Death at a Desk
One of the stories concerned with “Why I do What I do,” that I haven’t told much has to do with a previous career. I was, ok to don’t start laughing, a human resources executive at a very huge company that shall remain nameless because of what I’m about to say.
On my “free” time and weekends, whenever I got them, I used to volunteer in community cultural centers and weekend schools, telling stories, teaching history, current event and playing music. It was what I truly loved doing, although I never considered trying to make a living at it. This was some years ago.
Well, as you can imagine, the corporate structure of 12 hour days (minimum) and 6 day work weeks was taking its toll on my psyche. I’m one of those creative types who doesn’t do so well that type of environment. I actually admire those who can excel in that structure.
Anyway, I was grinding away each day, waking up with expletives spewing from my mouth and delicately placing a silk noose around my neck before I would leave home.
One Monday, I came into work and everyone was really solemn. I went into my office and called one of my closest confidents on the phone. We were only two doors away from each other, but still, hey, this was the way things worked.
He began to tell me that one of the top execs (for purposes of this post lets’ just call him Bob) was found dead at his desk. Apparently Bob had died Friday evening while putting in extra hours on some project (the top execs always loved it when you virtually lived at the office, it showed commitment!) and no one found him until Monday morning.
I sat at my desk that entire day, thinking about the fragility of life and my own immortality. I didn’t know Bob, although I was aware that he was one of the hardest working people in the company.
I made a promise to myself that I would live life, with whatever time I had left, on my own terms.
Becoming a professional storyteller is only one of those things for which I’ve kept a promise to myself.
“dooni dooni kononi be nyaga da!”
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