Paida's Pov
I was having a bad day.
Actually, scratch that.
I was having one of those days where it feels like the universe is personally out to get me.
It was the end of the month, and the office was chaos. Everyone was scrambling to settle accounts, chase payments, and deal with clients who suddenly remembered their bills existed—and wanted their cars fixed fast.
And, of course, someone had to go pay the company bills at the City Council. The air went tense when the list came out. Everyone exchanged worried glances.
"Please, not me," muttered one of the juniors.
"God, I swear if it's me again," grumbled another.
I silently counted my fingers, praying the universe would have mercy.
Spoiler alert: it didn't.
"Paida, you're on bill duty today," my supervisor said, smiling like he was handing me a prize.
The room went silent. Then came a collective groan.
"You've got to be kidding me," I muttered.
Someone patted me on the back. "You'll survive," one of the juniors said.
Another muttered, "Good luck, Paida. You're going to need it."
A few colleagues gave me those pitying looks the kind that said, we all know you're going to suffer through this.
Then my manager, calm and completely out of touch, said, "You'll be fine."
The gall of that man. I thought. Why doesn't he just go himself if it's so easy? Mxm!
When I arrived, I almost cried. The City Council was every bit as awful as I'd dreaded. The line stretched halfway across the building, people packed shoulder to shoulder, murmuring impatiently while the poor cashier behind the window moved at the speed of a sleepy turtle.
Of course I couldn't leave. My boss needed the receipts.
So there I stood. Hungry. Tired. Slowly losing the will to live.
By the time the bills were finally settled, my stomach was practically eating itself. I rushed back to the office, hoping—praying—they'd at least let me go home early.
But no. Of course, I was dreaming.
"Paida, can you handle these reports before you leave?" my supervisor asked around four.
I stared at him, willing him to be joking.
"You're joking, right?" I said, my voice shaking slightly.
"Don't be silly," he said, calm as ever.
Apparently, my suffering had not yet reached its daily quota. I could already feel a headache forming behind my eyes. Perfect. Just perfect.
I slumped into my chair.
Tariro, my work bestie, slid into the seat across from me, raising her eyebrows.
"Be strong," she said, sliding a small foil-wrapped package across the desk. "I saved this for you. My emergency stash."
I unwrapped it a humble sandwich, now lukewarm.
I tried to smile. "Thanks, Tariro… but I can't even eat this now. It's cold."
She shrugged. "It's the thought that counts."
I sighed, picking at the edges anyway. Hunger was stubborn. By the time I finished, the headache had settled in for the night. And my day wasn't even over.
Honestly, if I had another source of income, I would quit this job without a second thought. Unfortunately, life requires money. And money requires jobs. Cruel system.
Just when I thought I could sit back and mourn my miserable existence, my supervisor appeared beside my desk. Bad sign.
"Paida," he said casually, like he wasn't about to ruin the rest of my day. "I need you to deliver a client's vehicle."
I blinked at him. "Today?"
"Yes."
Of course it was today.
Apparently, I was the only one who could do it because the client's house was on my way home. Which was a very funny joke considering the nightmare that is Harare traffic at that time of day.
But did my supervisor consider that? Of course not. Apparently, delivering a client's car at rush hour was my destiny.
I grabbed my bag and muttered to myself, "If I survive today, I deserve a medal… or at least a full bottle of wine."