19 Jun 2008 |
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Letter From England Chapter One I came to England for greener pastures and I passed with flying colours of grey hairs and silver spoon. My doormat is not really a golden fleece. Although, England is the land of hope and glory, but this is John-Bull-dog country. God save the queen. I must tell you this before someone else did because, then it would not be from the horses mouth. It is true about the story of the horses mouth as told otherwise you would have to look the songbird in the mouth to prise it's teeth. England made me. I could well be dreaming but then again very awake. It is freezing outside. The snow fell heavily all day yesterday and now is 2am in the morning which the clock announced just a little while ago. It reminded me of my village church bell at Ihube tolling urgently and mounfully to announce the death of a church member because it would not ring otherwise to a confirmed pagan or "heathen" which is very popular with folks. But it is entirely different from sunday morning musicals which reminded us of sunday services and hurried you up. However, the sound of the clock was muffled in the hotel lobby including the talking lifts that repeats "Going Up" "Going Dwon" "Door Closing" "Door Opening" "Stand Clear Of The Door", which stood like guards standing on both sides of the receptin desk. The reception stood in the middle like a crescent moon with shiny marble top. Unknown to me, the hunt has already begun and what ensued in the changing room at the back leaves much to be desired. I can only imagine what went on over there but one thing for sure is that it wasn't pretty as you would view the Bull Run. "What in the name of God is the matter?" asked Daddy alarmed. His heart raced and nearly jumped out of his skin and also was on the near side of been blown over by the force of the draught that rushed in after Andrew who was at it like a bat out of hell charged into the room. Daddy has just settled down on one of the plastic chairs ganging up against the rickety table in the changing room. Our winter coats,woolly hats, earwarmers, jackets, jumpers, gloves and mufflers hung on one side of the otherwise empty and bare whitewashed walls. Andrew ignored the old man but hurriedly went for his jackets, gloves, and mufflers animatedly. It was very clear what his intention were and he wasn't going to let anyone stop him. Fraustrated and anctious, Daddy quickly rose from his seat and grabbed andrew by the elbow and pulled but Andrew is not for turning, and because he wasn't going to give easily, stood his ground and dug in. It quickly became a fearce battle of wits, tactis and brawn verging on srum and tug-of-war, all mimed silently. Andrew would not look at the old man while he struggled to free his hand from his gorrila grip. It wasn't pretty nor funny and they knew it but nothing would make the other to relent be that as it may. On the other hand however, the whole strickly come dancing affair appeared badly choreographed and hilarious like a sudden bust of comical pantomime. No single word was spoken as it gragged on and Andrew battled hard, applying all the gorrila tricks he knew but avoiding kiribadi to no avail while desparately trying to avoid with minimal success the old man's reprimanding stare. The small room ricocheted with their labourous pantings until all the winter gear hanging on the wall came crashing down on the bare concrete floor and lay scattered like bodies blown to bits by Nigerian bombs during the Biafran war. While the air raid continued laying lines of exploding bombs like new year festive fireworks to celebrate the annihilation of the Igbo race, the village was almost empty. Most villagers started early and had managed to retreive the little they could carry and ran, abandoning the rest to the enthusiastic invading Nigerian soldiers. The bombs and shellings were lethal and unforgiving. Both Akudiye and little Chidinma did not stand a chance as they were slice in two and wriggled along like hedious earthworms before silence. The stamped behind scattered rather than scooping them up in empty basins but people had their belongings in them as they hurried and ran towards Nkoto village. At first, earlier in the day, we had watched with total amazement as proccessions of villagers trooped past our house carrying their belongings, chickens with legs tied together, goats on leads while most dogs mysteriously disappeared, all heading towards Nkoto village. Papa said it was ridiculous for them to even contemplate such a thing to happen so soon to our village but forgetting that our village is a vital junction which the Nigerians would love to capture and occupy. By now, the glaring sun had retreated behind the Ikpankwu hills and the blood of the dead- obara ndi egburu egbu-Mama would say, painted the scotched crimson sky translucent and drifted along like molten lava towards the horizon on the range. The cacophony of the guns, shellings and bombs very quickly enveloped us and caught Papa unprepared and confused. He ran into their bedroom and back to the parlour not knowing what best to take from his posseessions before the Nigerians arrived. He ran back in and stooped to take hold of Mama's large and