An interview and crashed phone

Last Friday I crashed my phone. A techno Y6. I smashed it on the floor. Had it been an iphone 7, perhaps I would have been more contained. It was a moment of sheer madness. Do you have moments of sheer madness? Mine show up every last quarter of the last half of a skipped leap year. This time, it happened to be last Friday.

An SMS had just popped in from a friend breaking it to me that I’d been unsuccessful in an interview I’d sat for that Monday. I had smirked, wondering how those suits in Karen could be so aloof to let such finesse slip through their fingers. How they could fail to notice that I’m precisely what they desperately needed, and that I was the sole solution to all their problems. That I’m cool, and funny and a rare gem. A genius. That I love animals and nature and I always sit at the counter and chat up the bar man. I’m deluded like that. My ego is the size of Lake Victoria with its ugly hyacinth. Or let me put it this way, Mugabe’s ego has nothing on mine. I’m full of real bullshit. So suffice it to say that that rejection stung me. I think some nerds at KEMRI should work on finding a herb that will help men deal with this rejection thing better. Rejection and ego.

But anyway, that’s not the reason I splintered that miserable phone {I later took it to a fundi along Kimathi Street and forked out a painstaking 2.5k. Utter stupidity. Nkt}. My mum was. Have you noticed that the people we love the most drive us up the wall a lot more easily? A lot more often? I bet its cause we place too much expectations on them. And when they slightly fall short of that, we throw a hell of a tantrum. We want the world to stop {it usually doesn’t}. We sulk and refuse to pick their calls and swear to walk out on them. But shortly after wards, it could be a few hours or days, you find yourselves cracking jokes and bursting in raucous laughter like nothing ever happened. That’s the beauty of family. I read this somewhere; we fight those we love. Ponder that over. Wrap your head around it…

Anyway, I know you’re curious to know how the interview thingy panned out, so ill fill you in.

So that Sunday I’d decided to just sleep in. Was in no moods of going to church. My phone buzzes away. I catch it on the second ring. It’s a former colleague at work. Really good friend. A cool, amiable guy. The type who calls everyone mkubwa or bingwa. Curious that he’s calling me on a Sunday. He has some “good” news, he announces…

He’s gotten wind of a vacancy in his former station. A swanky international school. Asks me to check it out on Brighter Monday and apply ASAP. He instructs me to give him a heads up as soon as I’m done.

My phone has no bundles {I’d spent the better part of the previous night reading Vanity Fair to the last Mb}. I thumb *544# and purchase just enough bundles for the mission. I launch the search. 30 minutes in, zip. One hour in, zilch. I give up. I have the patience of a rat.

I buzz him back and ask if I could just drop my documents in person ‘cause I can’t locate the damn advert. He says it’s cool. He feels I’m too smart for a 28 year old. No, that’s what I tell myself. Hehe.

He texts me the coordinates of the station later that night. Asks me to keep him abreast.

sawa mkubwa,” I revert.

The next morning, rocking black khaki pants and a long sleeved ocean blue checked shirt, I make my way to Karen. I’m feeling cool. I’m looking dapper. It’s a state of mind.

I know I’m going to drop my papers, nothing more. Or perhaps get to meet someone who matters. Out do myself with presence. Impress. Show them I’m the next big thing. Show them what they are missing. Bullshit. {The last word is a verb}

I get to Karen at about 10.30.

It’s getting hotter by the minute. Hotter and dustier. Yes, this part of Karen is dusty. But its Karen all the same. Where the true city sophisticates are tucked away. Where the quiet money is. Forget the noise from Kile and its environs, those are pretenders to the throne. The curtain raisers. Real money is in the woods of Karen. By the way I sometimes confuse Kile to Ruaka. Do you happen to have a similar problem?

I stride into the lush green compound after convincing the guard that I have no weapons of mass destruction, and in fact have an appointment with the director. A lie. Call it a white lie, or give it whichever color that tickles your fancy. {Some of these punk schools demand that you drop your papers at the gate and so you gotta be creative or they’ll just fill the trash can.}

The campus is a majestic sight to behold. The air here seems filtered. The atmosphere oozes class, and affluence, and sophistication. The administration block is a towering glass house, literary. The reception area is cozy. The leather seats are cushy. Rich kids’ paradise.

I turn into a fake Anderson Cooper and offer a warm smile, and firm handshake accompanied by a crisp “hello” to the cute receptionist wearing her hair short and spotting geeky specs. No make-up.

“I’m here to drop my papers,” I chime.

“Aaah, the interviews are already underway,”

Interviews? That grabs and pulls my cojones. I feel like peeing right in front of her. I stare at her fake nails. I kill the thought.

“Ooh, that’s awesome. Guess I’m right on time.”

She reaches for her extension. Mumbles on to the thing. Seconds later a tall girl trots by. She’s in heels, and a long skirt. Her weave looks nine months old. She looks like the kind from Kisii who fancy camisoles. She’s obviously nursing her Monday blues ‘cause her mood is as warm as overnight pizza. I’m imagining she has a black, faded camisole today.

“Follow me,” she barely whispers. A dry, lifeless whisper.

I amble along.

“Beautiful school you have…”

“Who told you there were interviews today? Were you shortlisted?”

With that comely response, I notice she’s too big for small talk and so I swiftly shift gears. I slide into ‘civil’ mode. Where I’m polite without being necessarily friendly.

“No, I wasn’t shortlisted. A friend intimated to me about a vacancy here, and I’d merely come to drop my documents. The interview is a pleasant surprise…”


“Have you prepared for the demo?”

“No. But I’m now turning it over in my head. Thanks for mentioning.”


Our brisk footsteps produce light thuds as we shift on the tiles. It’s a vast atrium.

A couple seconds later, we stride into this other reception with a petite receptionist. Picture CNN’s Aisha Sashay. A stream of white kids in red tops glide along the corridor behind her. I’m instructed to sit a few steps from the desk. I fish out a brown envelop from my knapsack and hand it to grumpy the lady I’d walked in with {she’d asked for it}.

A middle aged lady in a white lab coat saunters over from upstairs. She joins the three ladies. They start haggling about my legibility to sit for the interview.

“we can’t sneak in a CV. He wasn’t short listed, was he?”

“But it’s not like he will be favored. Let him try his luck.” our Aisha Sashay gently offers. She’s rooting for me! Ooh I so love this Aisha Sashay already. I want to fly over and hug her tight and tell that she‘s precisely what this world needs.

Lab coat scans my CV. She then motions me to follow her. We scale the staircase in silence. She doesn’t hide her displeasure. It occurs to me she is the deputy {the fancy blue lanyard}. It doesn’t really bother me. It’s not a life or death situation.

I walk into the interview room. There are three black faces and one white one.

During the course of the interview I miss some steps {I always know when I do, when reviewing my performance}, I get some. Sometimes they nod in approval, sometimes I’m met with blank stares. White face wraps it up. Promises to call. He doesn’t. Or maybe he will, with a ‘regret’.

Source: Huffington Post
Source: Huffington Post

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