I came to assist her usher in customers, as well as take them round the different sections of the huge boutique, the least I could do in the spirit of friendship.
Nevertheless, in as much as I was happy for her success, envy tinted my happiness. I mean, I’m only human, it’s natural I would be envious of her million Naira state-of-the-art boutique.
I watched some group of women milling around inspecting and ogling at the collection of different designer’s clothes and jewelries on display at the racks and show glasses, while they tried to make up their minds on what to purchase. By their elegant appearances, you would know these women were top notches in their various fields, the types that wear designers’ labels only.
Of course, a few among them came on the strength of the wallets of their rich male lovers or husbands. Like Stacy; a close friend of Latasha’s; she came with her lover, Boy George, who would most certainly pick up the bills for whatever purchases she made.
Another close friend of Latasha’s among the crowd was Annette Elle-Williams, who came with one important looking Alhaji, her man of the moment. She had them by the dozen, according to her; a woman ought to have several men in her life to fulfill her different desires and needs.
Then, there was Folashade Adekunle, another friend; she came with a man, but definitely not her husband; I reliably heard; her husband, who works with a multi-national company, was presently out of the country.
Then I looked at myself; who was I? An ordinary company accountant, I handled money; huge sums on daily basis, however, it only passed through my hands, never mine, my salary was just a paltry sum, barely enough to cover my basic needs, not to talk of buying the type of clothes on display here. The price tags on most of them made me shudder.
Amid all Latasha’s friends present, I considered myself an oddity because I did not measure up to their standards. They all had cars, jet in and out of the country as if it was just an ordinary trip from Abuja to the next State, when the farthest I ever ventured to was Lagos, for my brother’s wedding two years ago.
Yes, I envy them, especially Latasha – who we fondly call Sha-Sha. We were formerly neighbours and best friends struggling to survive in Abuja, until Annette introduced her to Senator Goke Garuba, who transformed her life overnight, and she metamorphosed, from the girl next door to a sophisticated and a successful businesswoman.
At the inception of that relationship, she received a brand new car and a Blackberry smart phone as birthday gifts from the Senator. Then within a space of four months, she moved out of our locality into a bigger and better apartment in another side of the neighbourhood. Today’s opening of her boutique was the icing on her fortune’s cake.
For me, life was still the same; dull and drab, nothing exciting, no landmark achievements, and no prince charming to sweep me off my feet, and take care of my emotional and financial well being. I still hop around in buses to work and back every day. I just managed to buy a Nokia torch phone in replacement of the one I lost two months ago.
But for Latasha, life was rosy; the shop for the boutique belongs to her; she bought it, with financial aid from the Senator. She had moved up the ladder of success, and with her clique of highly connected friends she had become a socialite and an influential woman within the Abuja business community.
Her exploits made me feel jealous and envious, not that she was more beautiful or more intelligent; though, there was no denying the fact she was smarter and more worldly-wise. Nevertheless, knowing these did not stop me from being envious, though a healthy one I tried to convince myself.
After the day’s event, Annette, Folashade, Stacy and her boyfriend Boy George, all drove to Latasha’s house for another round of celebratory drink.
Hmmm ... her house? Let’s not go there, because I was still trying so hard to slay that green-eyed monster called envy towards her acquisition of the property; a three-bedroom bungalow, fenced, with a spacious back yard she converted into a garden. A huge step-up from her former one room abode in my neighbourhood.
Since she moved into the house I have done nothing more than gawk at it with a tweak in my heart each time I visited her. She furnished it so exquisitely it spelt comfort and luxury with a capital letter. It wasn’t a day’s job though; there were signs and evidences of her numerous foreign trips, every time she traveled outside the country, she brought back beautiful tidbits, artifacts, ornaments and household items, which she had used to create enviable rooms in her house.
It was almost unbelievable she achieved all these within the space of four years; it felt like only yesterday that we slouched on a mattress in her small room to rub minds on how to get better jobs and improve our statuses in life. Today, she had certainly improved hers.
When all her other friends left two hours later, Latasha and I settled down to gist. It was a Saturday and most weekends I stay over in her house, though my house was not far from hers.
We were both resident in Lugbe area of Abuja, but she lives in Lugbe Housing Estate, a beautiful and well-planned suburb, with good road networks. While I live on the other side of it across the road, the side considered more or less a shantytown, where people build their houses haphazardly, without plan or approval, and where the roads are narrow and rough, and without even a splash of asphalt.
Moreover, for years now, we lived in constant fear of Government bulldozer, which the Federal Capital Territory Minister, has threatened to send to pull down every structure there. But, despite the threat, people buy land and build houses daily, while praying that dooms day would never come.
Since I would sleep over, when others left, I relaxed back with Sha-Sha; to share another bottle of wine and engaged in friendly gossip, I poured more wine into my glass, took a sip and exclaimed, “What a day!”
