Chapter 20: The Waiter Job That Drowned a CEO
After demolishing the maize farm, I said:
"Kelvin, no more cars. Find something safe. Something calm. Something on foot."
So I got a job as a waiter at a fancy hotel restaurant.
Simple.
Serve food. Smile. Collect tips.
First day, first assignment:
Serve water to a group of "important guests."
No wahala.
I put on my best professional face — the one that says, "I can be trusted with your fork and future."
Tray in hand, I approached their VIP table.
There he was:
The CEO. Wearing an expensive white agbada. Laughing like someone who owns four oil wells and two private jets.
I carefully lifted the jug of cold water.
Now, here's the thing about new stainless steel jugs:
They're slippery.
Very slippery.
Especially when your hands are sweating harder than a turkey in December.
As I tilted the jug...
my grip slipped.
Not a little bit.
Completely.
The entire jug of freezing water dumped itself directly onto the CEO's lap.
Gasp.
Silence.
Slow motion horror.
The CEO shot up like a volcano erupting — pants soaked, dignity gone, soul leaving body.
Water dripped down his agbada like he had been baptized into confusion.
I stammered,
"S-s-sir, it's a blessing in disguise! Water signifies wealth in some cultures!"
No one laughed.
They fired me that same afternoon.
But guess what?
I still got to eat leftover jollof before leaving.
A small win.