Portrait: GiGi

Gigi’s short for Ginette, the horrendous name her parents gave her, after her grandmother. Ginette, I ask you, her parents must have really hated her. 

No, Gigi, was much better. It suited her long fake acrylic nails (Gigi had a very strict policy about her nails, as she repeatedly told her beautician, her cousin Roro (after Roro’s grandmother, Rindala): the longer, the better, with little studs design and flowers and butterflies to match), her wild hair dyed three and a half different colours, her fake eyebrows and tatooed lips. 

Gigi’s an administrative officer in a medium size office and absolutely loves it. Hidden behind her computer, she can huff and puff and moan and complain that she’s too busy for words, overworked, that these people don’t know  the extreme chance they have that she’s deigning to work for them. 

Gigi’s an expert in looking busy, you see, there are some rules you’d have to follow. First of all, always come early: it’ll impress everyone and you can use this to leave the office even earlier. The fact that you have to get up for your kids anyway and that you take the time in the morning to drink coffee with the natour is completely irrelevant. 

Secondly, keep sighing loudly and tapping on your computer while screaming Ya Allah! everytime anyone dares to make your phone ring and bark a grumpy eh? shou fi? as if the poor person on the line had interrupted you while you were negotiating peace in Kashmeer. It’ll put a deep impression on people who will susbequently avoid calling you. Or making eye contact, for that matters. 

Thirdly, and that is the most important thing: keep telling people about how busy you are. It’ll make them think twice about giving you any more tasks, because you’re so busy you see, that you absolutely can’t be asked to do anymore things. 

Then, when you’re absolutely sure no one will dare to come and ask you to actually work, you can chat on MSN and Skype with your friends and family. 

Gigi loves her job, not only because she mastered the three aformentionned rules so well, but also because it is strategically positionned. When she started, they wanted to put her in that sad little corner, with the little intern who seemed so intent on doing well she’d do absolutely anything Gigi asked her to. Gigi almost threw a fit, and explained at great length to the manager that that chair didn’t suit her back problems, that the computer facing the wall would do nothing good to her claustrophobia, that sharing an office would cause germs to spread and did he know she had a particularly weak immune system? Did these people wanted her to die? The manager hence gave her the lovely desk just at the entrance of the office just to make her shut up (and also, because he was a little scared Gigi would actually fall ill just to prove a point)

From her privileged standpoint, Gigi can see the comings and goings of the office: there was this little young woman who seemed far too self assured for her own good, Estez Mostapha who comes to run her errands 20 times a day. There is also her pal Fifi, with whom she has great political conversations: “Now habibi, I’m not saying anything, we’ve always lived in harmony with them (them, referring to the other religious sect she’s currently criticising), mish ta3assob heyda, bas they’re everywhere and they’re not ashamed! Enno, I don’t get gasoline from my car from them, I go to the son of our neighbours, mish ta3assob I promise but they need to learn their place!”. Gigi also enjoys commenting on society’s declining moral standards: “That guy I interviewed! I’m sure he was gay! I mean, can you imagine a tobji working for us?” 

Alas! Gigi spoke too loud one time, and came one day to find her desk cleaned, a proper dismissal note stuck slap bang in the middle of her now bare table: From your tobji boss, with love. 

Ps: I hated your nails anyway. 

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