Standing in the corner, ninety-degrees of my expansive office. A corner office —my corner office —with a view.

I like the view, this three-dimensional offering of the Lagos island skyline; the vista of smaller buildings and far-flung winding roads; cars small as bugs; pedestrians like blips on the radar. My radar.

This is my life, my world now, and I have earned it. I have given up a lot to get here: time, happiness, and more than a little fraction of my soul.

My divorce was finalised two weeks ago. I expected to feel relief by now; it had been a messy affair, and Dara had ripped me off of more than I was willing to part with, but in the end I had expected to feel better after a long shower. After a long day in court, one problem in my life knotted and buried, I had expected to heave a sigh. My breath is still bated.

I tried calling Lionel this morning; my son with my first wife. He’s in university now, an exclusive private school paid for by me, but he wouldn’t speak to me, neither on the phone nor in person.

His mother insists she hasn’t been poisoning his mind against me, and hard as it is I have to say I believe her.

I am standing now, back braced against the wall. I have a clear schedule, at least for the next few hours, and sometime ago I could have spent all that time looking down from my throne in the skies, superhuman and godlike; watching all the little people. Now however, this view has lost it’s charm.

I realise now that I haven’t been content for a while, not in a very long time. Not with my doctorate or the coming of my son; neither with the broom cupboard of an office that overlooked a Herbie-Curbie choked sidestreet nor with this palatial glass and chrome specimen of opulent sterility.

I thumb through the contact list on my high-end smartphone and dial my son’s telephone line again. Same response. No answer.

I sigh, stash my hands in my pockets, walk to the wall of ceiling-to-floor glass and look down at the world, my world.

I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like falling down forty-six storeys…


Add yours →

  1. Ahhhhh,pls don’t fall o.I am sure ur son wud retrace his steps.Nice 1 again.


  2. Only? Only?? Hmmm. Suicide tinz! No one will thank you for it oh! Better banish that thought from ur mind. Ekwucha go kwa m!


  3. Broken bones, steady flow of some warm red fluids… flitting worries. That’s all. No qualms. After all, he’s just another god on a flight down from his sky palace. Forty-six is just a number!

    Excellent writing, sir.


  4. And here I was thinking ‘bad’ would be you going out, partying in the wake of a messy divorce and flying to Paris for breakfast and to New York for an afternoon fling with a supermodel and finally to Italy for a moonlight revelry of the city’s delights. Heck! He seems like a man who can afford to do that kind of bad.


  5. Suicide note in disguise#Abeg write a will and make me. A major beneficiary#LOLs


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