There is a terrible song I never cared for until I woke up singing it today. The chorus is as follows:
Everybody's workin' for the weekend
Everybody wants a new romance
Everybody's goin' off the deep end
Everybody needs a second chance
These lyrics take on an entirely different meaning when you live in Liberia where, at the end of a workweek, everyone expects their Friday. "Where my Friday?" you will hear from guards and porters and gardeners and, sometimes, strangers. Friday is the extra dollar your boss-man or boss-lady gives you for, like, doing your job. ("Where my _____?" is also heard all weekend-long and around Independence Day, Christmas and New Year's.)
For the record, I do not subscribe to Fridays or weekends because, seriously, where is my bonus for making it through a workweek? One Monday, I was asked in front of 15 people to tighten and brighten my work attire to impress visiting guests. Twice in the same week, I was forced to sing duets aloud for walking into all-staff meetings after silent prayer. Once, at 8 in the morning, a man had the nerve to say, "Avril, you're adding up! Don't deny yourself." Kids, this means: "Damn, girl, you are looking extra fleshy today. Keep it up." Last week, I almost threw down with two enraged motorbikers as I made an unprecedented U-turn on Old Road. And Tuesday evening, already late, I found myself playing sweaty vehicular Tetris in heels when I went to retrieve my car and found it wedged behind two others in a parking lot; the only guy on-site didn't know how to drive (obviously) so he threw three sets of keys at me, said, "Don't scratch the Lexus" and went back to his chair.
I don't want a Friday: I want a full-on party.
Everybody's workin' for the weekend
Everybody wants a new romance
Everybody's goin' off the deep end
Everybody needs a second chance
These lyrics take on an entirely different meaning when you live in Liberia where, at the end of a workweek, everyone expects their Friday. "Where my Friday?" you will hear from guards and porters and gardeners and, sometimes, strangers. Friday is the extra dollar your boss-man or boss-lady gives you for, like, doing your job. ("Where my _____?" is also heard all weekend-long and around Independence Day, Christmas and New Year's.)
For the record, I do not subscribe to Fridays or weekends because, seriously, where is my bonus for making it through a workweek? One Monday, I was asked in front of 15 people to tighten and brighten my work attire to impress visiting guests. Twice in the same week, I was forced to sing duets aloud for walking into all-staff meetings after silent prayer. Once, at 8 in the morning, a man had the nerve to say, "Avril, you're adding up! Don't deny yourself." Kids, this means: "Damn, girl, you are looking extra fleshy today. Keep it up." Last week, I almost threw down with two enraged motorbikers as I made an unprecedented U-turn on Old Road. And Tuesday evening, already late, I found myself playing sweaty vehicular Tetris in heels when I went to retrieve my car and found it wedged behind two others in a parking lot; the only guy on-site didn't know how to drive (obviously) so he threw three sets of keys at me, said, "Don't scratch the Lexus" and went back to his chair.
I don't want a Friday: I want a full-on party.
2 comments:
Next time we see each other, if you promise to swear secrecy for the rest of your life, I'll show you an amazing video featuring that very song...
I make no such promise and demand to see this footage.
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