Human Resources (part one)

Human Resources (One)

She woke up earlier that morning, ready to take on an interview that would probably click this time. She had applied for an HR job with a genuine firm, after she had googled the name:  Prime Platform resources. Three days earlier she had got the email to come for an interview due to the satisfied credentials they had received in the application process. She thought about looking good but simple; she did not want to be debased like the last interview she had with a pension firm where her interviewer bashed her for putting on a three quartered pant trouser to an interview looking like a flippant candidate. She never concluded if that was why she didn’t get the job. This time was going to be different. She would make sure no one held her in low esteem just because of her appearance. She was going to look like her 24 year old self.

The night before the star day, she brought out her best corporate white shirt that she had never worn after she was given by her sister. She would most times bring out the shirt and then return it to its dwelling place whenever she thought of the fumes that came out of the aged public buses she could afford to take her to her destination, or the hazard of wearing bright colors during the rainy season. She was not prepared to insult car owners who couldn't help but get into pot holes and dig out black waters with their tires. She could not afford to go half way just to return home for no one would take a mud-looking job seeker seriously, unless you are an acquaintance of a high politician.

She settled for a black and white polka dot skirt with a black long sleeve top and her faithful black flats which she wore to all her interviews. She was grateful she had listened to her friend Titi who had told her a week ago to try and make her hair because anything could happen with getting a job. So she went to bed that night dreaming of a positive outcome, the HR department loving her poise, her spoken English and her gentle manner. She pictured herself negotiating to be paid nothing less than 80,000, so she could finally afford to live a comfortable life.

The night seemed short to her as she woke up to the blaring sound of her time keeper. She cursed  having to wake up early and dreaded the thought of a continuous chain of early rising if she really got employed. “Why can’t I have my own company, or a rich husband who would buy me a shop that I could go to whenever it pleased me?” If her drunken father had worked harder and not just left her a one bedroom self-contain in the slum, she knew she would have been among those running things in the city. But the bad thoughts won’t let her down now. She was going to give this interview her best shot. Off she went, chasing her dream of working in a big building with air conditions all around and glass walls demarcating each office.

The bus-stop was not as rowdy as she had expected and she figured it was not a Monday when workers seemed and acted like the world would come to an end if they did not get to their place of work early. She hated Mondays and was glad it was a Wednesday. She was used to the roads now and how to act as if you knew where you were headed. “Conductor abeg no pass my bus-stop O, na First bank I dey go.” As she entered the bus, she took a window seat as usual, in case any smelly bum sat close to her. It was not one that sat close to her but four of them, carrying one another and almost squashing her face upon the window. She got angry and snapped. “What is this na? Someone cannot even sit properly here. Must you lap yourselves like little children?” The guys being referred to just looked at her and laughed. One was putting on a faded jersey of Manchester United. He sat closest to her and murmured something she did not quite grasp in the Yoruba language so she replied him back in the language, telling him she also paid the same amount of money he did. He was glad she had gone down to his level and asked her why she had been speaking “spren spren” all the while and this made her condone the inconvenience they caused her throughout the journey for she thought that just like her, they must be chasing a better life that morning, probably in the cuisine line for they had coolers in the trunk of the bus.

First Bank bus-stop finally showed its face after the traffic and violent fumes that almost blinded her vision inside the scrappy bus. She alighted and began the search for the firm that just might make her dreams become true. “Good morning madam. Abeg I dey look for Akinsemoyin street.”

There was no need for her to have even asked because the street was right in front of her. She was right there, before the stipulated time for the interview. The six story building appeared to be an old one with its old brownish painted walls. It looked dull on such a lively street and she raised her hopes expecting the inner décor to be more impressive. Yes, the first decoration she saw was a security guard sitting at the tiny reception desk area with his phone too close to his face to be real and probably a worker seated next to him. They were like shoes that didn’t fit even in such a micro space as the reception room. The security man spread out his legs beneath a table that had the day’s register on it and nothing else. She wondered if he also signed in and out every week day. 
“Good morning” she said to them and they took more than a heartbeat to reply her sluggishly while their eyes were still fixed on their phones. She wondered what caught their attention so… “I have come for an interview” she said. She was asked to sign in and then wait until it was nine O’clock after which she’d be called. The wait was long as she watched these two men laughing out loud like their fathers owned the building. Their voices didn’t sound early morning-ish. They sounded like men who had just left a beer parlor, arguing about the lady with the biggest behind that sat close to their table. To crown it all, a worker; probably, joined in this scenario. They were three now, all with beer-like-tummies and the only thing that connected their wild discussion/argument was the football game of the previous day between Nigeria and Argentina; Nigeria losing 2-1.

“Ah guy! Those boys fuck up sha… they just spoil pesin day like that. You know how much I for win if to say na we win the game? Work for no even hungry me come today because I for don hammer. But see as pepsin dey rush come work today so that tomorrow feeding go dey sure at the end of the day.” This was said by the worker and the reply he got from the assistant security guard even if he had no uniform on but a low waist trousers and a red shirt tucked in with brown Pinocchio like shoes, was a song! He sang like he was a street entertainer in the Yourba language, twisting his voice from one end to another of each scattered note and dancing; revealing his too fat body for the outfit he had on. He was not ashamed but proud of his display. He was like a shining light at the moment only in his mind though. All these unskilled performances made her bring out her phone and continued with her reading of a short story titled The Devil’s Overtime. It kept her occupied and sped the movement of the clock until it was almost 9:30 when she was finally called in by a younger lady who seemed to want to be older than her real age.

The office space was no upstairs or sophisticated one, although it was better than the dingy reception area that had not even a fan but two damaged chairs that probably cried at the sight of a weight on them. The office was a small room demarcated by glass walls- this was what caught her eyes at first, before the tiny tv on the wall, a round looking bar-like desk opposite the tv and four finer chairs lined up properly for guests. She was told to sit while the young lady took her credentials and went into a room not even three steps away.  There was a fan that enveloped the silence of this room. It was blowing, spreading the not so cool air that emanated from the old air-condition. She wondered how long the fan worked each day and compared it to how long the young lady worked also. The lady came out of the sacred office three minutes later and that was when she noticed that the lady had on high hills that made her walk awkwardly.

“What is your name?” the lady asked.

“It’s right there on my CV, in your hands, Mololuwa…” She said.

“OK, you will have to come back tomorrow because the head of HR is not around. Make sure you come with the email that was sent to you for this interview, exactly 9am tomorrow. All the best!”

She was going to strike a conversation with this young lady before she was shot with those words “come back tomorrow.” She was going to ask what the firm was into, what the job was all about and everything necessary to find out about them because their online description failed to be lucid to her. Now all she thought of was giving them all a piece of her mind, plus the short man that stood by the door-less entrance of another office, watching NTA on the tiny tv hung on the wall that seemed to be wanting new paints. He said nothing, just watched! And the head of HR, whoever they were, were the most dumb and irresponsible people on earth. How many people would they have told “come back tomorrow?”

As she walked out of the building, she felt a heavy weight on her shoulder. Her outfit was just a waste of resource. Her transportation had just gone down the drain; a reduction in her savings account which will probably not last her another month. She had wasted her almost-finished expensive perfume given to her by a rich friend who only gave out perfumes gotten from her dad. First Bank Bus-stop stared her in the face now with that blue lion logo always ready to roar. She knew she had no strength or resource left to come back tomorrow. It was just going to be another day when nothing is any good, even though there was no dj playing the same song. She headed home and pondered “what was resourceful about those humans?”

A shared experience...