Can we try again?

Fifty-four

"Come in." His voice came from inside the room.

I pulled down the hinge and pushed the door open. I slowly walked inside and shut the door behind me. My heart was pounding so fast and loud, that I thought it would implode in my chest. 

Calm down. Don't freak out so you don't look guilty.

"Oh no, please don't tell me that rubbish. That is completely out of order." Mr Attah bellowed over the phone. There were lines on his forehead that weren't there the first time I started working here. I could tell he was stressed. "No! That wasn't the plan." He shook his head and sighed in frustration.

Then he went quiet for a moment, nodding his head every now and then. I strained my ears trying to listen to what was being said on the other end, whether it had anything to do with the issue at hand, but the only thing I could hear was my own heart beating loudly in my chest and the hum of the air-conditioning.

I stood there, staring at the floor and praying that this would not be the end of my time here at . .

"Okay," his voice boomed again. "No problem then. . . Just make sure it gets sent ASAP. . . I don't want any foul play . . . yeah . . . I'll be waiting for the email. . .okay . . . no . . .okay. . .bye." He removed the phone from his ears and typed something in. He placed it on the desk and for some seconds staring blankly. His face was etched with worry. I felt sorry for how stressed he'd become.

I guess it wasn't easy being in charge of a whole organisation as such.

He sighed really loudly and then turned to face me. It was as though he'd finally acknowledged my presence in the room. "Samira Adenikan, am I right?"

I nodded. I could not even speak. My voice had failed me. 

"Good." He motioned to the chair. "Take a seat." I did.

I tried to decipher the look on his face, wondering if I would find any hint of anger, any hint that I would be getting fired. But I couldn't tell. The man just looked stressed that I almost felt sorry for him.

I clasped my hands together and then unclasped them, anxiety was eating up my insides. 

He typed into his computer, shuffled documents around on his table and was mumbling quietly to himself. When he finally found the documents he was looking for, he looked across to me.

"So Samira," He started to speak and I shuffled on my seat, sitting straight up, ready for the bad news that was about to come hit me.

Just tell me now. Tell me, I can take it.

"You've been with us here for how long now?"

"Nearly 6 months now sir," I said with a shaky voice.

"Hmm," he nodded slowly, flicking through pages of paper. He picked up a silver pen and began writing on one of the sheets. "And how have you found it here so far?"

What's with all these questions. Just hit me with the bad news, don't make me wait.

"Uh . . . I . . . I've really . . . I'm enjoying my time here actually. I love it here. . .yeah" I stopped, to restrain my self from bursting into tears. 

He seemed oblivious to my shaky voice or the fact that I was sweating profusely in the air-conditioned room. My makeup was probably running down my face right now.

I must look like a masquerade, I though to myself.

"And how about the job itself? Do you have any worries at all? Are you finding it easy or harder than you thought it would be?"