I woke up before my alarm. Couldn’t sleep well all night, not because I wasn’t tired, but because my head wouldn’t shut up. After months of sending CVs into thin air, I finally had an interview. A real one. Not those fake adverts that ask you to bring ₦20,000 for “training.” This one was legit.
I had ironed my only good shirt the night before. It was a white shirt with a stain near the pocket that I hoped anyone wouldn't notice. My black trousers were shiny at the knees from overwearing them. But they were all I had. I polished my shoes till I got tired, as I desperately tried to hide the crack which had taken over the leather like dry ground.
I left the house before sunrise, thinking I was smart enough to beat Lagos traffic. The road showed me pepper.
The bus broke down halfway. The driver shouted, passengers shouted back, like volume could fix the engine. I stood by the roadside, eyes fixed on my phone clock, my chest thumping. I flagged down every bus like a mad person until one stopped. It was already packed, but I squeezed myself in. One hand on the hot metal bar, my armpit practically in someone’s face.
By the time I got down at Victoria Island, sweat was running down my back. I still had to walk a bit to the office, and the sun was already frying the back of my neck like I was barbecue. I stopped by one corner, wiped my face with my handkerchief, and tried to fixed my tie.
The office building was taller than anything I’d ever entered in my life. Glass everywhere. Security men with straight faces, people swiping cards to open doors like in foreign films. My chest shrank, but I walked in anyway.
The receptionist asked for my name. Her lipstick was too bright, it made me blink. She gave me a slow look, head to shoes, then back again, like she was scanning my whole story. “Have a seat,” she said, voice flat, no warmth, no smile.
The waiting room was already packed. Young guys in suits that sat on them like second skin. The ladies’ heels were loud on the tiles, you could hear them before you saw them. Everyone had their eyes on their phones, but we were all watching each other. I held my file tight and tried to stop my leg from shaking.
Finally, they called my name. My knees almost betrayed me, but I got up, followed the man into the interview room.
Three of them sat behind the table. A woman with glasses, tapping her pen like she was tired of being there. A man in a dark suit, face buried in papers like my whole future wasn’t in front of him. And another man, smiling too much, that type of smile that hides sharp questions.
They asked about my degree. The one-year gap after NYSC. The odd freelance jobs I took that paid almost nothing but kept me afloat. I answered the way it was. Straight. No decorating. I didn’t have energy for lies.
Then came the big one: “Why should we hire you?”
My throat went dry. I looked at them, all three. My head went straight to that bus that broke down, the sweat running down my back, my shoes already falling apart. I thought about my mom. She calls each week, asking if I've gotten a job. She tries to sound okay over the phone but I knew she wasn't.
I opened my mouth and told them. “Because I don’t have anywhere else to go. I don’t have a father pulling strings, I don’t have savings to fall back on. All I have is this. If you give me the chance, I will work until I drop. That’s the reason.”
The woman in glasses stopped tapping. The man in the suit finally raised his head. The smiling one didn’t smile so wide anymore.
It was an uncomfortable silence. I could feel my heartbeat in my arms by this point. Then the woman cleared her throat. “Thank you. We’ll get back to you.”
That was all.
I walked out with my shirt sticking to my back due to excessive sweating from anxiety. My file still clutched tight. I didn’t know if I had impressed them or not. But stepping out into the sun, one thing stayed in my chest. "At least I said it. I showed them I wasn’t another polished suit hiding behind big words."
I was me. Hungry. Tired. Desperate. But honest.
And that had to count for something.
