It was a wet Thursday morning in Lagos, the type of day when even the air appeared to be moving slowly. At 10:00 a.m., I had an interview with an Ikeja based tech startup. It was an interview, all right, but the one I was praying to get. This was the first company to call after months of sending out countless CVs and receiving no response.
I got up early and did not want to miss the boat this time. I heard my mother in the kitchen saying, "Gbenga, you have to go early oh! You know Lagos traffic is no longer your mate." I grinned, and slipped my well-ironed shirt into my pants.
By 7:15 a.m., I was already out of the house, holding in my hand a little brown envelope containing my credentials. It was slightly damp, and I heard already the distant bellowing of the danfo horns. It was easy; buy a bus at Ikorodu to Ojota and then one that would take you directly to Ikeja. Everything should have worked out, and I would arrive at half-past 9:15 a.m. nineteen-fifteen early.
But Lagos had other plans.
There, at the Ikorodu garage, the conductors were screaming out destinations at the very top of their lungs. “Ojota! Ojota straight!” one called. I ran to him, but, before I could get to the bus, it rumbled off, filled to the last seat. “Ah! Brother, here one dey come! the conductor shouted.
Another twenty minutes later the next one arrived. I kept glancing at my phone, 7:45, 8:00, 8:10. My palms grew damp.
As the bus finally appeared, I squeezed in next to a woman who was selling puff-puff and a man who smelled strongly of engine oil. We were hit by the traffic at about Mile 12. My leg bounced nervously.
“Driver, abeg, find a way now! I get an interview!” I blurted out.
Shaking his head, the driver sighed. "Brother, even airplane no fit fly this hold-up."
It was 9:22 a.m. when I got to Ojota. I ran across the highway and jumped into the following bus to Ikeja. It had even begun to drizzle and I could feel the drops touching my shirt. The bus conductor called out, "Oga, you going to Computer Village?"
“Yes! Ikeja Underbridge!” I replied, almost shouting.
The bus was thrown forward, and it skipped over potholes. I continued to stand and look out the window, hoping the clock would not go by. 9:35. 9:50. The bus was heading towards a high glass building in which the company was situated. I leaped off before it had even come to a standstill.
Every step I took in my shoes squashed in a puddle. I arrived at the reception at 10:07 a.m. seven minutes late. The woman in charge of reception was a thin lady with braided hair and she looked up at her computer.
"Good morning," I said, "please I am here to have the interview, "puffing rather.
She checked a list on her desk. “Name?”
“Gbenga Adeniran.”
She frowned. “Oh… Mr. Gbenga, I’m sorry. At ten on the dot the interview began. The panel has finished your slot."
I blinked, breathing heavily. “Please, can I still meet them? Just five minutes?”
She shook her head softly. They have passed over to the next candidate.
There I was a while, feeling the air-conditioning strike my wet shirt. It choked my throat to smile. “Can I at least drop my CV?”
She nodded and took it gently. “I’ll hand it over to HR.”
“Thank you,” I muttered. My voice sounded far away.
The drizzle had now become actual rain. It was running toward the cover, laughing, cursing, dragging umbrellas open. I simply stood along the road and watched the buses drive by. I felt they had taken one of them away with my chance in it.
After some time I strolled slowly up to a roadside buka and sat down on the zinc roof. The lady there, boiling stew, said, "You go chop rice, young man?"
I nodded. “Yes, small one.”
My phone buzzed as I ate, a text message over the company. "Thanks, Mr. Gbenga. Unfortunately, we have passed on other candidates. Enjoy future success."
I read it again, and then returned the phone to my pocket. The rice was bitter, and I continued to gnash. Life went on around me, buses honking, traders shouting, rain hissing against the tin roof.
I sat and saw the sound pass over me. I had an inkling somewhere inside that I had been close, so close but there were times, in Lagos, when being close just was not enough.
I cleared off my food, got to my feet, and went into the heavy traffic in the afternoon, still carrying the brown envelope under my arm, which now, however, was empty, yet somehow heavier than ever.