Chapter 1: Wahala Don Land

The new intern entered the office boasting, saying she was the number one Gen Z that would scatter everywhere and set the workplace straight.

You for see as she waka enter reception that morning, phone for hand, AirPods for ear, dey snap selfie as she dey wave upandan. Even receptionist Mama Sade dey cross herself, whisper say "wahala don land". Some people eye am like wetin dey worry this one, but she no send anybody. She even adjust her faux leather jacket, flash her nails and announce, “Abeg, una go soon hear word o!” E be like say she dey audition for Big Brother, no be office work she come do.

She cornered me, face full of seriousness, and just opened up about her feelings for me.

She bite her lip, look ground, then look me again like person wey dey fear NEPA bill. Her eyes shine like torchlight, serious no be small, and she even sidon close to me, reach to touch my sleeve like say we don dey gist before. Her voice drop to that kind soft tone Gen Z dey use when dem wan yarn secret. "Oga, make I talk true? I dey feel you." Na so my spirit begin do U-turn.

I turned her down gently, but before I fit even breathe, she brought out her phone—she had been recording everything—and started lamenting, “Now that I’ve told oga how I feel, will he, as una dey talk, come dey shame to give me work tomorrow?”

I just weak. My jaw drop. E shock me how bold she be, and the phone just dey record dey shine for my face. Some staff wey pass even pause, dey look as she dey do her drama. For my mind, na only prayer I dey pray—make this girl no use my destiny play TikTok challenge.

I just weak. Next day, I still gave her normal work, but she burst out in front of everybody, shouting that not only did I make her work during the day, but I also forced her to work at night—in bed, no less:

Omo, if you see as everybody turn look us for open-plan office. Even the AC no fit cool the wahala—everybody dey sweat small, dey shift chair. Some dey try hide laughter, some dey pretend say dem no hear. HR madam just dey write something for paper, but I see am dey record audio lowkey. I rub my forehead, ask God say, is this how my career will spoil for Lagos?

And all this for just one salary. According to her, I was the modern-day Mr. Okoli—the wicked boss wey dey use people anyhow.

Even the IT guy wey no dey talk begin send WhatsApp message under table, gist dey fly everywhere. Cleaner dey mop floor slow, but ear dey ground for gist. Dem dey call me Okoli behind back, say I be witch for office, wey dey oppress poor intern. I wan disappear.

She posted the video on WhatsApp status, and e just blow. Everywhere scatter. My wife saw it, vexed so much that she enter premature labour and bleed heavily. The company stock price crash reach ground level, and online people just finish me.

Before you fit say Jack Robinson, the video don reach blogs, my cousins from village dey call me, dey ask if I really be that kind boss. Twitter people dey drag me, Instagram dey roast me, and WhatsApp family group don turn family meeting ground. My wife, Adesuwa, wey I dey protect like egg, see am and her BP climb. E pain me.

When I open my eyes again, I see say I don land back on the first day wey Halima Musa join our company.

I blink, heart dey pound. Sun dey shine through window, generator hum dey ground. Wetin happen? Time travel? Na so God want test me? I swear, if I see that zobo bottle again, I go run commot office.