My Parachute -1 [The Herald]

I chuckled to myself admiring my sheer luck as I read my own story on Facebook and Whatsapp Messenger chat platforms. Yet, whoever put that story out there must have been creative, I told myself more than once. Truth be told: there wasn’t much difference between what I went through that cold Tuesday morning and what I read later.

Again, the writer, for unpretentious reasons, purposed to sacrifice the moving part of the story at the altar of brevity and anonymity, yet that’s pardonable. I should also point out he must have been trying to hide my identity and therefore was both euphemistic and hyperbolic with some of my features. Here is the actual story. 

I met her when she came for her industrial attachment at our branch — I was a banker then. She was attached to my department and made to work under one of my subordinates, yet I was mandated to submit a final report on her.

There was nothing remarkable about her appearance: she’s listless and withdrawn.  She neither wore make up nor dressed trendy. Everything about her was average, her dress code was officially standard but not catchy, to say the least. Suffice to say her wardrobe had a banal population. We never complained much because she was not an operative in any direct dealing with customers.

 All of a sudden one Tuesday at brunch, the news came that she died in a motor accident. Faith Araba Dadson, dead in a motor accident?  Reports claimed she had fractured her both legs and left humerus. I was the first worker who literally flew over to the hospital to view her body. And there she lay on the stretcher: lifeless. I had hopes against all hopes she’s alive still and that she’s only clinically dead.  

Back at the office, I succumbed to the feeling of spilling the beans. It was the first time in my adult life losing someone close to my heart. And this brought that natural feeling you surrender to when nature bursts your bubbles and you’re made to cry over the wrong shoulder. I told colleagues how I would have loved to marry her. My confession led me to some hidden truth; I was told she too admired me secretly.

I must confess I was a good lover of simple beauties. Of all the unfortunate victims of my playboy rod, her type topped the list.

                                                         …. to be continued

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