Deola pulled up to the security area and introduced herself. Her papers were checked, and after one last glare at her irritated face, the two young uniformed men waved her through. As she drove into the street she couldn’t help feeling slightly intimidated by the stately, imposing mansions, spacious gardens and expensive cars parked out in the driveways. Even the air was quieter here. The roads were deserted except for a couple of traders on the side of the road. They were selling grilled plantain and it reminded her to make sure she stopped to pick some up on the way home.
Number 24 Abubakar Ali Avenue was a five-storey cream and brown castle, with marble arches and large French windows that reminded Deola of the kind of houses she had seen during her holidays in the Mediterranean. She was asked a few questions at the gate and then waved through by a man on the phone. Then she was directed by another member of staff to park at the back of the house, and a smartly-dressed young lady came out.
After introducing herself as Amber Gogo’s executive PA, the woman gave Deola a brisk smile and handshake and took her into the reception area. Deola sat on the sofa and looked at her surroundings – a white carpet, black and white soft sofas and marble and glass furnishings. Yikes, a white carpet! There was also a double staircase that looked as if it was ascending to Heaven.
She was left to flick through the glossy magazines and sip a rather warm soft drink whilst waiting for her new client.
She waited and waited. Two hours stretched into three, and no one had come to see her. The big house was so quiet. Deola alternated between looking through her iPad and reading magazines as she tried to quell her irritation. OK, so Ms Gogo was an important woman, but couldn’t she send one of her minions to at least tell Deola why she was more than three hours late for a consultation she had set up herself?
Time was money. She knew they went on about how unprofessional people could be sometimes in Nigeria, but that wasn’t always the case. When she looked at her watch and realised that it was nearing 5pm, she stood up and started packing her stuff. She’d had enough. She didn’t care how important this client was. Nobody stood her up like this, without even giving her the decency of a phone call! She dialled Femi’s number and it went to voicemail, so she informed him that she had to leave because she had an appointment with another client in less than thirty minutes in another part of Lagos. She got her stuff together, quietly let herself out and walked briskly towards her car, searching for her sunglasses and keys in her bag.
She was in the car park, surrounded by the latest models of a Hummer, a Rolls Royce and Mercedes Benz, when she heard someone call her name.
“Miss Banjoko?” She sounded breathless, as if she had been running.
Deola spun round, her face expressionless. “Yes.”
“Madam will see you now. Her earlier appointment overran.”
Deola’s hand hovered over the car door. And she didn’t think to alert me or send any kind of apology? I mean, who does that? Even before she asked herself the question she knew the answer. Filthy rich Nigerian multi-millionaires who knew that you needed to secure a contract.
“Fine. Excuse me. I just need to make a call to a client.”
After calling and rescheduling to another date, Deola went back into the house with the secretary. This time they went up the golden staircase and into a huge room decorated with stunning art pieces, a creamy coffee brown sofa and leather chairs so soft they screamed opulence.
“Please have a seat. Madam will see you soon.”
Deola pulled out her phone and about to send another message to Femi regarding the cancelled meeting when suddenly Amber Gogo swept imperiously into the room in a pink and gold lace Agbada. Deola didn’t know whether she was expected to stand, kneel or start clapping.
“My personal assistant tells me you were leaving.” The older woman threw Deola a quick accusatory glance from dark brown eyes, fringed with smoky blue eye shadow with hints of gold.
Oh no, don’t try and undermine my professionalism. Deola stepped forward and gave Amber Gogo a firm handshake. “Good evening. I was so thrilled about working with you, which is why I came at 3pm as you requested. But when I saw it was close to five, I was getting ready to leave. I had another commitment and was hoping not to let my client down.”
Amber laughed, and it had a hard metallic edge that shattered the stillness of the room. “Do you know how much I am worth? I mean, what this job is worth to Target PR?”
“I couldn’t give you the specifics, but a considerable amount, I guess.”
“Several million dollars last time I looked. Very sound economics. Turn down the big bucks for the small dimes.” She clapped her hands. “I congratulate your sound business sense. I just wonder where Femi got you from.”
“Sorry?”
“I mean when he was going on and on about this top notch consultant from England who was going to revolutionise my business with a dynamic public relations campaign, I thought he had a professional person in mind—”
“Professionalism is a two way street, Miss Gogo. I don’t adjust the level of courtesy I give to my clients according to their profit statements.”
She caught a glow of anger in the woman’s eyes but it was quickly replaced with a cold smile. “I like you, Miss …”
“Banjoko.”
Amber flicked her fingers dismissively. “Whatever … There are not too many people that I will tolerate behaviour like that from, but I will let it pass. Femi is a good friend, and I will do anything for him. Let’s start again. Fresh page.”
Deola took a deep breath. She didn’t know what was more disturbing – the patronising arrogance of the woman, or the way she emphasised the words ‘old friend’ when she spoke about Femi … She brushed her thoughts aside and focused on the task ahead. That was how she was going to get through this. It was just this woman’s way of laying down the law. It was a challenge, and Deola liked challenges. She would beat this woman at her own game.
“OK, show me what you’ve got,” Amber said. She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to be at a dinner with the Jamaican ambassador and his family in an hour’s time,” she added dryly. “As he lives halfway across the city, that gives you less than ten minutes to make your case as to why I should let Target PR have our contract.”
OK. It’s show time.
Deola smiled calmly, pulled out her iPad and handed Amber a printed copy of her presentation.
It was on the way home on the Carter Bridge that Deola allowed herself the luxury of a deep cleansing breath of fresh Lagos air. She had given her presentation knowledgeably because she knew her topic well, and delivered it with the right tone of experience coupled with conversation. She had ensured her talk unfolded logically like a story in itself, with a beginning, middle and an end. She had put in place the basic building blocks: introduction to the current market, the competition and what they were doing, her proposals to capture the burgeoning West African market, and concluding with how that would impact the brand.
She included a star moment where used a video of herself, her flatmate and another lady – three people with different complexions trying on the different shades in Amber’s line and critiquing them against other major brands, local and international. She talked through the results of surveys she had done, provided conclusions and backed it up with statistics and strong visuals, and at the end of the whole thing Amber Gogo leaned back in her chair and asked her how long she had known Femi.
The question had stumped her.
“Sorry?”
The woman was looking at her nails and didn’t look up. “How long? He speaks of you very highly. I just wondered?”
“Years.” Well more or less. After all he had known her since she was a teen. In a way. Amber Gogo’s eyes narrowed as if she was allowing this information to digest properly.
“Interesting. OK … This has been fun, but I really must go.”
Charming. Deola couldn’t wait to leave herself. She stood up and began to pack her things.
“My office manager will be in touch.”
Deola had nodded, got up to shake her hand and got a limp wristed response. After pressing a button, Amber’s assistant appeared as if by magic and led her out of the office.
As they walked down the staircase, her assistant brightened up and was quite chatty.
“You are really lucky you know. Madam usually leaves these all the interviews for jobs and contractors to her office manager. She is such a busy woman. She had meetings all yesterday with the director of the Chamber of Commerce, so for her to actually insist on meeting with you personally … ”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
What was clear to Deola was that there seemed to be some kind of link between Amber and Femi. Either that or she was his secret stalker …