THE INTERVIEW

THE INTERVIEW
The queue is long. Very long. I don’t mind though. Perhaps I am happy it is so. I have learnt out of necessity, to be patient; and I have perfected that art. In my mind’s eye, I had always seen myself treating and healing patients, and in the evening boasting at the pub of my noble deeds. Sometimes I still do. But things haven’t been so good these past three years. Not since I failed my O’ level examination. The wretched idiot that I am! I am reminded of how bad things are, every morning I look at dad in the eye and say ‘Hi dad’. For a second, even less, he stares at me forcing a smile, only to end up looking down on the floor and, defeated, calls mother from the kitchen and asks for something- anything to end what we never started. He is a diligent man, dad. I admire him a lot and I know he adores me. But my failure has become his and he is suffering deeply for it. His face looks a dozen years older than three years ago.
A lot has happened since I graduated from Kamindo High School. Oh what good old days! Only three years ago I was the Dining Hall Captain. I was a respected person. The thousand or so lads at the school first fell in love with my jokes. I was good at it. I could crack jokes to a crowd of boys till tears trickled down their cheeks, despite their attempts to hold them back. It was a unique gift, or so they thought- how I was able to look at an audience and devise a joke that was extremely appropriate for the occasion. At some point, it got extreme. Everything I said was funny. The day I announced my intention to vie, they laughed. To the ballot they went in laughter as they cast in my favour. I didn’t give the victory speech as required of prefects. I tried but they could not take the humour in silence. I had a feeling, an odd knack in the bone, that the intensity of my jokes was enhanced by my physique. Many thought my skinny figure would be history once I became the Dining Hall Captain. It didn’t. The belt still goes round my waist twice. I am tall though, and you are excused to think of sugar cane, or a pole vault, when you see me.
Preparing for an interview is a whole lot of work. First, you need to think about the clothes you will wear. I have been thrown out of a building once for dressing inappropriately. The hardest thing though, is preparing for the questions. A lot of brainstorming is required. The worst thing that can happen to you during an interview is to get stuck when the questioning begins. Then there is attitude. The judges will always want to see your enthusiasm. And much more, even prayers! I have become very good at it though. As I dressed up this morning, I had a feeling which lasted till I stepped into this room, that today’s interview would be different. My father noticed this. Our handshake was firmer than usual.
“I know you will make it, David.” He has a deep beautiful voice. Once, he used to comment about how well dressed I was for the occasion. The interview suit is now quite worn out and it is yet to fulfil its purpose.
Hours are passing quickly as we sit on the row of benches in the corridor. There are about seventy of us now. My buttocks are getting worried. They are used to this, though. At the end of the corridor on our right, is the room where interviews are being conducted. It seems ages away. But patience is mine. If only I could get this salesman job. Salesman! That’s the nice title that I have been chasing it for some time now. In this particular case, I don’t have the faintest idea about what I shall be selling. But that is not important. I can sell anything under the sun. I have been trained to sell. All I want is to get employed. To work for somebody and get a salary! It is what all the folks in this corridor are chasing: Employment. I look at the man on my right, who will precede me in the interview. He is black, as charcoal; tall and slim as me, perhaps two years older. His hands are full of scars. He must have done some really odd jobs in his life. I think of myself two years from now and it’s him I see. I pinch myself and the horrible thought vanishes. I smile. I suppress laughter. He notices and he smiles at me. He is a good man. He says something about the interview. I nod. My voice fails me at such times. He seems to understand. So he must be intelligent too. Am surprised how subtle thoughts occupy me at such inappropriate times.
The corridor where we sit is long and well lit. It must have been designed for this very purpose. The floor is tiled and very slippery. There is a notice at the entrance, which reads “CAUTION: slippery floor”. The walls are sturdy and high, perhaps ten feet. An echo can be heard whenever someone speaks out loud. This is rare as silence looms large, save for a few occasions when some pair exchange a word or two, to confirm their humanness.
