The interview

The struggling rays of the rising sun smote gently upon my skin like a gentle tap of a baby's wake through the sparsely hung dark brown curtains in my room. The continuous and faithful ring of my alarm from the phone kept buzzing relentlessly, initially like a distant sound, until I gradually realized that the day had broken and my alarm had repeatedly buzzed. I sprang to my feet like I was being jerked by an unseen force. My eyes blinked severally, trying to adjust to the fact that it was almost 7 a.m. "Gosh!" I exclaimed as I hastened my feet to the bathroom, neglecting my routine morning prayers and laying of the bed.

My interview was at 8 a.m., and the only possible explanation for waking up late was the tiring day I had the previous day. I was mentally drained after staying up late to tidy up my thesis as a postgraduate student of business administration. I was a jack of all trades, taking any available job to meet my daily bread while still sponsoring myself to school since my parents were retirees and would rather take from me than the other way around. I had passed several stages of the interview, which were held virtually, and the final stage required my presence.

My worry was the Lagos traffic; only luck could clear the roads, as it was common to have roads blocked for no serious reason, escorted by the impatience of drivers. I wore my black shoe to match with my corporate shirt and skirt and dashed out of my house, with a promise in my heart to tidy it up once I was back from my interview. I waved down a motorcycle (popularly called the Okada in Nigeria) and hurriedly climbed it.

"Orile junction," I said to him, knowing fully well that I was limited and at his mercy in naming the price of his choice. I could not argue; if he could fly, I was game.

"Let's go fine, Aunty. Your money is ₦300." The Okada man said as he zoomed and navigated through my street to the junction. I knew the usual fare was ₦200, but time was against me, and I could pay any fine to get to the venue before 8 a.m. The time was 7:19 a.m. when I got to Orile Junction, and immediately, I hopped onto the next available Danfo bus. My apprehension soon grew wild seeing the driver was an elderly man, taking his precious time to navigate through the streets of Lagos as we headed towards the Alausa area, where my interview was scheduled. It had been a while since I got this agitated, as I saw many vehicles drive past us. I wanted to jump at the driver and press the pedal, but I could only wish. My eyes darted frequently from the driver to my wristwatch, as though I could slow the latter's pace. I clung onto my documents, which I had carefully placed in a clear file bag.

After uncountable hisses and erratic beats in my chest, I arrived at the interview venue, managing to look smart as my countenance almost betrayed me. "Good morning,sir,. I am here for an interview." I said this to a security man dressed in a navy blue uniform at the gate of Olympic Company.

"Madame, dem don talk sey make I no gri anybody enter again o." The security man said (meaning he had been instructed not to let anybody enter for the interview) in pidgin English as he stood behind the gate without making any move to open it.

At that instance, my world seemed to come crashing down, as I was losing another opportunity for a better shot at life. I could feel my hope being snatched right away from my hand, with little I could do. "Please, sir, I'm sorry; it wasn't intentional." I said, kneeling down.

"Madame, Abeg, stand up. No be me you go beg. Na Oga secretary, talk sey make I lock am. (Madame, please stand up. It's not me you are to beg; it's the boss's secretary that gave the order to lock the gate), the security man said.

A car honk jerked the security man to his post as he slid the gate open for the silver colored 2018 Toyota Camry to drive in. I maintained my position on my knees, determined not to lose out on the interview.

"Hello, young lady, what's the problem here?" A baritone voice asked from the backseat of the car. "Please, stand up." He continued. He looked high ranking as much as I could tell from his looks and the security man's quick response.

"Please, sir, let me remain like this, sir." I pleaded. "I was denied entry for coming late for today's interview, sir. I'm sorry, sir; it wasn't intentional." I continued, tears almost flowing from my eyelids.

"Emeka, let her in." The man ordered the security man. "And please, stand up. You're too beautiful to be on your knees in public." He said, turning to me right before winding up his car window.

I sprang to my feet and cleaned my knees. Emeka showed me to the reception, where I met a young lady addressing some people I assumed were here for the interview. "Good morning, ma." I said it in a low whisper loud enough for her to hear before scouting for a vacant seat. I could feel many eyes trailing me, especially those of the woman addressing the other people. My heart rate increased. Thankfully, she continued her talk, catching up on the company's policies should any of them be admitted. She emphasized the company's policy against lateness; her eyes intentionally match mine, which I quickly averted as though I had a distraction.

We were soon called one after the other for the interview by the lady who gave the talk on company policies, and as expected, I was the last to be called. I walked into a large office space designed like a conference room. My eyes caught the man who had ordered Emeka to let me in. He sat at the extreme end of the five-man committee of interviewers. The lady I met earlier also joined them, and my documents were presented to them.

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"And why do you think you're qualified for this position, Miss Sandra?" One of the interviewers asked, his eyes poking into mine as though he could see through me.

I cleared my throat and started with a stammer. "I... "

"Relax, Miss Sandra; nobody will bite you here." The man who had granted me entry interrupted, giving me some time to comport myself and find my confidence.

"Thank you, sir." I said with a smile before facing yet again the man who had asked me the question. "I am dedicated and committed to learning with all humility and ready to take corrections, sir." I spoke out confidently, with all smiles.

"Does that include coming late?" The only lady in the room asked, looking straight at me. I knew right away that she must be the secretary that Emeka referred to.

"That was not intentional, and I sincerely apologize, ma." I said, trying to act soberly. The other people in the room asked more questions, to which I replied with as much sincerity even though I was teased often by the interviewers, and at some point, the atmosphere became one full of laughter as the interviewers took their time to relate freely with me being the last to be interviewed, including the lady who initially seemed harsh. I felt welcomed already in their midst. The man at the extreme ended the interview after some time of laughter. He seemed to be a major stakeholder, if not the boss, as I assumed.

"I hope to see you around soon, Miss Sandra; you're full of humor." He said it with a wave of his hand as he dismissed me.

I took my leave and stepped out of the company. I met Emeka at the gate, as expected, and gave him a little tip. For unusual reasons, I was optimistic. It was almost midday, and it took me almost two hours to get home, in contrast to the one hour it took me in the morning due to the unpredictable Lagos traffic.

I met my bed just as I left it. What did I expect as a single lady? I managed to lay it down just before I fell on it with a thud. My phone buzzed some minutes later, interrupting the slumber I was already enjoying.

"Miss Sandra, I hope you can resume work tomorrow." A familiar voice said.

"Of course, sir, thank you, sir." I replied with much gladness as I replied to the man who had saved me earlier this morning. The call ended, and I jumped up to my feet in jubilation, dancing to no music in particular.