there’s something about change...

For some time now, I've been contemplating a most contentious issue. oyibo!

 

Seriously.

 

They say change is the only constant in life, and that they who will survive, must change; must adapt. But come to think of it, do I want to? I mean, really? Think about it: one day you're massaging a mixture of spirit and "Sulphur 8" on your chin like your life depends on it, and the next day you're running sharp objects round your chin (perhaps elsewhere as well?) in a bid to remove that oh, stubborn hair that keeps growing back.

 

Change, huh? Well.

 

But I think I've changed some. See, back in school, I didn't know what I wanted to do when I got out. Cos, well, unlike some of you who read courses that pretty much led them (albeit blindly, I say) into a defined career path (think of the poor sods who read medicine, optometry, law, engineering...) I read history and International Relations (HIR) – in Abia state University (ABSU).

 

Before you start "ooh-ing" and "aah-ing" at the mouthful of a course, let me just state here that the swagger of that degree was just in the title. One of the courses, study of the world languages, was a walk-through the Igbo language. Yeah man, I always knew my Igbo brothers would eventually make an impact on the whole world. Nna meen! Noting mega!

 

So. I read HIR at ABSU. And while most of my course mates – and even the current students – kept deceiv...sorry, encouraging themselves that they would automatically become diplomats on graduation (they did then, and still do keep calling themselves ambassadors till today) I had not the faintest clue as to where I would end up.

 

Ofcourse, several thoughts crossed my mind:

 

1. Get a shop in Ariairia; or
   

1. Employ boys that would carry market-goers across those gaping pot-holes that just filled up once it rained; or
   
   1. Become a diplomat (after all, I read HIR, no?); or
      
   2. 
       

      
       

Yeah. Or something.

 

I just had no clue. So, with a box full of whatever I thought I might need and a heart full of hope (na, scratch that and put curiosity) I went for Youth Service – in Yobe State. I still had no plan, but hey... I had a whole year to make one up.

 

But I didn't want to work in a bank.

 

Chang happens, right? Fast forward three years, and now I'm sitting at home and typing these words off the top of my head. I've already quit two jobs (in advertising – which I must confess, I love more than a whole lot of things) and I'm on the third. In a bank!

 

So change happens. I decided to come back to Aba from Lagos for a reason. I decided to leave the job I love and pick up one I may one day learn to like for a reason. I didn't get that shop in Ariaria for a reason. And I'm sure as the cold wind in winter writing all these for a reason.

 

What would you guys say if I told you Muse waned to unveil himself?

 

To change or not to change. That is the question at hand.

I have a dream...

Some people argue that dreams are a subconscious repetition of events that we’ve let play around in our minds over a long period of time, especially just before hitting the sack. Others argue that dreams are a bridge between the physical and the supernatural worlds. Whatever it is, – subconscious repetition or supernatural bridge – lately I’ve been dreaming.

And it ain’t been pretty.

I get home from work, barely manage to undress while simultaneously hitting the sack, watch a bit of Commander In Chief (don’t you just love that stubborn gal, Mac?) and doze off. Now one might think that after a particularly stressful day of talking to an ill-mannered, unapologetically annoying dude with bad breath, and who thinks that an LC (letter of credit) is someone’s English name, one would have a pleasant, eventless dream full of rolling landscapes and three little birds.

Wrong.

Somehow, my now-obviously warped mind manoeuvres events in my dream to bring me right back to...wait for it...WORK! Yep. These days, I’ve opened just about any type of account the bank has in my dream. And just to think that a few weeks ago I was laughing at a colleague for complaining that she was marketing in her dream. Now it seems I do too. Not fair. Not fair at all!

But my mind’s even more messed up than I think.

After endlessly complaining about my dream job (no pun intended), I finally had a break.

I had a dream, yes, but not one about work! I was coordinating a high-level rescue operation for a top-secret government agency (don’t ask me which), and I was pretty much on top of my game. Trust me, I’m bad!

So. I’m coordinating this operation, when this theme music starts playing (somehow, I suspect Enya had a hand in this) just when the building blows up with one of my men inside! WHAT?! NO!!!!!!!!!!! And in the usual turn-of-events of Hollywood movies, the characters start revealing their faces while showing strong emotions when – and I swear I screamed out so loud my younger brother abruptly stopped snoring in his room – my horror-filled scream tore through the thin fabric of the night.

ALL THE CHARCTERS WERE MY COLLEAGUES FROM WORK!

God help me. Somehow I've got to meet that target.