Consumer banking is in Lagos like nowhere else in the world, teaching other states in Nigeria the poorly contrived art of endlessly seeking funds by any means – and wherever opportunity whispers.
It is so regularly abused that the very corporate term is sparsely ever remembered, now brashly reffered to as a mere and loosely matching one word – marketing.
Also, the forms and shades of this practice breeds a dynamic charade of ways to meet outrageous targets to – like Cuba Gooding Jr in Jerry Maquire – show me the money.
And while in the pursuit of that fat cheque, a few chances open up for unspeakable shenanigans.
It is Lagos after all.
I have a friend who, at the time, had been affiliated with one of the top banks for four years.
He was doing well.
He had bought himself a car; as well as rented a good two-bedroom apartment in Festac. He could not talk enough about his apartment, constantly buzzing about his furniture – and his fridge stock-up – as well as his classic lighting all over the house.
Everyone who was either a friend or colleague heard just about enough to give it up to him based on the repetitive bragging alone.
But then one day, it ultimately worked against him.
He’d been out to market some new bank investment facilities with a female superior in his office who had constantly kept him in countenance for weeks.
She was much older, married and also had four kids.
Of course he had pretended not to notice the subtle gestures – the eye contacts; the rubs on the back; and the special treatments around the office. She was married, and he was determined not to enable her flirtatious advancements.
However, after the marketing runs on that day, she instructed the driver to chauffer them to my friends house. “Let us even see the apartment you’re always bragging about,” she added.
He swallowed spit. He knew what was to come. And he was at wit’s end to avert the inevitable.
When they entered his apartment, he showed her around, timid in speech and locomotion. Arriving in the bedroom where he slept, she asked him to pour him some of the orange juice she saw in his well stocked fridge.
He ran off to fetch it like a well trained dog, now fully operational in a robotic sense. Upon his return, his supervisor lay on his bed naked. Her legs were spread apart.
She asked him to drop the glass of juice for now and suck it up. She said that while gesturing him to her vagina.
“And did you do it,” I asked him impatiently.
“This is Lagos. It is best enjoyed with a source of income. I could not risk pissing her off, and possibly get hauled out on my ass.”
“So, you did it then?”
“Yes. Like the sweetest soursop I ever tasted.”
I shrugged. “You do what you have to do. This is, like you said, Lagos.”