I sigh softly as my behinds make contact with the cold cement slab beneath me. You see, like any other Kenyan about to graduate, I’ve been trying to get a job. Currently, a job with Deloitte. That is why I am here in Chiromo for an uptitude test.
We are so many of us here. You’d mistake us for fellows waiting upon the Jesus, who rode on a donkey, to feed us with the proverbial fish and loaves. At face value, all these decendants of Abraham and Nebchadnezzar scattered in this compound look happy. Or nervous. No one here looks broke or sad. Neither does any of them look like they’ve ever suffered from indigestion at any time in their lifetimes. Not that indigestion is a rite of passage.
However, that does not worry me. The happy part is what does. Why would these Kenyans look this happy when the price of Ugali is as tall as the Eifel tower? When sugar has become a good for the rich? Severally, I have thought of asking the president to just gawia me my piece of Kenya so that I relocate elsewhere. Zimbabwe even. Why? Zimbabwe has problems, lots of them. But their president’s humor dries out the deepest of wounds. I also heard King Mswati needs a new young wife. Like myself. In between yesternight and this morning, I grew old enough to be married. To a king.
Next to me is a very chatty lady. One of Kenya’s reknowned pessimists, I crowned her so after three minutes of listening to her. Pretty as she looks, she reeks of bile. The moment she sat next to me, peace became a mirage in my life. With a zeal that matches those tibim dancers, she has been describing how this recruitment process is a waste of time. She feels kucheswo with 1 million other Kenyans.(insert an appropriate emoji here)
I am tempted to turn in her direction and tell her, ‘dada, from Amin Dada’s lineage, cut us some slack. A whole lot of slack, actually. You are too pretty to be spewing bile considering you are yet to receive a regret letter from your first job application.’ But my mother raised me well so I shut up.
You thought after being broke, heartbreaks stings the worst? Think again. Nothing beats the sting of a rejection letter from a job you applied for. The first time it happens, you will not be fazed because you will still have not lost your enthusiasm about life just yet. So, you will apply again. And again. Till you no longer get enthused when you hear of a job advertisement.
The day you get rejected, you will console yourself in all possible languages but your wounds will still be gaping. You will count on your fingers the number of years you have spent in school and shockingly enough, it is all your life. You will curse whoever invented education.
For days you will fiddle with the sad thought that you are probably not good enough till you eventually decide to start an online or physical kiosk to convince yourself orthe world that you’ve not lost it yet.
So I sit here, just like any other graduate here trying to dissipate this feeling of being just another statistic in Kenya. We stare at each other with sidelong glances wondering who nature will favor and smile upon. They only need 22 people, I hear. Two football teams.
As I stare at all this people, wondering, what my chances are of getting the job after the million and one tests. The most wierd thought that crosses my mind as I stare at these people is ‘who is a heartbreaker? Who snores in their sleep? Who was dumped this morning? Who has been blueticked for the past 1 week and are finding it difficult to move on?
After the test, I left Chiromo. I didn’t get a chance to see a cadaver but I left that place drenched like a plump penguin in Greenland. You see, the sky seems to be taking a piss one too many times lately. By the way one of the personality questions they asked was, ‘are you sarcastic?’ And I was like duh!!! Deloitte mama, I am sarcastic by nature but sweetly so. Msininyime job juu ya hiyo tu.
Later that night, I had to sit and cram for one monsterous CAT. A CAT that hails from the lineage of Napoleon Bonaparte. And, cram I did. However, come Thursday, guess who I met on the paper? Harold Domar. Don’t worry. I also don’t know who he is. 8-4-4 decided to force me on a blind date with him. I tried to ask him about his lineage, what he is doing in Kenya and if he still affords sugar and maize flour, all to no avail. That guy is stubborn, like a goat or a goat’s tail. He won’t crack. And so I concluded that Harold Domar is an alien sent from space to terrorize my academic life.