadow fell across them. As soon as she saw me, her greeting formed, but I choked it off before it could depart her lips. My face a gathering of nimbus clouds.

 

A hot searing pain went through my heart. It robbed me of my breath for some seconds. Sometimes in life we are sorely tested. I showed my clean palms to the clear blue sky; silent witness to this affront.

 

In my dream, she eventually stole my man and took over my matrimonial home. Heaven knows I won’t allow this happen in reality. In the physical realm, I knew I had to be one step ahead of my foe. That’s the reason I got a bottle of acid this morning. I wait for the wench in the passage with a predator's patience. I hum and pretend to adjust our white linen door curtain. As soon as she steps out of their room, smiling as usual like a demon from hell, I’d whip out the acid and douse her with it. Then watch her beautiful skin burn and melt before my eyes.

My First Formal Interview

My First Formal Interview

 

It was my first formal interview after graduation. I had done my research on the company. I knew their products and services like I knew the words of my favorite song. I got there early and sat in the waiting hall for about an hour.

The three interviewers in the interrogation room wore formal dark suits. They introduced themselves, talked a bit about the institution, asked me a few polite ‘hope you had no trouble parking’ questions and then launched straight into it. I was well-groomed and gave everyone a firm handshake. I sat up straight, shoulders back, head high. I maintained eye contact during the entire process. I don’t think I even blinked. In hindsight, that must have come across as weird. My expensive cologne was, however, my masterstroke. They may not have seen me coming but they certainly could smell my presence.  

Thirty minutes of grueling interview by the panel of three, including the branch manager, and I was looking good — if I do say so myself. The branch manager was in his late forties and looked ex-military. He fired a salvo of questions like rapid machine gun fire and I waltzed through them. Then he got a dark glint in his eye and pulled out his big gun. As they say, all good things must come to an end.

“Here,” he said, giving me sheets of paper, glue and scissors. “Can you make us animals out of paper shapes? Show us an elephant and a lion.”

“Are you kidding me?” I thought.  I had a feeling it was a trick question. “I don’t know how to make animals out of paper shapes.” I said.

Two minutes ago, I was doing so fine. I felt a film of sweat on my forehead. My hands trembled, my confidence dipped and I felt my panic levels rise. The manager shook his head and gave me that “You don’t look like you can work in this organization” facial expression. 

I veered off the good road and went over the embankment. My confidence level hit rock bottom. I stumbled on every other question after that. I even lost my voice and asked for a drink of water. It was pathetic.

At the end of the drill, the manager shook hands with me, thanked me, said the traditional they would "be in touch." I constantly replayed every minute of the interview session over and over in my mind. The paper shapes question threw me out of kilter for the rest of the interview. My interviewers had worked the latch, pushed the door open, and shoved me back into the labor market.

Can You Read Minds?

Can You Read Minds?

I still need to hone my mind-reading skills. To peer into the mind of others, one needs to understand the meaning of their words and monitor the tone and cadence of speech. Facial expression and body language are also important. However, our minds often filters such information through our biases and we can miss the cues completely.

I was hiking on a trail recently. It worked its way through the trees offering beautiful views along the way of a large lake. The winding trail and trees prevented me from seeing the young couple ahead of me, but I could hear their laughter and interesting dialogue. Their conversation had sexual undertones flashing like a neon sign all over it.

Her: Why do you have such a small one?

Him: It's not the size that matters...

Her: That's some consolation. It won't last more than two minutes and you know it.

Him: That depends on the weather, doesn’t it?

Her: (laughing) What's the weather got to do with anything?

Him: We tend to drink more water when the weather is hot.

I hurried up the trail and came upon the pair. They were part of a hiking party and were talking about his small, plastic water bottle. Whatever undertone I had earlier sensed from the components of their conversation was a figment of my own imagination.

 

Surprise Me!

Surprise Me!

 

I visited Morocco in 2011. I heard it was a beautiful country with a rich culture and history. I looked forward to the desert tours on camels trekking through the dunes. I was open to adventure and not drawn to any one particular tourist attraction.

 

After a few minutes staring at the map of prospective sites, I said to my private tour guide, “Surprise me!"

 

"Sir, you want to see the Atlas Mountain, Ouzoud falls, or the Marrakech museum? We also have the Draa Valley and Bahia Palace. But there's no such place as “Surprise Me” in Morocco," he said.

 

I told him to take me to his favorite places then. “Surprise Me” was probably still under construction.

HIGH MAINTENANCE

HIGH MAINTENANCE

 

It was our first date after we met online and developed a mutual spark. We agreed to have dinner and watch a movie. She picked the movie and I chose the restaurant. I don’t remember her name now. But she had jaw-dropping beauty, a contagious smile and engaging wit.

 

We met at the bustling and sprawling City Mall. A tight, black mini dress accentuated her curves in all the right places. Her mahogany skin shone like lacquer. She wore a pretty and sparkly diamond necklace with a heart-shaped pendant. I couldn't help but stare like a fool. The sunlight struck the facets of the pendant and a prism of rainbows enveloped us where we stood. A picture-perfect ambience for a first date.

