HiveComb

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"The day I poured hot, thick coffee on my boss's sky-blue shirt was the day I actually stopped praying for a promotion."

It all started in Ikeja, Lagos, on a Monday so hot that even the Okada riders stopped arguing. I was working as a secretary at a small law firm called Integrity Chambers—a name that actually sounded impressive but could not afford constant electricity.

My boss, Mr. Paul, very chubby by nature, was a man powered by two things: caffeine and wickedness. He had a large forehead, a permanently suspicious expression, and a booming voice that could wake up ancestors. He believed so much that shouting almost all the time was a form of motivation.

Gush! That shouting pisses me off.

That morning, I came into the office sweating like dodo that had been left on a grill for too long. The air conditioner hadn't worked for about three months. I immediately dropped my bag and said, "Good morning, sir," with my brightest fake smile, and definitely prayed silently for peace.

He didn't even look up. " Where are the files from yesterday?" he asked with a frown.

"I kept them on your desk, sir, before I left on Friday. I am sure they are still there, in the left-hand corner of your desk, sir," I replied with a clear explanation, already bracing for whatever insult was next.

"These ones? Are you blind? This is not how to arrange files. Do you want to ruin my reputation? Use your brain for once, not your backside?!" He yelled with his annoyingly booming voice.

All I could do was smile. the kind of smile that said, "May thunder not understand this insult."

I had taken nonsense from this man for nearly three years now. He had once asked me to work on a public holiday because "Lagos traffic doesn't affect people without cars," he would say. He had rejected my leave applications five consecutive times and had the audacity to actually deduct my salary when I missed work for malaria.

However, I endured all of it. After all, "I was actually gaining experience." I often thought to myself.

Then came the coffee incident.

Lunch in our office was always a war. We had one tiny microwave and five staff members. That very day, I brought boiled potatoes and yam, along with freshly made stew with beef so soft it obeyed the spoon. I then made a very thick coffee drink packed in a stainless flask to help push down my soft potatoes and yam during each bite. I had carried it in my precious purple lunch flask—the one my husband bought for me during a yearly religious convention program we attended.

I placed it gently on the shared table and went to photocopy an important document; otherwise, It might slip my mind, and my boss would eat me up like a croaker fish.

Five minutes later, I returned to find Mr. Paul opening 'MY' flask.

"Ah! Sir! That's my lunch!" I shouted, rushing forward.

He turned slowly, already chewing my precious beef.

Oh! This is yours? Sorry! I thought it was one of those catering samples your people usually bring," he said, still chewing.

I looked around. Everyone had stopped typing. Tunde, the intern, was pretending to fix the printer but was clearly watching. My hands started shaking.

"I... I haven't even tasted it, sir," I said, eyes wide, hoping he would just stop already because I was almost about to cry.

"Well, next time, label your food. In fact, bring extra next time," he said, still scooping my food.

In fact, this time he was actually sipping my delicious, thick, and hot coffee, and even smiling on top of it. I could forgive anything but not my liquid food.

"Excuse me, sir," I snapped.

I didn't think.

I didn't blink

I immediately moved forward and grabbed my flask containing my precious hot coffee away from his already opened mouth as he was about to take another sip. Unfortunately, the whole coffee spilled on his expensive sky-blue shirt because he held the flask handle so tightly, as if his life depended on it. So, I decided to twist the handle a little to let go of his grip, and—yes—I twisted his chubby fingers so badly that he had no choice but to let go.

"Ah! My finger! My finger! Abeg, take, take, take!" he cried out.

But unfortunately, the coffee had already spilled all over his expensive shirt and on the floor.

The room frozed.

His shirt sizzled.

He jumped up like someone tasered by NEPA.

"Are you mad?!" he exclaimed furiously.

"I think I am, sir," I said, breathing heavily. I think you finally cooked my brain with your wickedness and my coffee." I answered, still trying to catch my breath from the endless flask struggles.

"So you have the guts to twist my fingers, eh? I can see you don't have respect," he frowned, pointing a chubby finger at me.

"With all due respect, sir, I was only trying to defend what's mine. I didn't mean to twist your fingers like that, sir." I replied politely but still angry.

He scorned me, and immediately stormed into the restroom, dripping coffee and curses. Everyone else turned away as if he were invincible. However, I could see Tunde silently mouthing, "Wow," wide-eyed.

I had no doubt in my mind that Mr. Paul would not sack me after that crazy incident. I went to my desk, picked up my bag, and waited for HR to summon me.

And behond!

However, that's when karma — sweet, spicy karma — arrived.

Ten minutes later, his wife walked in.

Apparently, someone (I suspect our quiet office cleaner; she is kind of close to the boss's wife) had messaged her about the coffee and food incident. She came in like thunder, wearing a scarf tied with war.

"Where is he?! she yelled out.

My boss recognized her voice and immediately stopped cursing in the restroom and suddenly went mute.

"So it is another woman's food you are eating now, abi?" She continued yelling while my boss just quietly sneaked behind her and zoomed into his office.

She waited, but her husband ( Mr. Paul) did not come out, so she decided to march into his office, slammed the door, and what followed cannot be printed in clean English.

We all listened as she accused him of having "corporate cuncubines" and "misplacing matrimonial priorities."

The highlight?

She shouted, "Is it not yam and potatoes with hot coffee that you like?! Go and marry the food with the coffee, oo!" she exclaimed, smirking.

The next day, Mr. Paul called a staff meeting. His eyes were red. His shirt were different, of course.

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He cleared his throat and said, Let us all move from yesterday's... event." He paused and looked at me, "Mrs. Ugo," he called me. I am sorry about your food and coffee." He apologized with a pitiful face.

"It's Okay, sir," I said simply.

Nobody said a word. We all stared at each other and then returned our gaze back to him.

After that day, he eventually stopped shouting. He started saying "please" and Thank you." What's more, he responds to greetings nicely, in fact with a smile. He even approved my long anticipated leave.

Tunde later whispered, "Your coffee had reset his destiny."

And maybe it did.

THANKS A LOT FOR READING ME.