It was a cool, quiet evening—one of those rare days when the city seemed to exhale. I boarded the bus home from work, grateful for the unusual calm. The vehicle was only half-full, a welcome contrast to the usual chaos of rush hour. The driver was sealed off in his little cubicle up front, and we passengers were scattered like leaves on a still pond. Among them was a man who immediately caught my eye—late 60s, wearing a crisp white cap that read ' Chosen One' in bold black letters. He was flipping through a newspaper with such frantic energy it looked like he was searching for something long lost—or perhaps arguing with the headlines themselves. Opposite him sat another older man, though you wouldn't know it from his clothes. He was dressed like a teenager—like someone clinging to relevance with both hands. Then, out of nowhere, the man in the cap spoke, loud and clear, as if addressing a courtroom rather than a quiet bus. 'Does time determine what's right or wrong...
Human Resources: Part 2 Mololuwa eventually returned to the mini office the following day, to fulfill all righteousness and convince herself that she had all the self-control in the world to do the right thing; who knows, luck might just shine one her. The reception room was very busy with people this time, unlike the previous day when she felt important enough to get the job, being the only one that had showed up for the interview. Now she understood why she was told to return the next day. There were youths and even grandpas present there now, all eager to get hired. They had on desperate expressions, especially the men. Mololuwa could not breathe freely anymore for the air had been choked with nervousness, desperation, anxiety and every other punitive feeling one could think of. The security guard was quite friendly this time as he smiled at her and told her not to worry about the day’s register but to go straight into the office space with the other pack of wolves who...