Interview at the fifth floor

I have just arrived the reception and this Air conditioner is blowing hot air instead of freezing my balls but I can certainly deal with that. There’s a lot in this city that I have dealt with – this is nothing compared.

The receptionist is not the friendly type, so no question is to be asked. If you hear your name you just get into the elevator and fifth floor you go but I think her gum clapping unapologetically against her tooth is some form of distraction.

For God sake, Miss can you stop chewing gum like a goat? I can’t even concentrate. Cramming this whole 4 P’s of marketing is a whole struggle than cramming the periodic table. To think that once I have wanted to be a medical doctor. It is a pity where I have found myself on this frisky road to getting employed in Nigeria.

Well, I can’t complain, her stiff pancaked face is enough torture already. I wonder if her face would break into parts if she smiles a little…

So the elevator door opens and this man with a balloon as a stomach and his hair as white as my old papi in the village stomps out with a big file and a sullen smile in an oversized coat, forcing a laugh to my mouth.

So this man also wants the marketing position? It is safe to say that we are fvcked in this country.

I am very tempted to ask how his interview went but what’s my own problem? Mine is just an elevator away to either get made or broken into pieces.

DING. The elevator door closes and I am beginning to lose my shit. Don’t tell me this is some anxiety-episode about to unravel, I don’t have the time and the spirit for this — because once this elevator’s door opens my grip ought to be together.

I am not about to fvck another interview because I am a grown up man with an anxiety disorder