Cindy-Lou Dale

About 10 years ago I worked with a German in Nairobi. Herman Schmee was his name. Short, squat and greasy -- he looked like a troll. And he was a creep. He had a thing for me, the kind of thing which, till this day, gives me the shivers.

Nairobi is not the kind of place you’ll find much of in the way of luxury, so I am certain you’ll appreciate why I cherished the Swiss chocolates my boss brought me from his European trip.

I unwrapped the beautifully presented red-bowed box and hid it in my top ‘personal’ drawer of my desk. I treated myself to only one every day. Three days later I found that eight more had been removed, although I could only account for three of them.

I knew who had taken the others but could never prove it. Schmee the Shmuck! He was always poking about in my office but didn’t know that I knew what he was doing. He had recently found my ‘little black book’ which I left at work in error, and called all the phone numbers listed next to the names that were male, asking how they knew me and if we had at one point or another, had a relationship. I know this as he had called both my brother and my cousin. So, with this still fresh in mind a plan of action began to formulate itself. I put the box of chocolates in my handbag and spent the rest of the day planning my revenge.

On the way home I stopped off at a pharmacy and a grocer and spent the evening making chocolates in a special mould I had picked up at the store. I made only almond flavoured soft cantered ones, like those he had selected. I was rather impressed with my chocolatier skills and put the finished product in the box that came from Switzerland. The next morning I put them back in my 'personal' drawer.

After I returned from a meeting I discovered 4 chocolates had been lifted. I did not have to look far to see the culprit as Schmee sat outside my office, in the open-plan area. His desk faced my door. Within a few minutes I saw my ‘recipe’ was taking effect. I had dosed the soft almond centres with concentrated laxatives. With four chocolates in his stomach, Schmee had consumed the equivalent of twelve doses of laxatives. Every few minutes he dashed off to the loo. After about an hour I expressed my concern as he was sweating profusely and looked quite frantic.

I asked him the following day what it was he had eaten that could have caused his distress -- and offered him another chocolate. He fled my office.

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