I lean forward and look to my right. I want to count those ahead of me. Hardly started, something odd strikes me. It’s the guy up next. His knees are beating against each other pretty hard. His head is heavy and he is unable to keep it upright. He is very tense and I am surprised. To pass time, or perhaps due to some curiosity, I find myself studying the rest of the group. Soon I discover a pattern. At the left end, there are those who have not been in the room for long. Their faces show excitement. They are happy to have made it here on time. Following them are some uneasy and irritated faces. Why are they irritated? Perhaps they just realised that the queue is moving really slow, and that they will have to be here for quite a while. How witty! I smile and proceed to the middle group. This is where I am right now. Their faces show contentment. They know the pace is slow, and they have come to terms with that. The guys immediately on my right are checking their document to make sure, one last time that everything is perfect. At the far right, we have noticeably scared faces. They will very soon be facing the panel, and that is not at all exciting. Immediately I remember I had some counting to do. So I lean forward again and count: Twenty five. I take a deep breath. When the count gets to five or less I always grow butterflies in the stomach. I don’t expect today to be any different.
The guy whose knees had bitter rivalry soon comes out. I study his face attentively. It reads hope. That’s admirable. He inspects the fleet of eyes as he walks across. At me he hesitates. Perhaps he noticed I was staring keenest. Our eyes are locked for a second or two. I give up. As my eyes fall, they are attracted by something on his hands. It’s the fat envelope he is carrying. He walks out and I am left a little puzzled. I realise how unacceptably thin my envelope is and I am almost ashamed.
On the wall there is a portrait. It’s the third president of the republic. For some unknown reason, I find myself studying it closely. The face is pleasant; very relaxed. The sought that tells- ‘everything is good’, even when it's not. The portrait draws me deeper and deeper into its mystery. It begins to sap energy out of my mind. Perhaps I want it to speak to me. To give me some wise counsel. It doesn’t. I gaze at it closer still, almost begging. One word comes- “Ji-enjoy”. What! Again: “Ji-enjoy!” At first I am surprised and puzzled. How am I supposed to enjoy myself, with no salary? What is there for me to enjoy? Now I am offended. I am disgusted! I try to shut my mind, with little success. The abominable word keeps popping up. I am losing my mind. I need to get my senses back fast. Suddenly, I turn to my friend on the right and say the first thing that comes:
“Do you come from far?” It’s quite loud. A few puzzled faces stare at me. He is astonished. I am about to reprimand myself, when he replies,
“I had to start walking at four in the morning, to be here by eight. Does that sound far to you?” Christ! His face is indifferent. I am lost for words. I know there is no fun in walking for four hours on a freezing morning. He expects me to say something but I don’t. A few minutes later he looks at me and laughs. We laugh.
Hours pass and my friend is next. Something scary begins to happen. His knees too pick up a fight! I gaze at him in disbelief. He is on the verge of a nervous breakdown, or so it seems. An odd sense of immediacy grips me. I want to talk to him and help him. He needs to know that everything will be okay.
“You are nervous, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” He tries to smile. “A bit... Hell a lot! I always am.” His face has grown serious now.
“Everything will work out fine,” I tell him. He bursts out with laughter and I join in. Not for long though. Our celebration is cut short when a guy comes out and now it’s my friend’s turn to face the panel.
“Good luck,” I shout to him as he enters. Am not sure he heard me. I laugh at myself.
It’s only a few minutes now before I face them. The afternoon is hot. I am quite hungry. As usual, I did not have any breakfast this morning. It’s practically impossible to afford three meals in a day. At home, we have got used to this. I look at the tired suit I am wearing. I cannot forget how I earned it. It was during the last general elections. They paid us handsomely for the job. But the things they made us do; only God knows! I remember the day I got home with the suit. Dad asked me where I got the money and I told him the election job. How he eyed me suspiciously and when I got to my room I wanted to rip it into small bits. What a time it was! I still find it difficult to concede that we were guilty. Perhaps we were; perhaps we were not. That is dark history and the faster we get over it, the better.
Time is running fast. I want to look at my certificates to assure myself am all set. But a quick glance at the guys on the queue and I decide it’s a bad idea. I am nervous now. How can I not be, when am next to face them? That question to my friend earlier, whether he was nervous, must have sounded really stupid to him. It afforded us a good laugh, though. I am watching my knees. I don’t want them to begin the quarrel. It’s only then that I realise how hard it is. My heart is drumming hard against my chest and I can’t prevent it. Perhaps they can hear it. I wish they don’t.
