Hiccup.
Water break.
Hiccup.
Scratch throat.
Water break again.
Clears throat, noisily.
The Honourable Minister does this, beads of sweat arranged in a perfect line on his upper lip. He reaches for a fan, finds his brief, and fans himself.
His personal assistant is mortified.
This is the worst of jobs, she thinks as she bends to remind him that the answers to the questions are in the brief he has made a handfan.
The Honourable Minister swats, an unlearned fly buzzing in his ear. His eyes promise retribution, later.
The personal assistant steps back, corrected. She crosses her legs, red bottoms clear for all to see.
Pius is bored.
Another befuddled minister, another entrant in the day's fool contest.
Journalism has never been more boring.
The interviews are a monotonous repetition.
Less than knowledgeable minister, personal assistant with great skills, soft and hard,
and a Ministry that exists only on paper.
Clamor.
Yelps.
Splash.
"Do you know who I am?"
The Honourable Minister is in his element, his white agbada now the colour of milky tea.
Whimpers.
Helpless mutterings.
"Who the hell is this?! Is this how you treat your guests, is this how you treat honourable ministers of the federal republic of Nigeria?!"
Ranting.
Huff, puff, exhale.
Huff, puff, threaten.
Begging,
Assauging,
Kneeling.
"I am out of here! You can find someone else to answer your questions! Nonsense!"
Scurrying.
Marching.
Worried gesticulations.
The car door slams, the tyres screech, and then, silence.
Pius sighs.
The Honourable Minister did a smart thing.
Preventing another stammer.
Hiccup.
Water break.
Pius grabs a bottle, "it's a wrap guys."
The end.
P.S. I realize that you may not understand this, but you should.
P.P.S. This is a new writing style I'm practicing. Do you like it?
Oh, and,
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