chunky heavy oak box and yelled because he could hadly shift it. He came back out to the parlour and gave my younger sibbling and me instructions to run towards Nkoto village amid the defeaning explotions and whistling and whining of bullets. Although I was only a child, but I felt sorry for Papa while he stood there staring at the gramaphone, cushions, enlarged pictures on the walls, the beds, utensils, everthing that he owned about to go to waste as it would be looted and vandalised once again by the invading exited Nigerians, but this time in his very own village, not Minna where he had escaped from during the days of Oso Araba. I 'm not sure Papa could hear the huge racket whizing outside as he stood there rigid and helpless. He was remembering how he had sent the family back to the East as rumours spread about a planned massacre of Ndiigbo and Papa lost evrything as it happened. He has been hugely traumatized ever since, although Papa is a quiet man in nature but you could tell that he is different and you don't need to look closely to see that. His face told you a thousand stories wether tragic or serio-comic depends on your personal interpretations. After we escaped the slaughter in the North and resettled in our village, Papa, like he is wont to, threw his palpitating breath into farming and quasi-shopkeeping. Things picked up before long as Papa threw himself into it like there was no tomorrow and yet again papa had re-esterblished his status, although it never really left him because he remains a rallying point in important issues in the village. Within those few months, we would only cook Uncle Bens rice on sundays as he could afford it and he farmed, traded and worked hard from dawn to dusk without shame for that. Perhaps, he might have started dreaming again with much confidence because he was in his village where he would take the fruit of his labour with all seriousness without having doubts of his safety and that of his business. Suddenly, he became happy for his new country and safe haven. Suddenly Biafra became a new meaning to him. Suddenly, Biafra became Safety to Papa. From then onwards, Papa walks about and did everything grinning like he knew and understood some very important secrets nobody else did until now, while he stood in the parlour speechless. I ran with Uwa my younger brother down the slope to Afondu Market because we lived on a hill. Unlike nowadays, there were no dual expressroads through the market then and villagers ran helter-skelter in toltal confusion. As we came down Ohiaekwensu, I reminded Uwa where we were and made sure he did not fall down along the stony stretch of the Evil Forest. Before the war, Uwa had stubbed his toe against a stone and fell at a spot along the forest on our way back from visiting our aunty, first cousins and nieces at Nkoto village and he had to lay sprawled on the stony ground of Ohiaekwensu while my elder brother ran to nearby Afondu market to seek help from an Nkoto origin who would come to Uwa's rescue and lift him up from the sacred ground. It is only the people of Nkoto who were qualified to perform such tasks and rituals because they were chosen and ordained by the gods. It is also rumoured that some children who were up to no good would get what they want by threatening their parents they would take a dive when they get to the long stony stretch of Ohiaekwensu. The story of Nwadiuto persisted but no one had any proof to show whether it were true or not. The highly stubborn Nwadiuto had threaten her parents with a fall because she wouldn't get what she wanted from them. She stood with a devilish grin well away from the reach of his father who had a huge log of wood on his head and her mother with a basket of cassava repeating her threats. She was bent at an akward stlant with her right hand stretched towards the sacred ground. " A gakwam ada ugbua"! I am going to fall now! Eh, agam ada. Yes, I will fall. "Noooooooooo! yelled her terrified parents in unison. A hot spurt of urine shot from her father's penis and he was glad he wore black shorts to hide the shame. "Well, if you are not going to give it to me I fall". Now! "Chukwu nna! Wailed her mother, this girl will be the death of me". Chei! Mmmmhn. And so, it happened, because it's forbidden for anybody to put down their load along the path of the evil forest of Ohiaekwensu the father had no choice but give Nwadiuto all the crickets they digged up in the farm. As we came down the slope to the valley of Obodo stream and waded through it, we came up the jagged slope to Mbara Okpo which snuggled between Iyi Obodo and Nkoto village where no sane children or youths would like to be, particularly around that time of day, a shrapnel whizzed by me and burried itself in the shoulder of a naked village boy who accelerated up the winding path screaming. Mbara Okpo constitutes a small square legendary for congregations of wily juvenile ghosts who thought it was funny to watch youths crumble under their stunning cracks delivered on the sensitive part of the head with the home made knuckledusters they improvised. These recalcitrant delinquent ghosts revels on mischieves, particularly against truant youths who skips school and loiters under the Udara tree in high noon. These hoody