Short Fiction: Unemployment is Your Job

You always feel a burden. It is lodged in a compartment in your chest or in your head. You are not sure where you feel it, but you do feel it. And you know it does not belong to you. It belongs to your clients. They keep it with you, so that it does not kill them or drive them mad.

Unemployment is your job. Did you laugh? Are you wondering how this could be so? You think unemployment is a jobless condition. How come it is your job?

Your work day starts as early as 7 a.m. since you have little else to do in you small home. You shut the only door firmly and slam the padlock to a firm lock while the early morning coolness caresses every bare skin and slips beneath your clothes. Though this has reduced since you started wearing English suits to work after you read John Maxwell’s book on packaging yourself for success. You now wear a black or grey suit with a variety of neckties and colourful shirts. You mismatch colours a lot but you don’t know this. A heavy bag always accompanies you to and from work. It always contains a lot of paper. Your neighbour’s chickens beat you to it and are usually already at work, rummaging around the compound as you step out into the certain day ahead of you.

As the Okada rider speeds through Keffi town, you sit there, behind him, but you don’t see the town as it rises from a night of rest. You don’t see the roadside traders setting up their wares and the people strolling to their work places, mostly with adopted enthusiasm. You see the residual of the previous day’s work and the planned highlights of the present day.

You order rice and fried plantain from Haija immediately the Okada man drops you off in front of the roll of small shops opposite the big Federal medical centre. Her sales-girl greets you: ‘Uncle Stanley good morning’ and avoids your eyes. Your shop, Stanlo Business Centre is one of the small shops and Haija is the roadside food vendor who caters for your breakfast and lunch. You arm-twist her now and then and she gives you a few pieces of fried plantain for free. 

You admire your shop as you stroll towards it. You commend the good work you did painting it a deep blue colour that contrasts sharply with the light, off-white colour of the other shops, making it stand out in the eyes of an observer. Your stomach grumbles and you look back towards Haija’s makeshift arrangement of coolers and plates. You catch her sales-girl watching you, but she hides her eyes immediately.

She brings the food a few minutes later. It sits in between two flat plastic plates. She does not say anything but places the food at the exact spot she does every morning.  As she leaves, you say: ‘Na gode, Thank you’

Today Sule is your first client. Since you read John Maxwell’s book, you call your customers ‘clients’.  He is wearing his worn, six-button brown suit with a blue shirt and a patterned necktie. You are sorting through a file of resumes when he marches in, smiling knowingly at you. 

‘My guy, how today?’ Sule greets. He is holding a leather folder.

‘I dey. You don ready?’

‘Yes O!, I go pinish them por dat interview today.’

You always notice his accent. He replaces 'f'' with 'p' and vice versa.You immediately chuckle in your thoughts at the statement. He has failed to ‘finish them’ for three consecutive years. But you admire his hope because John Maxwell talked about the importance of hope in another book you have read. You watch the sharp contrast between Sule’s white teeth and his dark skin with amusement.  He draws a seat. 

‘What time is the interview?’ You ask.

‘Nine o’clock’

‘Where... Remind me’

‘Na dat new sugar pactory way den build por …’

‘Ok, I remember. I thought you said you would not work in a factory again?’ You say, in Hausa.

‘I said so. But it was the ill-treatment at that paint factory where I worked that informed my decision. Those people dealt roughly with me. But this one would not be like that.’ He says in Hausa and adds in Pidgin English, ‘na Hausa man get am. And ferson go chop. As I dey, any work I see I go do.’

You keep sorting through the large file of resumes, arranging the resumes according to the applications of their owners. Those who have their eyes on the Nigeria Immigration service, others on the Customs service and the rest are seeking openings in the Prisons. These are the three government establishments presently recruiting, and thousands are applying nationwide. The Nigerian National Petroleum Corporation closed to applications a week ago. Your fingers are still sore from all the typing.  You take care of most of the Keffi crowd of applicants because of a knack you have for connecting personally with people and because your internet café stands out in its blue colour. Other ‘business centres’ respect you and their owners stroll in sometimes to get the latest information. ‘Is the JAMB scratch card out? When would the Civil Defense Corps start recruiting? Has the Air force recruits list been published online?’ 

Things have gone online, so job seekers, most of whom have little computer knowledge come for your services. They dump their resumes and credentials with you, alongside a fee of one thousand five hundred naira. They leave you to fill the online application forms. They hope to find their names when the list of successful applicants is published online. You charge them two hundred naira to check their victory or defeat. They never realize that when you filled the slot that asked about their motivation, you spelt ‘quota’ as ‘quarter’.  

You tell Sule a bit of the things you have read in Maxwell’s book. This is one of the things that draw people to you, your long talks about vision and mission and personal branding and corporate packaging. You say them in bad English and pronounce ‘mission’ as ‘mixion’ but they don’t care or they don’t know.  

