Frederick Kwesi Great Agboletey

Kicking Stones

It was almost eleven o'clock, he checked the time again, from the old omega, probably it was also fake, as most of these brand name imports tend to be. This was his fourth visit to this particular office. He had been there three times already.

Dispersed applications all over the city, in a way disappointing as it was, it was alright in some sadistic sense to just step in to the personnel department and receive the same response "Sorry no reply to your application as yet, the Board is yet to meet on that issue", and then go on to the next office.

This day the sun was unusually hot, by the time he had left the second office around 9.30 it was already indicative it was going to be hot, hot. The problem with this city was the lack of adequate tree cover, grass cover, pavements, he took a quick look at his dusty black shoes, a fine ashy film of dust was on top, at the side it was red laterite.

I remembered Uncle Jack telling how in the aftermath of the Second World War they walked so often and for so long to the labour office that their shoes developed holes under the soles. Without a job one had to endure the under side of the feet touching bare grounds, as their socks actually were decorative pieces that ended at the ankle. Uncle Jack referred to the walk back home as kicking stones, because the disappointment of not being employed meant going back to some expectant girlfriend or wife and kinds with the same monotonous "not good today too ooh." So one usually made the return journey as long as possible by kicking small pieces of rocks and stones that littered the roadside. Those were the days he mused.

He at least still nurtured a good shoe he had recently acquired from the second market, courtesy of the “Old Lady’s” pension. He resented having to pinch the little money Mamma received as pension, but he had no choice, he had to look presentable if anyone was going to even look him in the face for possible consideration as an employee. Today, he had had the shoes rebuffed twice by the shoeshine boys with their brown boxes. He usually gave it a good polish at home and paid half price just to have it dusted before entering any office where he had placed his application.

Initially, when he started looking for job, he used to post applications with his resume, but soon enough he learnt that he had better deliver them in person, at least the application stood a chance of being sent to the personnel departments.

He usually made eight offices three times a week, just following up on applications. He needed the days in-between to recuperate emotionally from the disappointment of serial negations. It is hard to imagine but after a year and six months, it is the case that one's emotions also takes a beating from continuous negations.

He became a 'born again' six months into the search, he followed a fellow who had also got a job after a long tedious search, when the friend admitted in conversation that it was the spiritual sustenance of Bible fed hope and faith of a breakthrough that kept him sane. He tried the friend’s the church just out of curiosity and found the music and ministration rather captivating not to mention that the pastor had a way with words and anecdotes. In any case, Sunday church enabled an escape from the inevitable brooding of the week ahead.

He stifled an emerging smile, he was a “smiler”, one those types who smiled all the time. As he quickened his steps to cross the street, he remembered the time at a relation’s funeral he kept a broad smile on unknowingly, while close relations lamented the deceased. An uncle, an ex-military man who could not take it any more barked at him "cut that smile off your face!” Only then did he embarrassingly become aware that in his usual offbeat style of handling misfortune he had not put on the mourning face befitting the solemnity of the occasion. He cut the smile and assumed a sombre look that was so funny that, the observant uncle managed with difficulty to stifle his own smile of amusement.

 He was now at the mini bus station, he sat in the stuffy vehicle, with its long bench facing each other. He wondered why these death traps that passed for public transport always had their windows stuck in closed positions, in a place where rainfall was such a rarity he just couldn't understand why mini-van windows never get stuck in the open position. The main roads had been asphalted these days so the bump and jolt of former days has given way to screaming engines seemingly floating on compressed air. He got out in the area referred to as Airport City; this was a new project in development, with several new office towers.

He mused how as a graduate student, he thought getting an air-conditioned office as Human Resources Junior Manager was going to be a breeze. Now, he was fighting just to gain a toehold at just about any work place. In one of the local newspapers it was reported that about 2,000 young men reported for a military recruitment with placement for only 128 NCOs, ha, the thought of it, to think of so many young people without a chance to carve a future for themselves, it was almost frightening.