ghosts would compete among themselves to prove their rascality and would therefore bet against one another to wager who gives the most stunning cracks on the heads of the offending youths. And so it happened that one of them- who happend to be a hardcore as it were- succeeded in knocking Ike out who unfortunately did not realised that the wily ghosts had made a bet on him that day, he fainted immidiately despite his reputed sledge hammer head which their teacher had earlier gave as a reason why Ike was not bright therefore would find it difficult to "break a chalk". And fortunately for Ike - but he didn't know it at the time- the champion little rascal ghost was called home by his mother to run an errand before he could finish him off, and that was why Ike was found sprawled under the cool Udara tree barely alife. From then on, nobody, not even the adults would walk alone past Mbara Okpo which means, square of crack-knock or square of punch, and the legend still lives on to this date. The loud fusillade of bombings, rockets, shellings and heavy artillery continued unabated till dark. We were later told that the Nigerians were afraid of the Ndi Dinta who would hide in unforgivable places to shoot them down with their Dane guns before the Nigerians would react and, so they came up with the idea of bombarding the place thoroughly before venturing into the area. That was why Papa said that the Nigerians didn't want us but want to take our our land because we would have stayed behind at home and not run but Papa said they would kill us all. We realised how hopeless it was when we arrived Nkoto village at Papa's younger sister's house and saw that they had already gone and there will not be any sleeping over as we would before the war. We headed to our farm at Ikpa Nkoto as Papa instructed and waited there while the rest of the family arrived lost in amidst the cassava and yam. Little words were spoken as we sat, huddled together, bound by hopeless fear and the will to survive. Nobody wanted to say a word and sound out of tune, therefore nobody said anything as we stole glances at each other, perhaps looking for a tinge of betrayal to compound our present egregious predicament. Make a fire...while I make us a shelter. The night is so dark. Papa said absently as he got up and dissappeared into the night rustling in the bushes to cut palm fronds and tall grass for a make shift shelter. We had no food as we soon realised because no one remembered to include food when we escaped with mainly clothings and pots. Anyway, Papa thought it would be a flash in the pan affair and that things would quickly return to normal as soon as the Biafran resilient soldiers and Ndi Dinta militia threw a counter attack and recaptures our vital village from the Nigerians. Papa was furious when we heared that it took the Nigerians three good days to venture into our village to test the waters after all that shellings and bombings and a full week to move in. Papa called it such "ignorant wastes and cowardice". A whole week! I was only a child and did not understood the rules of engagement and the redumentaries of war. I am proud Papa knew best. Although the New Yam Festival had not been celeberated yet in the year, in our village Ihube, Papa harvested some yams to cook for the night but he first of all presented it to Chukwu as a pious christain he is before we could cook it. Later on as we huddled on clothes spread on grass, we did not include the heavy down pour that raged all through the night in the equation which sent us scrambling in the dark to evade the erosion rumbling through the shelter as we palpitated and shivered through the night soaked to the bone. As Mama struggled with the baby, Papa again, desperately helpless, let out a cathartic yell which made the impending doom a heinous reality and trapped us in condemnation to a hideous abyss. As a displaced people born and bred in Minna we had not been properly assimilated into the village life where we were viewed as Ndi Abroad "outsiders from abroad" and we all suffered the consequences as a result because village champions held sware and made the overwhelming exclussive rules. We were outnumbered and had no chance. And now the Nigerians and their wild parties are in town with their float to rub it in, again. Haven't Papa been humiliated enough? At first, it was Oso Araba which Papa had no choice than to accept, but now, here they are in Papa's village shooting and shelling and boming for One Nigeria! Can't these Nigerians make up their stupid minds? For a minute there Andrew had forgotten where he was but had came to and focused his eyes at the entrance door shivering with frozen fear. Daddy shook him strongly which bordered on the verge of violence with attempted dirty slap which he very wisely decided against, sensibly, thank God. "I'm asking you again. What the devil is going on? What happened to you and why are you shaking? Did you have a fight with anyone? You can speak, can't you? Are you sick or something? What the hell happened?" "They are here! Andrew fiercesly hissed." "Who are here?" "And what are they?" Yesy, tell me about these bogeymen that scared you rigid, eh? Querried Daddy who is determined to find out the meaning of "they" and their mysterious