“Yes, what a good day,” Latasha concurred. “I thank God for the successful opening event. After months of planning, it’s over and now I can rest,” she lifted her wine glass, took a sip and sighed happily. “It wasn’t really easy.”
“I envy you oh,” I said, voicing out my feeling of the day. “You have finally arrived; you’re now one of Abuja big babes, with a classy boutique, a well-furnished house and a car to cruise around town. What else can a woman ask for?” I said with a smile that successfully edited out the envy from my voice. I did not want her to know how deeply envious I was.
Latasha laughed contentedly, “My dear this is just the beginning o, hmm; by the time my relationship with the Senator ends, I want to be a highly successful woman with a fat bank account and my own private property. In fact, buying a land in a choice location is my next target,” she finished in a conspiratorially low tone, as if suspecting somebody might be listening.
“Well, I wouldn’t say the Senator is not trying, when I look at what he has done for you over four years.”
“Yes he is; there is no contesting that. Within four years, my status has risen, even beyond my own imagination. However, that’s enough about me, how about you? If you’re ready to drop this ‘holier-than -thou’ attitude of yours, we can hook you up with one of those that matters in Abuja here.”
“No thanks.” I quickly answered.
“Come on Joy, get wise, with your Beyoncé figure and smashing looks, you can get any man you want; what you need is to move in the right circles, and with the right attitude. Be part of our clique and reap the benefits we’re all enjoying.”
“Thanks Sha-Sha, but let’s not argue over this again. I have told you severally, I don’t want to be the other woman in any man’s life.”
“Play Miss good manner and be frustrated in life. Look at you,” she paused, looked me up and down slowly. “For how long will you continue to struggle to live a decent life and buy yourself quality clothes?”
“Look, life isn’t all about wearing designer labels and moving in affluent circles,” I retorted.
“Oh, tell me what life is all about then?” She chuckled, fold her hands across her breast and looked at me expectantly.
I sighed and shook my head. When will she give up? I thought to myself.
It was an argument we always have each time we are together. But today, I was not in the mood to pursue it, so I simply told her, “If you really want to help me as a friend; tell the Senator to at least fix me up with a good paying Federal job, like in the DPR or NNPC. All it will cost him is a phone call. That’s how people get things done here in Abuja.”
“Hook a big fish and let him take care of your financial worries,” she told me instead.
I released a wearied sigh “Sha-Sha, we can’t all be as lucky as you; you’ve always had a way around men, which works for you.”
“Make an effort at least. You’re beautiful and intelligent, yet you choose to hide behind balance sheets and account reports. Life is not all about balancing accounts and writing financial statements.”
“O yah, life is about attending highbrow parties, wearing expensive clothes and jewelries.” I said with resignation.
“Yes baby, and about getting men, to grease the road, smooth the rough edges and then pamper you without the shackles of marriage.” She purred, looking at me with smiles.
“Good for you; for me, I want to fall in love and get married to a man of my dream and have a family of my own. I don’t want to share another woman’s husband,” I said firmly
“Love?” she laughed. “Okay, you can fall in love with an honourable or a D.G, or even a minister; governor, name it.”
“Yeah, I will just pluck them off the streets.”
“No, all you have to do is position yourself at the right places, move with the right people and it will happen.”
“That is another woman’s husband you’re talking about.” I pointed out.
“Your relationship with the man doesn’t affect the wife at home, so what’s your qualm?” She asked flippantly.
“I wish I could throw morals to the wind like that. I was brought up to eschew adultery.”
“Forget that moral bullshit and embrace real life. See, me, I can’t live in Abuja here; center of unity, and just be an onlooker; no way. I have to get my own share of the national or is it natural cake, whichever they choose to call it.”
“Which cake? Baked by whom?”
“Leave nomenclature and pun aside, let’s face facts; the fat salaries and humongous allowances our ‘honourables’ take home just for sitting down, making noise and fighting in the house, and then globetrotting, where does it come from?”
I looked blankly at her.
“From the nation’s purse of course, to which they made little or no contribution whatsoever. Then you and I, we work for 9 hours every day; multiply that by thirty days or one year; you’re the one with a head for figures; factor in the stress and the hard conditions. What do we get paid at the end? Peanuts! No girl! I’m not taking it any more. I have had enough of white-collar slavery called work. Senator Goke Garuba is my ticket to economic emancipation, and I’m holding onto him with both hands tightly; no moralizing on that.” She said with steam.
Her outburst stunned me into silence for a moment. I didn’t blame her though; the manner in which our elite classes spent money was so offensive, they spend it as if it were being minted in their bedrooms.
I remembered being in a supermarket one evening after work, cracking my brain on how to stretch the two thousand naira I had on me to buy what would see me through the weekend, when this little girl of about twenty years got down from a chauffeur-driven car, entered the supermarket and splurged 20k over inconsequential things.
I looked at her and thought to myself, that’s somebody’s take home pay for a month she just spent without batting an eyelid. She was a big man’s daughter; they said. That’s Naija for you; where monkey works and baboon rolls around in idle enjoyment.