The large number of young people peddling all kinds of products at the roadside spoke for itself. Just about anything was being sold at the roadside these days. A bankrupt supermarket even cited these 'dog chain' peddlers as the cause of their dissolution. He smiled at the lack of imagination in some public excuses. He cut across the wide esplanade, the sun was so hot mirages were forming on the wide expanse of cement that was the centre of this group of office blocks.

His destination was the block with blue glass draping covering its magnificent façade. Neat architectural piece he mused from a distance of twenty metres shadows of passer-bys reflected in distortion on the wide plate glasses. He checked his shoe one more time and stepped into the air-conditioned lobby, humph! It was another world altogether, the high ceiling lobby is tastefully decorated, here and there a palm tree set within the chrome and glass, created a sense of peace. He stood at the information desk. "Consolidated Limited, please " "Just a minute" a flash of white teeth in some rounded and smooth face of a young belle, floated at him. He mused to himself as she dialled on her telephone, do these type also kick stones like I am doing now before landing in such luxurious jobs, "don't think so". "Who do you want to see?" "Personnel Department", he replied with a stern face. "Do you have an appointment?" "No, I don't have an appointment." "Okay, You may go to the fourth floor, the elevators are to your right after turning the corner," She pointed the way.  He moved towards the elevator bank, he whisked out his handkerchief, he had forgotten to wash it from the previous day's job hunt expedition. It was brown and streaked with dirt; he folded it inside out and took a deliberate mop to remove any incidental white streaks of dried sweat on his face.

The air-condition was pretty good, he had barely been in the building no more than five minutes and he has already getting dry in the face. As he turned the corner he raised his hand to his face and gently blew into his hand, just checking breath quality, he mused again. Okay. On the fourth floor, he knocked on the General Enquiries door, a quick firm tap, and opened the door. It was a dark carpeted room with low chairs arranged around a table several meters away from all the chairs at the centre of the room. He walked to the secretary seated at a table set in one corner of the room. He made his enquiries about following up on an application. She hardly lifted her eyes, "That would be Personnel section, okay, I can dial them, your name please." He called his surname and first name in that order. She placed the call and after a few muttered words, she looked up barely lifting her eyes, and said "okay, some one from personnel section will be here soon with your file." "Please, seat!" He sat down.

He had done this routine many, many times. He had even developed a personal coding scheme for who comes out; there were the "buffs" tall and solidly built more often than not with a well manicured moustache, they would come and gruffly intone "Sorry young man, we've still not decided... selected someone else… a letter has already been prepared to inform you...you lack all the requisite qualifications…” and on and on and on. It all meant a “no”. Then there were the "wiry type" these were the thin, smallish nervous type, most often with a wire rimmed glass and clean-shaven. He went down his list of typologies . . .A voice spoke from his back, "Are you . . ." Yes . . .Yes Sir" He made a double take; the man who spoke was a short, dark skinned elderly man. His white shirt gleamed in the shaded fluorescent light. He had that relaxed, curious look that only short men could affect. "You are here with regards to your application, I gather."

"Yes, I am."

He glanced at the opened file as if reading something from it. He spoke with that gentle voice of polished bureaucracy, never a hint of emotion, just the deadpan monotone of practised ease.

"We have been looking at your papers, young man."

He didn't have to add that young man bit, I fumed to myself, just reminds you that you are running out of space in that comfortable descriptive category when failure is excused. He continued.

"We can hardly think of any position available in our organisation, for a psychology graduate."
Here it comes, I thought with that sinking knowingness.

"However, we could do with leaders in our Human Resources Department. You can begin on Monday, collect the needed information from the secretary."

I murmured "thank you".

He motioned to the secretary and stepped back into the long corridor.

I cleared that entrance with firm manly steps, victor in a battle of enormous proportions in that inner world of loathsome fear, handed victory as though it were obtained in an epic battle of historic proportions, by a nonchalant, short bureaucrat. Then as I turned the corner, I did what I knew I shouldn't do but could help myself, I did one pirouette, then a second one, then I let out that long held back, yes! With the whole hand movement thing, hands clenched in a fist, elbows lowered energetically, ejected forth from a vertical to a horizontal position through a 90° arch. It just felt good.