duties. "Don't you see?" "They are here. Here in this hotel. I saw them with my own two eyes, I tell you. They are here as we speak". No offence daddy, but I'm getting out now. Please don't try to stop me. Respect due, Ceasars things to Ceasar and God's things to God. That's me and I'm gone". With that Andrew brought loose and made for the door but Daddy tackled him down to the grating cold and bare concrete floor. As they fell hard on the serated floor Andrew yelled and reached for his scattered clothings while struggling to scramble up but the oldman held on to him like glue. Daddy was panting out loud from the unprecedented spot of voilent exercise which looked to have no immidiate ending in sight. "Now, tell me Andrew please. Who are this "they" people?" "please i can barely catch my breath and I'm out of wits completely. Heyiiaa!" "I am not as young or as strong as I used to be, you know and, cannot keep up any longer". Andrew kept his eyes tightly shut quivering like child who is afraid of the dark. "The dark blue trousers and white shortsleeve shirts. The identification numbers. The two way walkie-talkie radios. The flashing blue lights. Do I have to spell it out for you?" "The Police! exclaimed Daddy. Is that all? I seriously thought that the world was about to end. If it hasn't done so already, as a matter of fact. judging by the way you carried on the whole world could well have crumbled outside this room and we haven't realised it yet." "Eh, excuse me. what do you mean is that all?" Do I need to be dead and buried for you to realise my predicament? Well for me, yes, that is enough "all" unless you desire them to capture me and send me back to Nigeria!!! That would be the six inches nail on my coffin. I'm getting out, see. And I'm getting out now. Let go off me Daddy, please. I don't want to be rude, but you do understand. I don't have to spell it out." "Yes, yes, to me I know. I'm on your wavelenght. I'm receiving you loud and clear. Ofcourse, it was rather different during my days. There we all were rejoicing when the British left that finaly we were going to be ruled by our own kind but we did not contemplate all the troubles that came with it. It was devastating and quickly became a huge farce in a very short time because we could not agree with each other. But when it became a deliberate farce we understood then that there were little hope for a bright future. All the dreams of travelling to the moon became tells by moonlight. Some of us dreamed dreams. Good ones too but, birds of different feathers do no flock together. I soon realised how true it were, but we hoped for a miracle, because we could not interprete the handwriting on the wall to find out the meaning of the words". "Oh yeah. How very ingeneous of you. How clever. So what happened after? What went wrong. Don't tell me I know. Me, me, me first isn't it? My tribe first or whatever will rule forever! I will be the President for life because it is the birthright of my ethnic group to rule forever and I'm not joking about it wether you like it or not does not matter, see. In the end, the house crumbled because the surge of Oil took to the foundation and brought it down. Welcome to the Billionaires Club. Ex corcicio te Ex crucien Domini!!!" Andrew recited his lines perfectly with hands thrusted forward in a grand theatrical flourish which brought doubts to Daddy's mind. "Daddy, listen to yourself, eh? The reason why we are here selling ourselves so cheapily and yet being hounded like vermins by our former masters. And do you think I blame them for that? Not one bit, Daddy, not one bit". Andrew felt sick. He darted his eyes from one corner of the wall to the next as if there were a bull lurking outside ready to charge into the room at any moment. Daddy was queit and calm. The expression on his face was not anger. It was that of a man who has seen it all. Expression of a man who have had a large dose of life bitter medicine. Bitterly conceeding to lost hope and accepting the savagery of uncontrolled events of natural phenomenom. The forces of good and bad lucks. The lines on his chaffed forehead creased and wrinkled there way from one side of the head to the other. Lines caused by silently subdued suffering, bottled emotions and severe melancholy. But when you look further, you notice in his face a calm eyes to spread to a pasture of peaceful tranquility. Life accepted with queit reluctance. Because he had not included cleaning hotel toilets as one of the hubbies for his retirement past-times. Daddy cleared his throat and said. "I know this day will come because that Ghanian Kitchen Porter don't want Nigerians working here. I know he would do something to get us into trouble because he has been telling all the white chefs in the kitchen how bad Nigerians treated Ghanians like criminals and deported them en masse. But wait a minute, Andrew. Where are the others? Bisi, Ayo, Temi, Innocent, Shina and Chichi?" "I don't know" "You don't know. What do you mean you don't know?" " I said, I don't know" " I heared you the first time. Young people of nowadays. God help us. How can you not know where they are when you work with them? I know you do the ramp outside and must have seen something before you came here? Now listen