The Meeting

The Meeting - student project

What a sad day it is. One moment, my keyboard pitter-patters away in sync with the whooshing train just outside my window, the next is my screaming aunt calling my name. I’m not known to be angry. But these days, as I opened the mailbox. My eyes totter towards reading that long-awaited news of my successful application. ‘Congratulations’ but it’s far from coming near. 


Every day is the same. Sad. Late wakes. Late sleep. Late meals and a hopeful heart waiting. The train disregards the new restrictions set in place by the government because it is an essential worker. To be honest, I don’t care about being an essential worker. I just want to be a worker, deserving of being told to stay at home under lock and key and have my office give me a percentage of my earnings because I work so hard. But no one will ever know how hard I work. No one knows me. I know London, like the back of my hand and my name has been passed across qualified hands but I’m still unknown. A stranger to the essentialities of who and what is deserving of attention and money.


Like I always do, I flicker between Instagram and Twitter, searching for that news that’ll help take the mind off my mailbox. Considering it’s all rejection anyways - one place that always seemed to accept me is the confines of my unbeknown strangers that follow me online. I laugh at the foolery of it all. I wish someone could tell them that I was broke, lonely, depressed and this close to slapping my monitor out the window and surprisingly hit the top of the whooshing train because it never seems to shut up and no one seems to talk on the train. Safe for the announcers being passively nice about letting us get out of their machine. 


My window is the only source of light that I have and love. It is my connection to the outside world. Through it, I see London, a glimpse of it and create imaginary thoughts of being waved at by the boy who lives on the 5th floor. It would be nice if I had a good set of eyes but alas, my eyes are not strong enough to work on its own. My glasses are not powerful enough to interpret the thoughts that stroll around my fuzzy brain. 






If I hear my name one more time, I’d pack myself into a suitcase and stay under a bridge like it’s done back home. I laugh. Threatening to bite the hand that feeds me never works. I get cranky when I am hungry and I wouldn’t last a day in the blitzing London weather. I know the signs that I am not meant for poverty. I’m attracted to the easy life. Lazy days. Late wakes. Late sleep. Late meals with enough food to eat. 


But asides from my imaginary prince stuck in the space on the 5th floor, there are my buttocks that possess a love-hate relationship with the rest of my body. It is the effrontery of being unused, unappreciated and mismanaged by its owner. If my buttocks could talk to me, I was almost certain to hear the voice of my aunt through her. ‘Rhoda!!! On your feet, you are overworking me. I need to breathe!' My buttocks would become me and I am her. Isn’t that funny? My feet have honestly been getting a lot of lazy days and it’s because London feels my brain is lazy. Sometimes, the organs in my body sit to have tea and talk about the state of things. They are working hard but I am not. There is a disconnect. Only my stomach gets paid for doing nothing at all.  Bureaucracy. The damn government is working a full-time job in my belly. 


I hate sad days. And it’s these damn organs. I know for a fact that it is. Heart always calls for a damn meeting and they talk about what they’re gonna do to kick me out. Constantly bickering and making me exhausted with life. Always going on about how hardworking they are but for me, a lazy bum suffocating the life out of her. Tragic. This is what London has turned me to. I can’t even keep these folks in line anymore. They’ve begun to disrespect me. They’ve ‘seen all’ and every part of me that I have no shame left.


That’s why I sit by the window. That’s why I listen to the train and the rain. The only folks I trust now are my eyes and mouth. They’ve stuck with me. They tell me everything Heart gossips with the rest of the guys. They keep cheering me on. And on sad days like this, when I want to give up, and when the organs sit down to talk the 'talk', my brain angrily gives Heart a slap and jolts me back to the light right outside my window.

Rachael Wanogho
Writer, Storyteller and Content Creator