I can still recall that I entered the old radio station on Herbert Macaulay Road the first time. The edifice was worn-out, the yellow paint being cracked, and the signboard becoming, as though it were weary as well, inclined.
But that morning was the cheeriest of the twenty-seven years of my life. I reached and held my backpack, wiped my palms and said, Tobi, this is it.
The security officer at the gate looked at me.
“You dey find who?” he asked.
“I’m the new intern,” I replied.
“Oh! Enter. Studio dey upstairs.”
My feet were creaking up the stairs. The name of the first door that I saw was Studio B in faint letters. I pushed it open, which had the effect of nearly making me smile too wide, owing to the blast of cold air-conditioning and the soft green of blinking buttons.
I even got to see the presenter of the station star, Mide and he wore a cap backwards and talked like he was halfway into a joke.
"You are the new guy, eh?" said the man, without glancing off the soundboard.
“Yes, sir. My name is Tobi.”
“No ‘sir’ here,” he said. "Just get through my wahala and you will be okay."
I laughed, and I did not know whether he was serious or not.
I trailed him, week after week. I observed him as he moderated sound, slid back and forth, and changed his moods without any trouble. I liked him so much that I attempted to imitate his voice in practising when I was alone after the hours. One evening, he caught me.
“You get talent,” he said. “But don’t sound like me. Sounds like you.”
This was a rush, the one that fills your heart. Possibilities were in my footsteps that night as I went home.
All was different on the day he allowed me to host a five minute segment. I put the headphones on and my heart went thumping. The microphone was in front of me as it was waiting all my life. I was thumbs-upped by Mide through the glass.
I spoke.
Not perfectly. Not smoothly. But I used the language as if I were part of it.
At the conclusion of the segment, my phone was beeping with messages of friends. Guy, do you use radio? Tobi you dey try o! I felt that I was elevated to an elevation that I previously had looked at with eyes.
Then it was low, sudden and sudden.
After seven days, I was summoned to an interview with the station manager in his office.
“We’re restructuring,” he said. Internship programs will be minimized. Unfortunately…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. My heart sank. When I got out of his office, the passage was darker than it was.
I told Mide that evening.
He sighed. “E pain me, Tobi. You were improving fast.”
“What do I do now?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Life happens. But you sabi this job. You’ll find your way.”
I heard his words airing around me, but they never landed. It was like leaving the station and walking out of the world I was not eager to. The next few weeks were dull and glum. I used to pass the station door on occasion when I was going to buy bread deceiving that I was not peeking, yet I was always peeking.
One Saturday afternoon as I was sitting under the mango tree outside of my compound watching my old recordings, I heard my neighbor and his small brother screaming, Bro Tobi! They are looking for you!”
“Who?” I asked.
He shrugged. “One man inside the car.”
As I approached the gate, I realized that there was a clean silver car parked outside the gate. The window was rolled down and I saw Mide smiling at me.
“I got a new job,” he said. “A fresh station.”
“Congratulations!” I replied.
I even advised you to take a junior producer position. They desire to see you tomorrow.
My mouth was open and there was no sound. He laughed.
“Wear a fine shirt. Don’t go and embarrass me.”
Something lifted me inside, as I had not been able to do in weeks. Not fully. Not like before. But enough.
The following day, I ironed my nice shirt and practiced some answers before the mirror. The sunlight seemed warm when I came out of my room.
Life had failed to give me the same high that I used to feel-but it had given me another. Different. Maybe quieter. But still rising.
And I walked toward it.
Wow! Mide is such a good guy. Thanks for sharing.