Dear Wannabe And Now Kicked-To-The-Curb-Client,
How are you? If fine, doxology. If not, that’s your business, not mine. I am sure that by now you’re wondering at the almost silly tone of my email to you, and wondering also at what I mean by ‘wannabe’ and ‘kicked to the curb’. I will make those clear enough for you in a moment, since you are clearly too stupid to understand that I am firing you.
Yes, firing you! What, you thought you are the only one who can? News Flash, Bucko – I can and I have. Check the Terms and Conditions I sent you. The only problem is, we had not even agreed on it all, but I still want to fire you anyway.
It all started when I sent you my fee and explained the entire process to you. You seemed reasonable and excited, and then you dropped the E word. Your mother clearly did not teach you not to ever mention that word to a designer when discussing charges for work to be done. What the hell is wrong with you? Are you stupid or something? Oh. Right.
I do not know which universe you come from, but in mine, bills are not paid with exposure. That is idiocy. That is like saying a plumber should fix your leaking pipes and be happy that the world will see the work and give him jobs. How many people in the world go around the piping in people’s houses and ask, “Hey! Your pipes are awesome! Who did this stuff? I need me some of this action, right now!”
See? No one does that. So, yes, you are an idiot. Exposure, my flat behind. Did I tell you I am into photography or I am making a sex tape? What the hell do I need your exposure for? So when these useless NEPA/PHCN/SANGO people come to cut my lines, I should show them your certificate of exposure and they will smile and just walk away, praising the name of the Most High God for my expository exposure?
Or when I want to contact another cheap, jobless, drunken, unserious wannabe client like you, MTN will give me airtime based on exposure? Have you ever tried to buy amala, ewedu ati gbegiri with exposure? Has a fat, black, Yoruba woman who has finished sweating over steaming, hot pots to make that kind of mind-numbing, soul-relaxing meal ever slapped you before? You want one? Go and receive your igbati from her and then tell me how many wraps of amala your exposure got you.
Please, for the sake of national peace and posterity, carry your wahala and go. I am Igbo. I am Nigerian. These two things mean I like money well-well. I want to sleep in a bed full of it, not exposure, and this madness that is affecting you is threatening to get in the way of that dream.
Take a seat at the stadium to watch Chelsea’s latest match and let me have peace today. Because if you disturb me again, the amount of slaps, knocks, flogging with leather belt and stoning with shoes that I will expose you to will kill you. And while I do secretly want to kill you, let us not tempt ourselves this fine December, inugo?
Not yours without credit alert,
PS: I don’t even like you sef. Mtchew!