Sule leaves at exactly eight o’clock, beaming with the smile of a victor even though he is yet to be. You sense that he would get the job, but not because his performance at the interview would be outstanding, rather because the factory needs manual labourers. His Higher National Diploma Certificate notwithstanding, he would be a manual labourer. You hope he would get the job you are helping him apply for at the Nigeria Immigration Service. 

By noon, your shop is fiercely hot and deafening (the electricity generator makes loud noise). The heat in this part of the country is at its peak during the dry season and the sun stands out sharply at ten in the morning. You pity those scheduled for interviews at this time. The queues are usually as long as socialist food lines. People would sweat off their energies and body odours would dominate the air.  Pitifully, most of them never get the chance of being interviewed.  The tired interviewers slip away through back exits and hours later the security men announce ‘Go home and come tomorrow. We have closed’. By the ‘tomorrow’, the venue would be empty. Some of such disappointed applicants would branch at your shop with the news. Then they will ask about other openings. They would not need to submit resumes or credentials, you would have copies already. They promise to pay later, saying: ‘You know as I dey’.

Emeka, the young man that sells what he calls ‘designer wears’ next door, pops in to make mundane small talk  before declaring that he has new stock from Onitsha. He sells Polo Ralph Lauren shirts whose logos have ridiculously large horses standing erect on all fours. Some omit the jockey or his riding crop. Some of the Lacoste shirts on his rack have their reptiles coloured blue.

Sule returns later in the afternoon. He says a fight broke out among the applicants at the Sugar factory and they were all chased away. They had waited three hours before any one attended to them. He sits in your shop due to lack of a better thing to do. He takes off the suit and spreads it on the backrest of a chair. His shirt is soaked with sweat. 

‘I would go back to the commercial motorcycle business. The man is ready to give me a bike anytime. But he has raised the daily returns to one thousand naira.’  Sule says in Hausa, looking distractedly at a poster on the wall that reads: ‘Recruitment, Recruitment, Recruitment… start now and get your dream job’

‘It is better than doing nothing.’ You reply.

When Sule leaves, he says he is going for prayers. It is Friday. You know that every Friday afternoon, the Muslims go to the mosque and business is brought to a halt in Keffi. The fruit stalls and fabric stalls that line the street where your humble shop sits become temporarily closed as the men that own them hurry off to pray. Government establishments around here work ‘half-day’ on Fridays.

Annie shows up in the evening. You always resist the temptation to call her Annabel Nwankwo, as is written on her documents. She looks in her mid-thirties and you are sure that is the truth, and not the twenty-six years she claims in the declaration of age document she goes to secure at the court every year. She has been twenty-six for three years now. 

‘Stanley, how are you?’ She greets. Her eyes sparkle and you know she must have good news. 

‘I am fine. I have plenty pending work; you people will not let me rest.’

‘We hope to let you rest soon. We pray.’ She says, meaningfully and lets out a sigh.

You don’t know whether to say ‘amen’ or ‘God forbid’ so you keep quiet and smile at her.

‘How are your students?’ You ask.

‘They are fine. But no be that one I go chop’ She replies, laughing.  She teaches at a low standard private school with makeshift wood and zinc structures. When it rains schooling is very difficult. The teachers speak bad English and grumble about low salaries.

You can barely see her from the other side of your wooden counter. She is a short lady with the sort of light skin peculiar to Ibo people. From what you have gathered from discussions with her, you know she came to Keffi on the wings of The National Youth Service Corps and did not return home because there was nothing to return to. She has a brother in Abia State University who she sends money to, for his upkeep. Her parents are terribly poor and it was a miracle that she graduated with a Bachelors degree in religion studies. 

‘My uncle in Abuja says he has spoken to someone on my behalf.’ She says.

‘Really?’

‘Yes. My name would come out when the list of successful applicants is released.’

‘Prisons abi?’ You ask.

‘Yes.’

You know the man in question is not her Uncle. She does not have any Uncle in Abuja, the dear capital city which is a thirty minutes drive from Keffi. But you have resigned from judging her. You have decided that hunger and suffering can push people beyond their limits till they snap and do things they are ashamed of; like Annie does when she resorts to flirting every time she cannot afford your fee. She would laugh too much and seize every opportunity to touch you. 

When you turn off your electricity generator, it is seven in the evening. You slam the padlock hard and it makes a loud thumping sound as it smacks against the metal door. You allow the heavy bag to encumber your left shoulder as you stroll tiredly away from Stanlo Business Centre.

You heart is still burdened with pending work. You wonder if you can meet the deadlines of some applications considering the number of applicants who have engaged your service. Particular faces flash across your mind. You remember the pain with which they spoke about their failed attempts at employment. You remember the faded clothes they wore.  The faces increase in number, they move like a slideshow and you attach names to them. Abdul, Michael, Ibrahim, Sylvia… you know a lot of them. Statistics say they make up 23.9% of the labour force. But you know them beyond the numbers and cold figures. You feel their hearts and you see their faces.