to me, if I haven't achieved anthing else in this country, I am British and therefore can find a way to get you young ones out of this situation, alright?" Andrew lowered his head and spoke like there was no tomorrow. He spoke as if time and space were closing in on him. "Theycrept up on me because I didn't hear them drive in. Perhaps, because I had my ear warmers on but I swear, I would have heared something if they had their siren on. There was no flashing lights either. All I know was that I turned around and there they were, a van and squadron car!" Andrew, I know the police and how they operate in this country to last me a life time". Daddy explained hoping that it would clear things up quicker than the way it is going at the moment. And if Andrew was going to get away, he would best make haste sooner and he knew it. "Look at my jeans Daddy. I wetted myself because I thought they have seen me and were coming for me. Look Daddy, it's frozen by the cold outside while I lay on the heap of snow behind the hedge by the revolving doors and watched them speaking with the Italian Night Attendant at the reception desk before they went for Innocent hoovering the lobby". That is all I know and I will be damned if I'm caught hanging loose around here. Sorry Daddy, but I'm getting out of here now". Before the oldman could say a word or two for suggestions, Andrew had gone throught he door like a shot, faster than he was when he flew in a while ago like a bat out of hell. Now, there I was in the lounge attending to my duties, very seriously, without any idea of what were happening around me and had no reason to believe that something so dramatic is going to happen. Actually, this cleaning business is my very first job since I happened about on this planet earth. It may look ridiculous to you or preposterous if I were home in Nigeria, but this is England. Daddy always said that England is a leveler. He said England does not respect your PhD therefore you find yourselves driving a minicab with all your degrees as a means to an end. Mind you, I have never hoovered before nor mopped in Nigeria and I had no idea that such jobs exists. I know about servants and stewards who cook and clean and go to the markets, but in some cases these could also be relatives or apprentices serving under their masters. Well, it could be worse, I guess. I had only passed out of secondary school before coming to England to graze on greener pastures and here I am having a go at it, but I did not account hoovering hotel lobbies and cleaning toilets as a part of the greenish turfs, and I accepted that with exited qualms. I hoovered and arrainged all the sofas and chairs that sat in rectangle just shy of the marbled reception area. The counter which stood between the talking lifts reflects sharp light from it's shinny marble top curved like a crescent moon. Two marble steps led you to the coffee lounge which seats east of the main lobby snuggled to the hugging park with a shinny black piano with bright negrescent smile. It has three chairs to a sturgy glass table and an ash tray. However, at this time of the night the residents are upstairs snooring and dreaming Western dreams in their comfortable beds while perhaps some very adventurous fews may well be rampaging through the jungle of their suites in leopard pants howling recklessly like a demented Tarzan trapezing atheletically from segregated ruddy creepers, slinging from tree to tree to rescue their Creeping Jenny. On first contact however, without further ado, Jane realising who he was despite having lost in the jungle since childhood, but by the distinctive pale colour of his bulging biceps and chizelled rocky chest and taut six packs, got very exited and carelessly and teasingly enlongated a lame pale hand and out of the five talons, she proceeded to jab and smoothed over, doodling mazes with her index finger on Tarzan's right ridge of hardrock chest very seductively and then cooed. "You Tarzan". Then she delicately placed the index finger on her bossom erecting the bridge of Madison County over her rift valley, serrated between her mesmerising succulent firm apples. "Me Jane". She meowed, drooling nymphomatically. A patronising presumptuous act, as I understood it, done as a surposed equal breakdown of any conflicting barriers to fascilitate an understanding relationship and friendship. A bungling preconceived dogmatic assumption of the first sect. But Tarzan, who was Christ College Oxford educated had other ideas. And so to clarify himself and set the record straight for any eventuality and references that would surely put him on the safer side of things exclaimed. "What do we have here? Oh dear. No my dear fairy flower. You have got it all wrong or rather mixed up. You see my dear, my name is Tarzan. Tarzan of the Apes. The Lord Greystoke of the Manor. And you, sugar plum, is none other than mine Creeping Jenny. Alright darling? I sincerely do hope I'm not complicating matters and making things more difficult than they already are? Forgive me, I hope, if you think I am. It isn't at all intentional, if you know what I mean. By jove, I dare say you you did throw me quite a bit there, bumping into you like this in the middle of only God knows where, at this ungodly