I got stuck in a lift sometime this week. The little bugger jerked like a dying horse before finally grinding to a halt somewhere between the 7th and 8th floor.
Then everything went silent. Morbidly silent. There were sharp gasps from the ladies in the car. We were five in there; myself, this guy in a shiny suit and laptop bag slung over his shoulder and three ladies - career types in dark skirt and trouser suits, high heels, tight jaws and severe hairstyles. The serious boardroom brawlers who don’t take prisoners. I was the only one in jeans.
One of the ladies who was nearest to the controls immediately reached over and punched the red alarm button. Nothing happened. We stood there in silence.
The ladies then jumped into their handbags and rummaged through the paraphernalia that live within. Black serpentine blackberries came out. No signal.
More phones were removed from the handbags as if by a stroke of luck, an alternative service provider might just have signal in the lifts. No such luck.
The tough exteriors started showing subtle cracks of panic upon which Mr. Shiny Suit, in a perfect gentlemanly move turned to the slightly anxious ladies and smiled reassuringly “Everything will be fine, we will be out of here in no time,” he said.
I almost believed him. Soon the two ladies were getting agitated. The business mugs fell away and were soon replaced by terrified looks.
They then started cussing under their breaths and basically making it look like we were all going to die a miserable and lonely death. Curiously the third lady stood at the far corner of the lift and remained mum. I suspected she was praying.
“I knew today was not going to be a normal day, I knew it!” one of the ladies gushed almost in tears. We stood there for 10 minutes, not saying much but hoping that someone was working to get the lifts moving again.
The two women, according to their conversation, were headed for a meeting. I wasn’t in any rush myself; I was 20 minutes early for my meeting and to tell you the truth, getting stuck in the lifts for a few minutes seemed like a better way to kill time than sit at the reception and watch Afrosinema.
But I knew for a fact that we weren’t going to die, not that day and not in those lifts. I knew because I hadn’t seen my life flash before my eyes, there had been a flash, yes, but it was from the other guy’s suit.
“What do we do now?” one of them asked nobody in particular, but they sort of turned and looked at me, presumably because I was in jeans and people in jeans in the middle of the week – I suspect - can fix stalled lifts and save everyone from imminent death.
Thankfully, before I could say something, the car suddenly jerked upward violently and then stopped almost immediately again. The two ladies let out a small scream and grabbed at the walls of the lifts, comically trying to balance on their high heels.
The lone lady who we thought was handling this little mishap well then started sobbing without warning. Mr Shiny Suit and I looked at each other… that look that men exchange when they are in the presence of women and are confronted by a situation they have no idea how to solve.
That look of, “maybe we are going to die after all.” I was amused how not too long ago these two ladies cut that image of corporate hawks that kick ass and collect names, and now faced with death or even loss of limb, they had transformed into vulnerable squirmy girls in suits submitting to the men to help them survive the ordeal.
These ladies looked the type who perhaps fixed their own flat tyres if they chose to, paid for their drinks in the pub and holidayed to exotic places and did what men would do (even better) yet they laid their hopes in the two unlikeliest of men; one in jeans (who they would have dismissed as a vagabond and a drifter) and the other in a Shiny Suit (who would have been dismissed as a pimp, and perhaps rightfully so).
There was none of the cockiness, or the straight jaws and stiff backs. All that had all dissipated as the prospect of death became palpable.
All the fickle trappings that women pick in the city to validate themselves before the eyes of men - and fellow women - had become irrelevant and useless. They were stripped of them and they stood there as women; vulnerable and fragile. They needed help from us, even though it was apparent we were helpless too.
One of the ladies asked accusingly, “Can’t you guys do something?” But what does a writer know about lifts and engineering? My knowledge of lifts is limited to the fact that when you press 8 the lifts will take to the 8th floor.
Mr Shiny Suit didn’t look like an engineer either but together, we did what men do in situations where we are clueless and outfoxed; we acted like we knew. And it worked.
There are many morals to this story; that a man is still a man and is very useful despite what women might think. Men represent more than just a beard and a deep voice; we represent a sense of security, order, leadership and strength.
We, in all our glaring faults, embody these traits. And perhaps another more significant moral of this story is that there is more to a man’s resourcefulness than his shiny suit.
bikozulu@gmail.com
www.nation.co.ke
No comments:
Post a Comment