A friend sent me a tip about a job opening at a television station. I felt a rush of excitement and nervousness flow through my body as I read the notice which had been posted on Instagram and Twitter.
I tidied up my resume and started rehearsing my pitch to impress the panel. The night before, I ironed my best shirt and tie three times, tidied my resume again. I prayed a lengthy prayer asking for God’s favour to shine on his unemployed son and end my months of suffering “The months of suffering were about to end and I was going to be victorious” were the words of prayer I muttered before I drifted off to sleep.
D-day arrives and after I drop my sister at school, I head to the place where the interview was to take place. I get there a full hour before proceedings start and I see close to a thousand(1000) people waiting in line for their turn.My confidence evaporates quicker than boiling water on a stove.All these people are holding the “passport” of the unemployed; a brown envelope.
I meet quite a number of friends and acquaintances,we exchange nervous hellos and smiles and I get into the line patiently waiting for my turn. There are an assortment of people who want to try their luck ; students, seasoned journalists, unemployed graduates and so on.
I try to get a few tips from those who have met the panel. My confidence is sky high and the group of friends keep rattling off the cabinet ministers names to show how prepared they are. One hour turns into two which turns into three and we get restless, the room is hot and stuffy, my handkerchief is soaked and I’m thirsty. So what do I do?
Like any self-respecting unemployed graduate, I locate the nearest ‘kube’ seller and I buy two to quench my thirst. Whilst drinking I ask myself “why I no ‘borga’ some?”
A shout comes from the yard and we rush in hoping for good news. We are then told to come tomorrow and form another queue.You can hear the collective groans of disappointment and sighs of annoyance as we dread another long queue and the scorching sun.I troop out with the other disappointed applicants dreading the return journey. I meet an old friend and we catch up, whilst we are talking a driver runs over my foot with a car and I scream in pain and frustration, Chale boys abr3!!!
A combination of frustration, fatigue and thirst just boil over and I shout and curse at the driver who all this while is sitting in her car and looks at me. I continue talking and she has the cheek to ask if I am mad, LORD GOD I lose it and ask her to follow me to the police station and see if she will still be yapping when she is behind the counter back. She drives off and still standing holding my brown envelope in my left hand, sweating like a pig being roasted , jacket in my right hand and have my sunglasses dangling off my head. I ask myself why I did not follow my friends to apply to schools in the States and Canada just to escape the stress and sadness of Ghana.