Man eateth where he worketh

Saturday November 21 2020
reviews01pix
By Philip Matogo

 When I got my first real job, I went crazy.
Sitting in a corporate cubicle, I was no longer scraping the bottom of the barrel. I could afford to live well. 

Well, barely.

As soon as I got my appointment letter, the boss told me I would be in-charge of office supplies. So that meant I had to keep a regular supply of stationary, as well as tea, soap and toilet paper et cetera in the office.

 All I needed to do was write a requisition order and boom: I could supply the office with a vengeance. 
Of course the system was open to abuse. Because I soon learnt that I could requisition supplies that weren’t even required. And, best of all, I could inflate the cost of those supplies.

In the beginning, my cost inflations were circumscribed by caution. But later, I lost it.

Suddenly, by my estimates, the cost of a pen was the price of a packet of pens!  Yes, and nobody checked my excesses.

Advertisement

So I went with this madness and requisitioned cleaning materials weekly. That way, I had a steady cash stream week in, week out. So I had enough funny money to keep me smiling.

Once my supplies exceeded the office needs; I upped my game. This meant making a requisition and not supplying anything, but the air in my mouth when I opened it to tell a lie. Sure, I had a conscience. But I had stooped in order to rise above it.
Sadly, this petty larceny did me no good whatsoever. And I soon learnt the true meaning of the saying: ill gotten, ill spent.
It happened like this…

One Friday, I collected a small fortune from the accountant and instead of buying any cleaning materials for the office, I hit the club.

When I got inside, my swollen pockets were directly proportional to my fat ego. For I was no longer a window shopper, I was the original bar hopper.

However, the bad thing with money is this: one lessens their natural charm in order to let their money talk. And that’s why many rich people have no “lyrics” with the ladies. They just spend in order to ascend to the lady’s affections.
And so it was with me.

Sure, I wasn’t rich but I felt like I was  a million dollars worth. So when I saw this lady languidly dancing at the counter, I stepped up to her and was as charmless as a head-butt. 
“Hello,” I said.
“Hi,” she replied while still grooving slowly.
“Listen, I want to know something…” I added.
She stopped dancing and cupped her ear with her hand to hear what I had to say.
“I want to know whether you’re a fruit. Because your beauty can make a Man-go crazy. Get it? Mango…Man go crazy?

She jerked her head backwards and looked at me absently.
I stumbled forward to redeem myself.

“You are round….like a Mango…you are round.”
“Are you calling me fat?!?” she fumed, her arms rising to pre-super slap posture.
Then, she suddenly shook her head and stalked out of my sight and life. It was painful. I had no “lyrics”.

So I tried my luck on the dance floor with a dance move I invented called the Groovy Marabou Stork. In this dance, one nods the head while their arms are spread out wide as if in full-flight. It goes very well with Kadongo Kamu songs.

“What are you doing?” a female voice inquired of me while I was in dance-flight.
I explained the dance and she laughed. Then she decided to mend my broken wing. She showed me a few dance moves that would leave me looking less than ridiculous. And the night went excellently. No doubt, I’m still a bad dancer. Since my “moonwalk” is more like astronaut Neil Armstrong’s than musician Michael Jackson’s. But I’m not as bad as I was then.

The following Monday, I strolled into office.
I was still basking in the afterglow of a great weekend.
Then, disaster struck.

There was no toilet paper in the office. Yet the auditor was telling everyone that I had requisitioned the money for the same. And I had obviously supplied nothing; a veritable bill of goods.

Worse, the boss was seen rushing to the office toilet with probable diarrhoea. But when he got there, he found no toilet paper! So he rushed back to his office, grabbed a newspaper and put it under his armpit. 

His face darkened, then he spat out the name ‘Matogo!’ After which, he hit the toilet and got his behind on the news; literally.

Meantime, I was sweating like a Polar Bear in a sauna. I imagined enemies everywhere. 

Even the cleaning lady who was sweeping my office seemed to look at me in a way that suggested she might “LDU” me with her broom.
My career was over. 

The boss would not only fire me, he’d kill me. So I would end up in the news. And possibly my obituary would be in the newspaper he used as his toilet paper!
 

Advertisement