It was my 30th day on the job, the day i get to meet Mr macoroni, i had wotrn my best fit and had braided my hair, packed it into a tight bun and my stomach was in the pits of the earth, because despite the facade i put up, i knew i was truly done for if this meeting didn’t go well.
“Nervous about the meeting?” I felt my shoulder tense more; I knew that voice from nowhere. It was him; I locked my eyes on my laptop screen and tapped away furiously.
I heard him chuckle, and I was suddenly enveloped with heat; the hairs on the back of my neck were on high alert, but I kept tapping away, trying to match my heart's race. Still, I was nowhere near. My mother had always said I was a slow typist, that I did not react immediately, that I worried her.
Constantly worried her, but she knew I was stronger because I did react, just not on time, just not when they expected, when they thought it was all over, that was when I struck.
So as my supervisor towered over me, his hand lying uncomfortably on my shoulder, his moustache rubbing against the nape of my neck, I kept typing, I didn’t move, didn’t change posture, did not react, I waited.
“Where is the charismatic young woman I employed?” My fingers shook with anger, my eyes narrowed sharply at the computer. But I did not give him the satisfaction of a reply; his laughter rang in my ears, the stench of his onion-filled noise crossed one of my senses, and I almost broke character. Luckily for me, my co-worker walked in and he immediately readjusted.
I did not look up from my screen or turn back to acknowledge the disgust that came with her.
“Sorry for interrupting” I did not miss the snarky way her heels clipped. I did not miss his body close to mine, once everyone who scared me left the room.
i shook my head and finally felt my shoulders touch my chair. I felt my heart and fingers in rhythm, and I felt the happiness fill my soul. Oncee, I switched back to my original documents and clicked send. I clicked send.
I sat back in my chair, no longer afraid of meeting Mr Macroni, because it was his turn to be scared of meeting me.
It all began when I first got the invitation for the job, I was asked to join a final Zoom meeting to seal my position. I did not quite remember the company's name, but I sent out over a hundred applications, and I could not keep track. So, I got ready.
The meeting was so last-minute, so I could not run into a proper setup. I grabbed my laptop and rushed to my friend's place since my internet was acting up again. Sarah and Kemi were already there, sprawled on the couch with snacks everywhere.
"Girl, just use the bedroom," Sarah said, pointing toward the back room. But I was already five minutes late, and my hands were shaking from nerves.
I positioned myself in front of the wall, hoping it looked professional enough, and joined the call. My camera was off—I hadn't even bothered to check my appearance properly.
"Good afternoon, everyone. Sorry I'm running a bit behind," I said, trying to sound composed.
The voices came through clearly, three different people introducing themselves. Mr. Peterson from HR, Ms. Chen from Marketing, and someone else whose name I missed. They seemed friendly enough, asking basic questions about my experience, my goals, why I wanted to work with them.
I thought I had hit mute when Ms. Chen asked me to wait while they discussed something among themselves. That's when Sarah decided to crack her first joke.
"Ask them if they have a coffee machine that actually works," she whispered loudly, and Kemi snorted.
I tried to keep my face straight, looking directly at the camera.
"Or free lunch Fridays," Kemi added. "Every good company has free lunch Fridays."
I pressed my lips together, fighting back a smile. The panel had gone quiet, probably discussing my application.
"Oh, and ask about their social media policy," Sarah continued, completely oblivious. "Some of these companies are so uptight about what you can post. Like, if I want to share a picture of my breakfast, that's my business."
I couldn't help it—a small smile crept across my face. These girls had no filter.
"Ms. Williams?" Mr. Peterson's voice cut through suddenly. "We can hear you perfectly. Your microphone seems to be working fine."
My blood turned cold. Sarah and Kemi froze mid-conversation, eyes wide.
"Oh," I managed, my voice smaller than I intended. "I thought... I thought I was on mute."
There was an awkward pause that felt like forever.
"No worries at all," Ms. Chen said, and I could hear the amusement in her voice. "We've all been there. Actually, your friends make some good points about company culture."
I wanted to disappear into the wall behind me.
"Well," Mr. Peterson continued, "we do have free lunch Fridays, and our social media policy is quite flexible, especially given the nature of our work."
The interview wrapped up quickly after that, with them promising to get back to me within a week. I ended the call and immediately buried my face in my hands.
"Oh my God, we're so sorry," Sarah started, but I was already cracking up. You know that laugh you do when something is so mortifying that crying would be worse?
"At least they seemed cool about it," Kemi offered weakly.
I got the job.
Three weeks in, and I finally got why they didn't care about my friends making jokes in the background. This place was honestly insane. I mean, who plays trap music while people are trying to work? And everyone had these weird names for each other - there was this girl who everyone called Sunshine, and some guy who insisted people call him Boss Lady. I kept waiting for someone to tell me what the dress code was, but apparently there wasn't one.
On my very first day, I'm sitting there trying to figure out where the printer is, and this girl next to me is literally eating a bowl of Lucky Charms while talking to her camera about some numbers for last quarter. Another one recorded TikTok dances during lunch break. It felt more like a content house than a professional workplace.
"This is how we do things here," my supervisor explained, the same one who had made me uncomfortable during that first encounter. "We keep things fresh, keep people talking."
At first, I thought it was just the nature of working with influencers. Young people, creative energy, unconventional approaches to marketing. But as days turned into weeks, I started noticing patterns.
Every time something serious happened in the news—a political scandal, an environmental disaster, economic troubles—our influencers would suddenly post the most outrageous content. Staged controversies, bizarre challenges, attention-grabbing stunts that had nothing to do with our usual brand messaging.
It wasn't random. It was coordinated.
The realization hit me during my third week when I accidentally walked into a planning meeting I wasn't supposed to attend. They were discussing a "distraction campaign" for the upcoming weekend, timing it perfectly with some government announcement I hadn't even heard about yet.
That's when I started digging.
Late nights, careful research, connecting dots that weren't supposed to be connected. The company wasn't just managing influencers—they were using them as weapons of mass distraction. Every viral moment, every trending hashtag controversy, every ridiculous challenge that made people shake their heads and scroll faster past real news.
It was all deliberate.
I spent weeks gathering evidence, screenshots, internal emails I probably shouldn't have had access to. When I had enough to make my case, I didn't go to the authorities first. I couldn't trust them—not when this operation seemed to have tentacles reaching into places I was still discovering.
Instead, I reached out to every journalist, every activist, every person with a platform who might listen. I created backup files, shared documents with people I trusted, made sure the information would survive even if something happened to me.
That document I had sent earlier—the one I clicked "send" on right after my supervisor's uncomfortable visit—that was everything. Every piece of evidence I had gathered, every connection I had made, distributed to dozens of people who wouldn't stay quiet.
Now Mr. Macoroni wanted to meet with me.
But I wasn't scared anymore. Let him come.
image is not mine