The Interview

7:30 a.m. The sun streamed in through the curtains, revealing a young man in his late twenties stretched out on the small-sized bed like sardines on loaves of bread. His eyes were shut tight, far away from the realm of consciousness.  Except for the books piled up at the side of the wall, the *Ghana-must-go* bag beside them, and a few faded T-shirts that hung on what looked like a constructed wardrobe, the room would have been empty. And the shoes? Only two pairs of shoes sat just beside the mat-like mattress. The space, too confined to be called a room, was what Francis called his safe space — a place that gave him a life away from the harsh realities of the outer world. Just two weeks ago, Justina ended things, telling him she wasn't feeling the relationship anymore. He had been a mess ever since, juggling countless job interviews during the day and brokenness at night. But today? He decided he'd finally sleep for hours, not paying attention to the pressures of jumping into buses for interviews. Or the reality of his broken relationship hunting him at night. 7:45 a.m. Francis’ phone vibrated on the wooden bedside drawer. His eyes opened lazily as he reached for it. Peering into the screen, his eyes lit up. Mike. He picked up instantly, his thick early-morning voice giving him away. “Bro, hey...” “Wait! Don't tell me you're still in bed.” Francis scanned his head. Finding nothing, he hissed. “Am I supposed to be frying stones?” “Guy, no na. Have you forgotten your interview at 8:30?” Suddenly, it hit Francis like a flash of lightning. “Oh, shit!” He ended the call and flew out of bed. As he rushed into the bathroom he shared with his family, he could feel his heart racing. An interview at Honey Gold Company. All applicants must be settled before 8:15 a.m. Francis almost skipped bathing, as the words from the mail flashed before him. How could he have forgotten this golden opportunity? 7:55 a.m. Francis was back in his scattered and messy room, but that was the least of his problems now. He scanned almost everywhere in one second. What would he wear? Luckily, the black trousers he had worn the previous day lay helplessly on his bed. He grabbed them hastily. The few shirts in his wardrobe looked like what you'd wear to a building site. Well, who would he blame? The PHCN for disconnecting their light, or themselves for not being able to pay? He pulled out a grey shirt and put it on, missing buttons as he rushed to tuck it in. Shoes in one hand, rag in the other, belt slung over one shoulder, and his credentials under his arm, he dashed out of the room. 8:05 a.m. He could hear his mother lashing out at his younger siblings as he rushed into the living room. “Good morning, ma.” he greeted quickly, barely sparing a glance. Before they knew it, he was at the door. If everyone was puzzled at that day's version of beating time, their shocked faces said it all. Even his mother, whose voice was louder than a generator moments ago, couldn't find her voice. “Brother Francis, your collar!” “Your belt!” Francis ignored his sisters and dashed off, struggling to adjust his collar and fasten his belt at the same time. Outside the gate, he flagged down the first *okada* he found and jumped on it. The worst mistake of his life. 8:10 a.m. The *okada* rode the busy streets like it had just been resurrected. Francis hissed, slapped the *okada* man's back, and shouted, “Hurry up, please!” 8:30 a.m. The *okada* was almost breaking down. Now it was Francis’ turn to pray for a miracle. He stared blankly as the *okada* crawled its way to the venue. At the reception, it was hell for Francis. He bumped into a young lady the age of his ex, speaking harshly to a casual worker. When he rushed in, she gave him a slow, disgusting stare. “And who are you?” Francis’ forced smile made him look almost like a clown. “For the—”  “The job interview?” she interrupted. She giggled quickly, then stared again. Francis could feel his blood boiling. What did this spoilt brat think she was doing? “Does this look like some sort of psychiatric home? Which reasonable man will leave his house tattered, shoes torn and dirty, trousers... gosh! Couldn't you even afford a comb?” Francis wanted to speak, but she interrupted again. “I'm sorry, this is not a psychiatric hospital. Get out!” “You heard her. Leave!” A masculine voice added from behind. “When you're ready to appear as these people, you can come back.” Francis, wiping off the tear that escaped his gland, glanced once at the applicants, then at the lady who had just ridiculed him. Without a word, he stormed out. Outside the gate, he sat outside a stall and emptied a sachet of water into his mouth. Then another. And another. A white BMW halted before him. A man seemingly in his late thirties popped his head out and asked for directions. Francis responded dryly. The man thanked him, but just as he wound up to continue his journey, he stopped. He stretched out his card to Francis and said, “I feel like we should meet again. What did you study in school?” Francis, overwhelmed, spoke before he realised it. “Architecture.” He received the card and watched the man drive off instantly. And for a long time, he kept staring at the words printed on it. *Business Team Lead, Garry And Sons*. _____________________________ **Image Source: ChatGPT**