At this moment of heightened pressure, a video clip of the last three years runs through my mind. It begins with the announcement of the O’ level results. I go to school to collect my results and it’s a ‘B’. Glory is mine. My father puts on a bold smile and gives me some memorable words of congratulations, “You are a hero, son. Thank you for making us proud.” These happy times are cut short by the harsh verdict of one admissions board, ‘We can’t take you all.’ Desperation follows. There are tears in my eyes and in my dad’s. Poverty is such a disease! Soon, he sells three cows and I get a certificate in sales and marketing. Later, he sells the remaining two, to pay my fees for a computer applications course. He wants a big chunk of the one-acre piece of land gone too. I firmly say no to this. What follows are odd jobs: Digging pit latrines, doing laundry for people, carrying loads on my shoulders over incredible distances, and so forth. And of course, the million interviews in pursuit of a decent, titled job. What misery!
These unpleasant thoughts are luckily interrupted when my friend comes out. He is lucky to be through. His face reads ‘hope’ too. He gives me an assuring look. I smile, as I enter the lion’s den.
It’s a big room, with an oval-shaped table in the middle. Immediately I notice the beautiful chandelier on the ceiling. Some soft classical music is playing in the background. How odd! On either side of the table, there is one lady and one gentleman. A fat man sits on the far end, to make it a panel of five. It’s obvious he is the boss. I want to offer my hand for them to shake. Their faces tell me it’s a bad idea, so I shout ‘Good afternoon’, and they reply in unison ‘hi’.
“Your certificates, please, and have a seat.” The voice is as fat too! I comply and sit directly opposite him, across the table. Then the lady on the right gives some statement. From the way she speaks, I can tell that she has been repeating the same for quite a number of times.
“Congratulations for making it this far. Several thousand applied for the job but only a hundred meet us today. We’ll pick five of these, to work as trainees. No salary, only some basic allowance. After a year, one of them will join us. Are you ready for the challenge?”
I nod my head as I say yes. I have learnt over time to put on faces like clothes. So am not worried about that. But, my Goodness! After all this hard work, only one- One! I am overwhelmed with disbelief. I can’t quit though. Like she said, it’s a big achievement to have made it this far. I must finish what I started. The questions begin. First, they want to know what I think I can do for the company. But I do not even know yet what they sell. So I reply to their question with another. They are surprised. Not in a bad way. They converse among themselves in low tones and then inform me about the cause of their excitement.
“Since morning no one has asked us what it is exactly that we sell. The rest perhaps just don’t care. All they want is the monthly payslip,” one of the gentlemen says. Others nod in approval. That means I have an upper edge now. However, they do not answer my question. Instead they proceed to their next and ask me about the qualities that I have which are unique and likely to be beneficial to the company. Of course patience comes first in my mind. But I hesitate on giving them that. I have come to realise that patience is associated with laziness. So I give them honesty and fast learning. Voila! They are nodding again in approval. I am surprised how easy it is to manipulate these guys. But I don’t want to get too excited. I know how many times I have left the interview room with a strong feeling that I impressed best, only to wait for a call and end up disappointed. Today I will not give myself false hope. The questions continue. You can always predict with near precision almost all questions they will ask. There is little creativity. If correct answers are all they usually want, I am certain I could have got a job a long time ago. One of the things I am most experienced in is definitely answering interview questions.
At the seventh question, some mysterious demon takes hold of me, and I do not even hear the question. It’s the portrait in the corridor! This time the voice is louder and surer than ever before: ‘Ji-enjoy! Ji-enjoy!’ That voice is now screaming in my head endlessly. It’s driving me to the verge of insanity! Suddenly I jump from my chair like it has grown thorns on it.
“I do not want this job, after all!”
Silence follows-loud enough for all to hear. Ten seconds pass.
“What did you say?” It’s the fat bossy voice. I am irritated. I don’t like repeating myself. I realise I need better initiative. Right now I am budding with confidence. As a matter of self assurance I repeat my statement in louder voice as I comb the table of my certificates, and head to the door. LIBERATION. As I dart out of the room, I chance to hear the hoarse, careless voice of the fat man, “He is a dumb, wretched idiot.” Laughter follows, as the next sheep trudges in.
In the corridor are tired, hungry faces. I wonder whether they can read victory on mine. They don’t. They are all occupied with more important thoughts. I hesitate in the middle of the corridor as I thankfully look at the portrait. I want to hug it. Even kiss it.
Soon I am back on the street. I can’t wait to report my victory to dad. The air is cool, breezy and optimistic. I realise that all this while I have been a boy. Now I am a man. I am very glad and lucky that my dream of healing people has not been obscured by the hardships. I know I face a Herculean task. There is a Goliath to conquer. But I know, better than ever before, that I can achieve anything I set my mind to.
END
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