 

We were the cynosure of all eyes. She held onto my arm and we went into the state-of-the-art multi-screen cinema at about 7pm. I don't remember much about the movie plot. Things got awkward as soon as we plonked down in our seats.

 

She was sandwiched between me and an overweight, bearded gentleman in the aisle seat. He was an older man with glasses and grey hair. I had no issue with the beard or his waistline, but I don't like rude movie talkers. People who run live commentaries. My date and the portly gentleman struck up a conversation and gave us loud unsolicited opinions about the movie. She'd lean into him, touch his arm and say something about the plot. He'd break out in uncontrollable laughter with his hand on her thigh or placed across her shoulders. He was probably old enough to be her grandfather. She didn’t seem to mind the wandering hand. Their talk went on and on, and on, and on like an annoying alarm that has no off switch or snooze button. It was not cool at all. They drew angry glares, but I don’t think they even noticed. I chomped on my popcorn and watched the big screen with all the enthusiasm of a deflated balloon. My bright red balloon had become a sad scrap of rubber. 

 

We walked out of the theatre and she reached out and held my hand. Grandpa stood nearby at the ticket stand, watching us and stroking his beard. I glowered at him and he slunk away. His enormous belly quivered as he navigated his way.

"He's going the other way," I told her.

"Who?"

''Your friend with the beard." 

She smiled and gave me an apologetic look, but my face was sour, stern and disapproving. I said nothing more to her until we got to the restaurant. The expensive Chinese restaurant served great food and was located at the crowded food court of the mall. She was excited as we perused the menu and placed our orders. I wanted a plate of sizzling beef with black bean. She ordered spring rolls, chicken feet, spare ribs, egg tarts, black truffle dumplings, rice noodles, jelly fish and fried cod. Her meal was heaped on three plates. She almost cried in anticipation of the food. 

"You must be really hungry," I remarked.

She nodded. "I'm famished." 

The portions seemed too big for one person. But then, the long running commentary with the portly gentleman was exhausting work and she needed to replenish her energy. 

 

She called the waiter and placed orders for takeaways. I realized this was greed, not actual hunger. The vibes were troubling. 

“I have a roommate. She must be really hungry now,” she said at my raised eyebrow.

 

At the end of the long evening, we walked to my car at the parking lot. I had called a cab for her. We were headed in opposite directions and she had three takeaway bags.

"I'd need some money from you,” she said. Her bags were on the hood of my black SUV as we waited for her Uber ride.

"Money for the cab? Don't worry. I will take care of it."

"Not just for the cab," she replied and reached in her purse. She took out a folded slip of paper. It had a list of items and she started reading in a monotone. She needed money for her house rent, new wardrobe, eye surgery, dental work...

 

Her voice was like knives in my eardrum and caused me physical agony. As she continued reading, I glanced around the parking lot. Where was portly grandpa when you needed him to collect his new girlfriend? He probably wasn't with us anymore. 

LIVING WITH TODDLERS

LIVING WITH TODDLERS

What do you do when you meet people and your hand has an intense physical or emotional attraction to their face? You run up to them and touch or caress their face, of course. Ehm, that’s only if you’re a cute three-year-old. If an adult explores such an attraction, a backhand slap with the palm imprinted on your face is the likely outcome. Kids. You’ve gotta love ’em. Adorable little munchkins. They can run up to complete strangers and reveal family secrets. They say the silliest things and embarrass their parents to no end. Impatient, cute and cuddly little people. That’s why I’m writing this with a red and puffy right eye.

A three-year-old boy flung out his hand and struck me in the face as we played. It doesn’t matter if the person who hit your eye is a cute toddler. It still hurts. Especially if the child strikes hard, like a pestle hitting a mortar. My right eye was the unfortunate mortar and got a good pounding. I thought the accidental meeting of hand and face was going to be quickly forgotten. But, like most flings, it had serious consequences. I probably rubbed the eye too hard.

I woke up the next morning and my eyelids were stuck together by a sticky coat of pus. The swollen eye looked like it got impregnated from the affair with the striking hand. When I finally pried it open with my fingers, which I worked like a pair of pliers, it looked irritated. Flings are temporary but their effects can linger. 

My right eye, when it was not red-rimmed, was part of my identity and so I now faced an identity crisis. I could not recognize this person in the mirror staring back at me. I also realized my eyebrows had grown wild and unruly. A WTF (Wild Terrifying Fling) moment if ever there was one. I had an important presentation to make that day.  I turned to the garden pruning shears (for taming the eyebrows) and an over-the-counter eye drop (for the red eye). I was hoping to restore my attractiveness or, at least, improve my appearance. It worked because there were no awkward questions about my eye affair during the presentation.

They will spill hot chocolate on your phone, strike your face with their hands, head-butt you during play (painful as hell), throw tantrums, and ruin your gadgets/furniture. Toddlers generally cause chaos in unimaginable big ways. All you can do, most times, is grit your teeth, smile and give them lollipops. You learn to take it in your stride. There’s no middle ground with them. You either learn the virtue of patience or they’ll drive you nuts.