So this was how on a hot Wednesday morning I had ended up in Namboole stadium competing with about hundred people for one job.
We were all smartly dressed in our most impressive clothes, for some they were probably wearing their suits for the first time or in their first pair of heels.
We were tested on our knowledge of press releases and public relation strategies and I must have done well because here I am again, sitting for another written interview with ten other people. 3
After the interview, they ask us to wait around but I decide to take a walk around the offices instead. I cannot stand that waiting room anymore.
alone makes the room too cold and none of us can tell who actually wants it on or whether it can be switched off.
After wandering around for a bit, I go to use the gents to wash my face. I am always fascinated with the notices put up in washrooms. I believe you can tell a lot about an establishment from them. On the walls, this particular one has
: IF YOU SPRINKLE WHEN YOU TINKLE, PLEASE BE A SWEETIE AND WIPE THE SEATIE.
If worst came to the worst and
I ended up here, (which I doubt I will considering the little effort I put in the interview that I’ve just finished), at least the people here seem to have a good sense of humour - or the person who wrote it had been a kindergarten teacher at some point, in which case
I could not be bothered
. Once I had mistakenly ended up in the ladies’ washroom. If I’m completely honest, it wasn’t a mistake really; the gents had no toilet paper so after looking around and making sure was there no one in the ladies’, I went there to get some. An unsuspecting woman caught me reading a notice that said: BE CONSIDERATE OF THE PEOPLE WHO USE THIS PLACE AFTER YOU. IMAGINE HOW YOU WOULD LIKE TO FIND THIS PLACE AND DO THE SAME. ALSO, DO NOT FLUSH SANITARY TOWELS. RAP THEM NICELY AND PLACE THEM IN THE BUCKET.
The women in that establishment obviously needed a long lecture on hygiene and correct spellings. Back in the waiting room, I’m told that four of us have been asked to stay for an oral interview. The chick in the purple top, Lydia, myself and some other dude who came in right before we went in for the written interview. The rest have been asked to kindly collect a soda or water from the reception and were thanked for their time. The short, old man in an oversized coat is sticking around talking to Lydia and like a father at his daughter’s sports’ day, taking her through some of the questions she may be asked. The latecomer goes in first and comes out looking more stressed than he did an hour ago.
We lean in conspiratorially to hear his verdict of the panel. “They are pretty friendly except for the man in the middle who kept asking me more questions before I could give my answers. Such a bully!” he says exasperated. Lydia is called in and we wish her the very best. After hearing the other guy’s verdict we’re friendlier to each other, having seen how the other people with whom we begun the day have been dismissed without a care. We saw their worried faces and their tired, defeated shrugs.
We have survived and somehow this had brought us closer and made us more comfortable with each other. Finally someone complains about the air conditioning and
I move to put it at a more bearable temperature. “How are you even supposed to gauge the amount of money you want them to pay you without underselling yourself? We should have agreed on the salary we all want,” the other guy says obviously regretting whatever amount he said while in there.
We all deliberately ignore the salary question. Yes we are friends now, but we are not going to blurt out what we think we’re worth. Lydia walks out and we listen for our names in anticipation. “Can we have
Florence next,” says the lady responsible for the summoning. The chick in the purple top stands and marches to the conference room.
Lydia says she does not want to talk about it. Minutes later she seems to change her mind and says rather angrily, “It’s horrible in there.
You would think after doing it so many times I would be used to it!” When Florence comes back to the waiting room, she sits down cautiously, like someone with a sore body. With a blank stare she says in an unsteady voice, “One of my current bosses is on the panel.” 34 We gasp and can offer no words of comfort. “I do not remember anything
I said after I saw him. I called in sick this morning so
I could get the day off. I guess they needed someone with a journalistic background to judge our work,” she says fighting back tears. For the first time
I think of the short, old man’s children, the breast-feeding chick’s effort to get ahead and Florence who is now apprehensively biting her nails.
I do not know whether this is what they have always wanted to do, but they are fighting for it. I had been on panels like these before. When presenting my first game concept at university and presenting even more ideas in competitions held in
different universities internationally.
The key was to believe in what you were selling and to never falter in what you believed.
That was my belief anyway.
And I must have subconsciously given off that vibe to the panel, because to my father’s delight and my deepest despair, I receive a phone call a week later confirming that I am the new communications officer at his friend’s office.
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