hour, all by yourself. Lost from the hunting party I gather and by God i sincerely hope not because I still do have one or two bones I intend to pick with the arrogant blood tasty bastards. So here we are darling". Jane realising the hopelessness of possible intelligent conversation that might transpire between them in civilised manner, took matters head on by swooning wantonly and fainted into well choreographed arms of Trazan waiting, for the cue having sat throught it countless of times while reclining in his luxury leather sofa in front of his High Definition television in his tree top suite memorising every sequential sccene and dialogue which he repaetedly maintained was written by a dimwit. But Bozo, Bubbles, King Louie, King Kong and the rset of the monkeys about in the neighbourhood including the highland and lowland gorrilas strongly disagreed and they show their objection on each occassion as they argued very cleverly in defence of the film by pointing out it's artistic verve and ingeneuty as a pacesetter in the world of intrepid motion pictures. And they reminded him how lucky he was to part the part which they reason as a fact for unlimited career prospects for Tarzan in the cutthroat jungle of acting and movie making, therefore, it is imperative they said, that he just shut up and play his part right otherwise stop being a schmaltzy schmuck but to dally along to the beat of an undaunting work of art. Tarzan was deflated. He was thoroughly beaten and defeated. He sat flummoxed having incurred so much pummelling and roundly outnumbered a thousand to one or there about, recluctandly agreed but admitting musingly to the scene where he carries Jane off to prop her up a tree between branches secretly hoping that she fell and broke her swan neck thankfully but belatedly bringing the whole ridiculous charade to a well deserved death which he thought was long in coming. King Kong clutching Big Ben which he had uprooted ealier in a lucky snatch at the last lap of an auction of the centuries at Sotherbys New Bond Steet for his gold medallion time piece and bling-bling, became very offended and completely horrified to know that Tarzan habour such devilish thoughts for Jane. He was worried for Tarzan's current state of mind and so while giving a very wide berth, he was never to speak to him again even when it entails doing a movie together. The rest of the animals from constituents neighbourhoods participating in the heated House of Assembly debate threw their supports behind King King, saying, yeah yeah. The majority of the animals breathed a sigh of relief because it was not a divided house to escalate into a fight and which was why they threw their undivided support behind King King who attended in the majority with his kinsmen who includes the mountain, highland and lowland gorrilas and also there were quite a number of their cousins the Orang-utang who stood in stragetic places flexing their muscles. In free-for-all-fight in the house that day would have been a disaster to the rest of the animal members who only came in twos. Then King Louie, a red-hairy chestered Orang-utang who has a musical streak in him made a song and dance about the whole affair which went down well and became a hit, so much so that it crossed over the racial barrier line of all animals starting from his tough monkey neighbourhood to the mainstream jungle of the lions, bears,tigers,cheeters,panthers,hyenas, wilderbeests, thompson gazelle,meercats,wily coyotes,roadrunners,forest guards and park wardens. Even Tarzan and King Kong who became arch enemies and each others worst critics almost shook hands while doing the jiggy as they were momentarily lost to the world and oblivious to their surroundings and to one another. King Louie pouted the songs with his large lips and long palms beating sophiscated sound with great dexterity from his rocky hairy chest, thighs,mouth,soles of his feet and sharp claps. The rest of the monkeys were versatile mixers and percussionists who scratched and beat-boxed along to King Louie gravelled voice. Baloo was estatic and could move that ton of solid flesh like swan lake. It broke the charts in all the major safaris and jungles around the animal world and topped the charts for fifty-two weeks and remained in the top ten after for a very long time. The hotel lobby is as dead as grave yard by now. The lounge is deserted eventually by reluctant insomniacs and hardcore drinkers who had all retired to thir suites upstairs to recuperate for the next day. However, as they sleep, the midnight children toils through the night to clean their mess, the vomits on the toilet sinks and floor, urine collected like shimmering pools on the floor, used condoms, unflushed toilets, cigarret butts and used tampas. It must be cleand to perfection day and night otherwise you will not be coming the following day as you would be sacked. Warnings are not given and it's as simple as that. Now, there I was toiling away as never before and you know what they say about the idle hand being the devils workshop, well I have no intention of being a workshop for any devil now nor in the near future, the reason why I'm quite happy to get to the end of this adventure.
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