How fear, bullish interviewers made me lose a 500k per month job (I)
By Uthman Salami
As I sat, I looked frail, finding it hard to breathe. It was as if I had some lumps in my throat. I looked yet could not really focus on anything. The venue was flamboyantly big. The first I had entered since my school days. The conference room was beautify by an exotic floor cover. Though it was never over-lit, the room was too bright that it almost blinded me. I found it herculean to move my legs. None of them cooperated with my instincts. Both betrayed without any prior notice. I was no longer in control of my body. Very absurd, I silently thought.
I dragged my feet on the floor; the sound almost wiped off that of a pedulum swing of a bell in the Catholic Church adjacent to the conference. Even though the interview took place at the last floor of the tallest building in the busiest street of the nation’s capital, the noise emanating from my feet could be heard by the occupants of the first floor. Though I had never been to Hell, the room became my first.
It was not my first time of having a session with bullish interrogators. I recalled my first spell, it was years back. The glee that rush into my head was a salutary experience. Even some days before, I shared my first interview experience with some members of my ilk. How I was able to mesmerize the panel brimming with sadists who hid under the nomenclature of Interviewers.
Despite their endlessly debasing gesture, I subdued them all. What is different now, I could not fathom. Perhaps I was no longer whom I used to be. And by the way they looked back at me, I knew his fate was no longer mine. I knew right there that God had handed over my fate to them. For these terror-beaming face certainly had issues with God. They are devil themselves. And before a word was uttered, I already knew the outcome.
I sat down quietly. I didn’t realize the chair was armless. An attempt to rest my arms on the chair almost had me thrown to the floor. In no time, I recovered and adjusted myself quickly.
My tormentors looked at one another but remained silent. Only their pen furiously continuously danced on a file-like broad sheet. The man sitting by his far right made a remark that I had missed. But when he again said, “may I have your original credentials please?” I didn’t miss that as I frantically searched the colourless bag my sister had gifted me seven years ago.
Another man sitting opposite the man who had asked the earlier question whispered some inaudible words about myself as he leaned closer to the Director’s ear, “Oga, I don’t think this gentleman can handle the job.” He made a squinted face with a more demeaning gesture by waving his hand in the air like he meant to swat some flies.
Maybe he really did mean to swat some flies. And the fly he meant to kill was none other than myself. “What is this?” the Chairman enquired after helplessly attempting to decipher what I had pencilled on the sheet of paper he was now holding.
Few minutes earlier, I was smiling that I had written the best piece of my life. I had also thought I was going to be commended over the manner at which I marshalled my points, not tongue-lashed. What a twist of fate! “What do you call this?” “A composition?” The Director continued his tirade. “No Sir, I wrote a letter” I defended. “A letter? Mr Dele, would you mind educating this panel the difference between a composition and a letter?” the Director asked growing more impatience with me.
Now, I thought about the questions. Though I saw no particular difference between the two concepts, I needed to say something to defend myself. I knew I had allowed my diffidence to crowd my thinking. I had allowed my mouth to run over my mind. Seconds gone by, nothing came from me. The Director’s words went deeply beyond questioning, he tossed the paper to other members of the panel to scan through the bane of his anger.
The last member of the panel with a crook glasses asked me to expatiate. I looked up for the first time, grit my teeth and silently offered a prayer. I hoped the spirit that had had me tongue-tied since I entered into the Devil’s Claw would cut me loose. Someone had to be responsible for my present predicaments. Certainly not me. I thought my demons were responsible.
