Kolapo Olapoju: Dilemma of an interviewee (30 Days, 30 Voices)

by Kolapo Olapoju

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 ”He counted 25, 26, 27,28,29,30 figures; thirty expectant faces. Most of them strained by constraints, yet bright.”

He shuffled back and forth from the escape Adele’s music offered and the release Johnny Cash presented on his dilapidating 7 year old iPod, which had passed through 3 hands in his disjointed clan.

He glanced across all angles of the waiting room and registered the sights and persons present. A split thermo cool air-conditioner, a 32 inch flat screen TV and 4 semi-attached fluorescent bulbs, all worked on.

‘‘Formal, cold and indifferent setting.’’ He surmised.

He counted 25, 26, 27,28,29,30 figures; thirty expectant faces. Most of them strained by constraints, yet bright. Weakening, yet present. All in search of pittance. A Meagre prize. Available little.

‘’Hanging to hope and knocking on doors, is a better prospect than disintegrating from depression in a society where all the opportunities and advantages rest with the fortunate.’’ He reassured himself and reaffirmed the justification of his determination. ‘’Truly, the worst alternative becomes the best option when all else goes south. The walking cripple cannot afford to jump, for his chains will drag him back earthbound’’, he concluded.

He was jolted back to consciousness by the voice of the secretary presently announcing that “the interview session will commence in 30 minutes. You’ll be called in alphabetically”, she added. Once she delivered the message, she momentarily scanned through the faces seated and simultaneously brushed invisible dirt off her plaid skirt or probably straightened the already smooth couture.

How much could that cost, he wondered. Can she be paid so much as to be able to afford that, he continued to ponder. Vintage couture on a secretary! As he was about to do a quick estimation, the impressive secretary turned around, then smartly and elegantly sashayed back in. As the door shut behind her, the whispers, furtive glances and conversations started. All in response to the information that had just been disseminated.

Everyone- except him and a cute petite lady at an ignored corner -processed, shared and reprocessed the announcement. For the first time in the 2 hours, since he had entered the waiting room or “lobby” as the twin-sign at the entrance spelt, he consciously observed his immediate surroundings acutely, and perused and searched every person thoroughly, in search of clues and tips that might define them, and their respective situation or station.

The young enthusiastic looking graduate in the lot looked 25 max. Fresh graduate full of zeal and ambition. New warrior in the labour-less labour jungle. He couldn’t have done up to ten interviews yet. He was definitely the youngest of the mature crowd.

The man at the far right looked 31 or 32, probably put himself through school, with less than 3 years in the labour market. He looked partially self-satisfied at the feat of being present. The man at the middle of the adjacent -seated group looked about 40, surely the youngest he could have been was 39. Wasn’t that waay above the required age? he wondered.

Then, there was the lady in a skirt suit, who kept creeping outside to answer her phone like she was discussing national security, she looked about 35-36, she’s probably a mother who had been pushed back into the labour market by the societal factors that have made “sole-breadwinner-ship” a rare luxury.

She doesn’t want to be here, but she has to be there. Less than halfway through his idle task, the impressionable secretary came out again to call the first interviewee “Could number 91 come with me please?”

All of a sudden, his head went into overdrive on hearing “number 91″. The day was Thursday and the initial interview was advertised as being a week long ceremony, and there were 30 heads present. This could only mean one thing; 30 people had been coming daily for the past 3 days, 30 present today and definitely another 30 tomorrow. 150 “labour market” members with qualifications like ‘Bsc and Masters’ were applying for a position that probably won’t pay above 45 000 naira monthly. A hundred and fifty people jostling mentally and jousting mutedly for a single, sole, one position.

‘’Has it become this bad’’, he whispered to himself. Expectedly, he got neither response nor acknowledgement to his illegible phrase. Sighing with double defeat, he picked up his Nokia torch-light phone from his lap and typed a quick text message ‘too many people here’ to his mother, his sole charitable outlet and currently, irritable supporter.

After 9 years in the underfed labour pool, he was 35, living with his long retired mother, his father recently passed away. He was flat broke; his weight was too heavy, even for himself to carry. He was often deadbeat. Most of the time, he was literally walking dazed and jay-walking through the system. Close to a hundred interviews, aptitude tests and even once upon an age, a training exercise. All efforts in vain till now, no job, nothing concrete, no love from any quarters.

The lucky applicant per interview almost always knew someone, ‘‘long leg is what they have, which I lack’’, was his constant complaint to his mum. ‘‘We have God’’, his mother always reminded him. He heard his number the fourth time it was called. He jolted back to the moment to find everyone staring at him strangely. Apparently, she had called his number thrice already and since it was obviously written on the tag around his neck, by the third call, everyone knew he was the one being called.

He stood abruptly, straightened his frame, gave them all a cold brief stare that meant ‘‘what’s your business’’ and faced the secretary saying ‘’‘shall we?’’. She looked at him as if to ask why it took him forever to answer her call, but decided against the action after probably realizing that she wouldn’t get a flattering response.

Once again, she swivelled around smartly and he strode behind her, walking in to another one, another interview, another hopeful venture, yearning for the best like the last time and the time before.

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Kolapo Olapoju is a creative writer, poet and entrepreneur. He develops content for web, print and TV. His works have been published in Glam & Essence magazine, YNaija, Nigerian Entertainment today (NET),  idontdull.net and many others. His poetry has been published on Poetrysoup.com and in anthologies like ‘Upcoming Voices’ by Society of Young Nigerian writers and ‘2014 Annual Poets Showcase’ by Poetry First Publishing. He tweets from @hardrockyng

30 Days, 30 Voices series is an opportunity for young Nigerians from across the world to share their stories and experiences – creating a meeting point where our common humanity is explored.

Op-ed pieces and contributions are the opinions of the writers only and do not represent the opinions of Y!/YNaija

 

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