"Do you have an office t-shirt for the trade fair?" my boss asked.
Somewhere in my subconscious my spider sense went off. I thought of my faded office polo top that I got exactly a year ago for the last trade fair. I last saw it adorning the luscious sleeping form of my wife.
Then I thought of my friend Yinka and her spiffy looking Diamond Bank t-shirt. Oh no!
"It's quite faded sir."
"Really?" he mumbled, and he pulled out a slightly less faded version from a drawer. "Wash that and use it tomorrow." Great!
Not that the t-shirt is the problem. It's this whole trade fair thing.
Attending the Kaduna Trade Fair is usually not a bad experience. You get free tickets, refreshments and the chance to rub minds with visitors and fellow participatants. But I know that there's really one overriding reason my middle-aged senior colleagues want me there. I'm young, strong and junior in rank. Yep, I'm the gofer.
Every office has a gofer. Gofers are a trade fair necessity. They're the ones who're there to fetch this and carry that all over the place. And they come in all shapes, sizes and sexes.
Some companies hire temps or part-time staff. Others, like mine, just hand you a used t-shirt. And nothing is off limits.
Official display items need setting up? They call you. Someone forgot a big box of$ fliers? They send you. Oga bought a new refrigerator for his wife? Guess who's back breaks carrying it through the doors of his house? that's right... you! And that's just for the male gofers.
Anyway, if I gotta go then at least I'll be looking pretty spiffy too; I've a got new office t-shirt that no one knows about.
