It is eighteen past one, and except for a few ‘busy’ colleagues, everyone is at the cafeteria on the first floor. No lunch for you today, ‘maybe later I’ll have water or something’ you make a mental note. No lunch because going by how the first half of today has gone, you are afraid something bad might happen because so far, it is like you are the bad omen’s designated companion for today. You are now in a state of acceptance that maybe, just maybe, the fates are sending you a message. Omen or no Omen, the story has got to be written somehow, and your still need to see the Editor-In-Chief. You shudder and play over and over some possible conversations. He’s out for lunch, so you make yourself stop thinking about it and try and concentrate on the job in hand: Mrs Kingsbury’s misfortunes.

     Halfway through the story, the electricity flicks, computers shut down and it is a few minutes before the generator kick in. You hope and pray document recovery will help you. You had not saved your work. Computer flickers back on and nothing. Blank. Your curse yourself, the computer, and the power company for the wasted efforts. You start all over again, this time saving after every word even with the typo.

     By half past two, you are done with the story, it is now up to the editor to ‘add flesh’. It is time to see the big man. You rush to the floor above and his secretary smiles at you and says ‘he’s waiting for you’ Arms behind your back, you walk in. James, as he insists everyone to call him, does not look very happy. But you are awfully relaxed. Your day has been hell, it can’t get any worse than this, you figure.

“So I hear that story you have been following has gotten interesting” By the way, that’s how big shot media bosses talk. “Yes Sir, the subject lost her son” you explain.

“So are you ready?”

“Yes we are sir”

“call me James”

“James”

“Very well, sit down that’s not why I called you” You heart sinks. Not today, not today, you silently pray.

“Am thinking of sending someone to Kisumu, we are opening a regional office and we need a ‘competent’ reporter on the ground” James boasts.

Your heart sinks lower, Kisumu? My God! Me? You cross your fingers tighter, they are hurting by now from all the friction.

“I want you to be that person. The paperwork is already in place but we have not yet settled on the cameraman, feel free to name to name your favourites”

“Um uh that’s, that’s um uh….wonderful sir.” You feign a smile

“Can you handle it?” James mocks

“Of course”

“Don’t let me down now”

“Definitely Sir…..am sorry, of course not sir……..… so when do we leave?”

“Two weeks”

You are just standing there like a zombie now as James goes on and on about how the office needs to be functional in time for a major world cross country event that is coming to the town.

“That’s all, you can get back to work”

     Dragging your feet back to your desk, you wonder what could have motivated this move to send you to such a small town. You dig your head for any evidence of having rubbed the superiors the wrong way, but nothing seems to come to mind to justify your eminent demotion.

     Later that day, you arrive at home tired, hungry, sad, confused, angered and in a general state of helplessness. The spilt coffee on your kitchen floor brings back a flood of memories of all that has gone wrong today, in succession. Suddenly you realize, you still don’t have power because you still haven’t paid your electricity bill, no clean clothes, the car is still dead in the garage and you still haven’t bought any groceries. Before you know it, the tears stream uncontrollably. Like flush -flood water, they keep increasing by the second. Indeed it has been a long day. Indeed you got off on the wrong foot.