Today, 26 October
2015. A normal day in the office: the life of an accountant. But I refuse to be
described as such. I always thought accountants were dull characters working
with tight budgets and in an effort to live this life on a budget they end up
not radiating any of it. Turns out I was right.
I was busy reconciling
some accounts in the office when my colleagues ambushed me.
“Hey Class get up!” Lin yelled, halfway across
the office some heads popping from their cubicles to follow this new drama. I
don’t know what’s with Nairobi people and drama, and especially those poor
souls locked up in offices. They are in disconnect with the real world and the
only interesting topic of conversation they got going is the exaggerated Maina
and King’angi encounters on the morning show. So you would forgive their fat
appetite for some action, something (anything) that breaks the rhythm of normal
day life.
Lin stormed in followed
by Bosire: this guy in client relations with a quirky laugh. One time during an
AGM he made this silly laugh that was so infectious a mandatory break had to be
called for people to recover from his laughter. And he laughs at the slightest
provocations, one of the main reasons I was reluctant to tag along. Lin got to
my desk and was now getting impatient,
”Let’s go see this ophthalmologist in
town, doctor Fury (not his real name)” she continued “I told you last week”.
Truth is she had
mentioned about the meeting, what she had failed to mention is that I was to go
alongside her.
Doctor Fury was calm
gentleman in his fifties with a simple wardrobe and bifocal glasses that did
not even try to fake some sense of fashion.
I had a not so
pleasing encounter with this particular doctor after my predictions, like those
of the El-Niño had
failed to come to pass (oops it just started). To put it in black and white, I
had lied to him on a payment date. In my defence however, accountants do that
all the time (It is really how they survive). In fact if you encounter a very
honest accountant, there is cause to worry.
Lies are a necessary
vice, lies are in fact healthy, by telling people exactly what they want to
hear, the heart rate slows and this increases the lifespan of individuals. Of
course this has not yet been proven but it is a topic in which I Invite future
research and the spot Pesa people to come and help make money out of it. So
after the date I had promised to pay doctor Fury had passed, He had stormed
into our office demanding to see “these stupid accountants” as he had referred
to us (me and my fellow accountants). He was so agitated when I entered the
boardroom to meet him. I felt it wise to keep my distance, his eyes and muscles
were twitching, like he was preparing to land some blows. Again he demanded for
a date when this payment would be made, he left me no choice but to do what
accountants do best, to lie. I excused myself seek some clarification on the
issue but only went up to narrate that ordeal to an eager audience at my desk.
I then walked with a fabrication that seemed to cool him down. With all the
assurance given he had walked out the same way he had come in. A gray cloud hanging over him and you could
tell he was in fury.
I sat there staring at
lin blubber about how I am not serious with my work. I tried to come up with a
lame excuse not go before it hit me, this was actually a good opportunity to
escape the office environment. After all doctor Fury’s’ account was a complete
mess and I felt sorting him out would restore my wounded reputation.
At exactly 10:30 we were in the doctors premises.
Immediately you walked in, you noticed a change in environment. From the fast and hectic city life in the heart of Nairobi where his office is located to a slow and dull surrounding. There were dull green seats fading out to some grey patches that surrounded a wooden reception that rose from the concrete floor.
It felt like we had
walked right back into the eighties, the only thing missing were the afros as
the monitor on the reception desk had taken care of the black and white great
wall television of the era. I was actually surprised not to find a type-writer
in the office. The furniture was old if not dilapidated and you hardly noticed
any paint on the wall as any remaining trace was evanished. This office felt
safe and warm, the result of refusing to conform to modern trends in both
furniture and technology. I think this is why he had such a large clientele, he
was easy to trust and his look portrayed wisdom.
The receptionist had a knee length floral skirt that matched the mixture of roses and lilies on the reception desk (no doubt from some suitor). The skirt and the flowers were the only colourful things in that office, and they looked out of place. I feared I would leave that office depressed or having contracted some mental disorder.
We were ushered into
what looked like an examination room behind the reception. There was a desk
with a computer on the extreme end and a pile of papers scattered on every
available space of the desk. There were dusty plastic chairs arranged in a
circle at the centre of the room. It was a scene out of the movies, a counselling
meeting for people with addiction problems. Right next to the door was a
curtained space and it did not take much effort to notice the stuffed papers
behind. The receptionist, a lady called Lucy hurried to carefully conceal these
mess by drawing the curtains.
As we sat there the
accountant was summoned and he apologised for the doctors’ absence as he was
attending to clients. I sighed in relief, I did not have to face him today. You
did not have to wait for the introductions to know he was an accountant, his
looks gave him away. He was the picture that comes to mind when you imagine a
typical accountant. He was slender guy with long arms and a pale dark skin.
What really gave him away was his wardrobe, if
you were not particularly keen you would pass him for a part of the office
furniture. He wore Grey pants a dull green sweater that matched the seats at
the reception. He wore black leather shoes and rimless glasses with lens so
thick it magnified his sunken eyeballs. His head had started balding from years
of pressure and being buried in paper work. But when he spoke even the heavens
stopped to listen. I was marvelled at his eloquence and his diplomatic logic. I
found myself smiling at this, I knew most of what he said was a lie but I
admired his creativity. We had gone there with the intention of terminating
services but in his deep Swahili accent he had us all singing to his tune. He
spoke in English at times switching to Swahili to drive the point home. And he
worked magic, managing to buy himself more time to sort the issue and switching
the blame back to us without us even knowing.
Walking out of the office I found myself contemplating more on the issue.
It was a story of almost every college kid. You go to a recognised institution,
get good grades and graduate with honours. In the minds of these naive minds is
the idea that they will get good jobs with a pay rewarding enough to make you
blush from the sight of the pay slip. After all they did go to recognised institutions,
it’s all deserved. That is until reality dawns, securing an internship is a
hustle. Your guardians have to call in favours. And those firms willing to give
a chance are not willing to part with dime for your service. With a bachelor’s
degree in procurement, fresh out of campus you find yourself working in the
accounts office,@ Njoro hang in there bro, and a pay cheque that drives tears
down your face. And while you are there, they work your ass off. When you finally
get employed, the work is so hectic that time flies by, before you know it you
have over ten years of experience. You have gained the expertise in the field
and when a managerial position opens, you apply and you are lucky to get it.
You enjoy the position for a few years before you have to retire and when you
look back you are not sure to what you did with your life. The firm sucked the
life out of you, made you wear dull outfits as they kept you on a pay steady
enough to keep you coming back. You are now in that rat race, waiting eagerly
for that end month pay. If only someone had emphasised it enough, do what you
love, whatever motivates you to get out of bed in the morning. In the words of
Charles Bukowski My dear, Find what you love and let it kill you. Let it drain you of your
all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness.
Let it kill you and let it devour your remains. For all things will kill you,
both slowly and fastly, but it’s much better to be killed by a lover.
When came to from that
deep thought, I realized how that encounter had inspired the writing of this
blog.
