Living for Disco

The phone rings.  I pick it up.
“Good afternoon, [my organisation]”
“Hello Meme*, I hope you can help me.  Someone just gave me a miss call from this number.”

My heart sinks.   I hate calls like this.  They are invariably fraught with confusion and frustration. My accent seems to be difficult for people to understand, particularly on the phone.  As a result, I have cracked, and now pronounce certain words differently - thirty, for example, is now “theti”.   It makes a big difference.
“Oh, I’m sorry, this is an office.  I don’t know who might have called you.  Who is speaking?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Who are you?”

The caller says something that sounds like he is trying discreetly to spit a chunky wad of phlegm into a hankie.
“I’m sorry?”

“What?”

“Who is this?”

“Nadi.”

“Hello Nadi.”

“Hello Meme.  Who am I speaking to?”

“My name is Rachael.”

“Richard**.  OK.  How can I help you Meme?”

“Um, I didn’t call you.  I don’t know who called you.  When was the call made?”

“It was a miss call, from this number.  I want to know how I can help you.”

“I didn’t call you.  I don’t know who did. It could be any number of people. I’m sure if it’s important, they’ll call you back.”

There is a disatisfied silence.  Whoever it is on the end of the line wants closure.  I can tell that this call is going to be bugging him all day.

Finally he makes a few harumphing noises, and says “OK Meme, I will call back later.”

I can’t wait.

*Pronounced like mama, only with an e.

**During my entire five months in Egypt, I got called Richard consistently by everyone I worked with.  The same goes here.  In fact, my name is practically unpronouncable in every country I’ve ever been to.  If it’s not Richard, it’s Riju, Lychee, Leecher, or John.

This entry was posted on Monday, September 18th, 2006 at 3:51 pm and is filed under Under African Skies. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.