inside me for years and years. A feeling that had been weighing on me for so long that today it was just too much to take and I finally crumpled under its weight. I could no longer be this invisible ghost that worked downstairs in a crappy, damp, musty basement filing room that no one seemed to know, or care about. I pulled myself fully out the window, and then, teetering on the small windowsill, I jumped down and hit the floor with an audible thud. And then I screamed.
“IT’S ME! I AM ZENOBIA!” My voice came out high-pitched, and everyone turned and looked at me. I rushed forward and stared at all my co-workers. “I am the person that no one bothered to look for or think about when a fire might have started. The person that no one even noticed was missing after an almost fatal fucking accident in an elevator that landed me up in hospital for daaaaayyys! And YES, I am also the person who does the fucking timesheets every single bloody day! Did no one ever wonder how all those crappy hand-scribbled bits of torn, flappy paper that you shove through that hole in the wall then get translated into something that actually makes sense and then finds its way into your . . .” I pointed at the MD now. “Your inbox! Did you not realize that someone called Zenobia did that for you? Did the email address [email protected] not alert you to the fact that someone called Zen might work for you? That someone called Zen trawled through all those crappy bits and pieces and things that aren’t even written on paper sometimes.” I pointed at someone in the third row, “Like you, Andile! Stop writing your fucking hours on scraps of chocolate paper. Do you know how many ants that brings into my ‘office’?” I made very large and dramatic air commas. “Office!” I scoffed. “As if! You know how cold it gets in there in winter? It’s like a bloody icebox, but none of you would know that, now would you, because none of you have ever set foot in it. It’s probably not even legal to have someone work in there. I bet that room is a safety hazard, hardly any fresh air. Almost zero light. Only a really crappy person would stick another human being into a damp, dingy icebox.” I turned to the MD and scowled at him, and his eyes widened in shock, and then anger. “And while I am at it, just a general note, please can you all try to write a little better. Most of you look like you didn’t even make it past Grade Two with your bloody writing. Like you, Eric!” I pointed at Eric, who was one of the illustrators. “You might be able to draw, but let me tell you, you can’t write! I can’t tell your ‘l’s’ from your ‘f’s’! And that becomes a problem when one of your clients is called ‘Lucky Loo Clothing.’ ” I paused and looked around to gauge the effects of my rant. People were still looking at me as if they had never seen me before in their lives.
“You still don’t know who I am, do you?” I looked around the floor and then saw something. Two pieces of cardboard lay strewn there. I grabbed them and held them up to my face, cutting it in half, so only my eyes and forehead were visible. “Well!” I screeched. “Does this ring any bells yet? HUH? HUH?” I peered through the small hole I’d just created with the pieces of cardboard and everyone suddenly started to nod in acknowledgment. I dropped the pieces of cardboard, now feeling totally gutted. I had worked there for seven years and the only way these people recognized me was when I peered at them through a hole that only showed my eyes and forehead. I felt tears well up. But I was not going to cry! I wasn’t going to cry!
“And you know what else?” I said, and despite not wanting to cry, I could hear my voice was shaky now. “I am the one that makes you all the cards. That’s me. The one who puts the birthday and congratulations cards on your desks, because the thing is, I know so much about each and every single one of you that I feel like I know you, and you have no idea who I am. Do you?”