THE INTERVIEW

A pale violet cloud stood between the burning edge of dawn, and the rose pink curtains shielding Leila’s room. The panes warmed up, giving way to the first outpouring yellows, slowly creeping up her floorbed. It was a messy room. Duvet on one end, a dirty overall near the door, a rise of blueprints chaotically covering the floor. As light curved up her legs, slowly inching up her skinny arms, the tingle of September’s sun fully aroused her dreaming eyes. She sat up, hard hat still on. Another morning.
Lazily, she turned to her left, her cracked phonescreen read ‘00:9’. Her eyes were wide now. She quickly scrolled up to see clearly…Friday, 5th September, 6:00 AM.
Sigh.
‘At least I’m not late!’
Before she could comfort her nerves, the phone vibrated. A swarm of notifications. She stood, scrolling further down the deep hole of this guy liking 10 of her Facebook posts, a birthday on LinkedIn of a former colleague she barely knew.
Well, she needed the numbers.
Then, one strikingly drew her posture to lean. It said, ‘Early Morning Interview–Joss Int–Salim!’
“Joss? Salim?” She looked around. Her notebook. Where was it?
She rumaged the little brown desk beside her bed, all this while, the numbers on her minute side increased quickly. “Joss…Joss…Jo-” She remembered. “Interview!”

The kettle couldn’t heat up quick enough, so lukewarmly, coffee granules sat at the bottom of her dirty-brown papercup. She sipped, just like in the movies, convincing herself that it would wake her up. She wore her favourite peach cardigan over her only floral dress, her purse hanging from her left shoulder. Her feet snug in her inexpensive leather doll shoes she had thrifted in town via a late-night scavenger hunt of the famous bend-over boutiques, and her hair a bundle of woolen afrokinks. She eased her bounce as she took the turn from the apartment complex she lived in—one she had helped construct in her first year after college. Lucky her! Many of her classmates scattered the country in search of government contracts, to little avail. Every 5 years, a new governor. That means an overhaul of the older team, and in with a new one!
Leila was a good negotiator. She negotiated her way into everything! Her apartment was a negotiation with the site engineer to allow her access to the affordable housing units early. What she wore that day was a negotiation! JOSS, was a nego…she remembered, running up the trail to the main road. A large electric tram, green and white was boarding. She liked these, because the conductors were easy to get around.
“100! Mia, Town!” the man shouted in a chorale to get anyone in the kilometer radius aware.
Leila crunched up her purse, riding her hand of the paper cup, “Niko na hii.”

“Hiyo, hapana…” the conductor side-eyed her hand, signaling 30 shillings less. 

He looked up hopelessly at the empty rig. “Fanya 80 basi.”
Leila smiled, confidently punching through the early tram’s door, and onto her choice seat. Two windows from the drivers, left. Her view was just right! The city outskirts, a wild gumbo of concrete marvels and shacks, plus, the sun on her back. This day seemed to go just right!

“Pesa hapo?”
She neatly fit her exact fare in hand, stretching it mindlessly at the conductor.
“Hii ni nini, madam?” 

She confidently stated, “Si tuliongea?”
“Na nani?”
Suddenly, the baritone failed to register. She looked up to meet the sagging face of an old bulgy collector, his blue shirt open wide to his chest. It was a different conductor. Shocks rippled her throat, as she dug deeper into her purse. No more money was left.
“Uhm, nirudishie…nilipe na simu basi.”
The fellow shoved back the money at her, following up with a swift dictation. “0-7-5…”
“Eii…si ungoje hata nitoe simu…”
“Madam, hatuko hapa mchezo. Lipa gari!” he turned to the lady seated next to Leila. “Yako?”
“Unasumbua mtoto ju ya 20 bob, surely!” she pouted, handing out a crispy 100.
“Watoto wako shule. Hapa ni kazi, mama.” he barked.
Leila thinned her eyes at the distant number on a payment sticker.
“Hiyo haifanyi!” the fellow came up again, his fat hand unfolded at her, signaling she passed her phone. 

She did. He returned it, fare and number filled. “Nionyeshe message nikirudi.”
It felt like a threat. Finalizing the transaction, she felt feverish. Then, her phone vibrated, “No sufficient funds…”
Her soles heated up.
She looked back, to see the man agitating some boys in the backseat. There was only enough time!
“Aha!” Leila quickly scrolled to her banking app. She loaded up the exact amount, sending it to her contact. The green suddenly turned red. “Error, your internet balance is below 0…”
Her hands became cold.
“Sasa mtu aanzie wapi?” Leila slapped her lap, worriedly looking out the tram’s window. Almost every inch of the road was a green cash transaction agent’s kiosk, but she couldn’t get off and withdraw. Behind her, she could hear the conductor approach, asking, “Message…Message, sawa.”
Seat after seat he went. Her stomach twisted, her palms were sweaty.
“Mum, uko na 20 unisaidie?” she finally turned to the lady next to her.
The lady sized her, making a face like she had smelt something rather displeasing.
“Wewe kasichana, unatoka aje kwa nyumba bila pesa?” she complained, entering her large purse. Leila felt some relief. A weird kind. There it was, a shiny golden 20 at the finger tips of the lady’s blood red nails. Right then, a bulging stomach blocked her view.
“Message!”
Leila coupled up her change, leaning to the lady, who held up another 100 to the conductor’s face. 

“Shika hii, nimemlipia.”
The conductor licked his lips as he counted the money. 

“This is how things should be.”
He proceeded forward, leaving Leila profusely thanking the lady.
“It’s just that I have a daughter like you,” the lady responded, cutting any further conversation between them.

7:03.
Leila had 12 minutes left for JOSS. Then…
‘Traffic? This early?’
Outside, she calculated with her eyes, as the tram rushed to any open slots between the vehicles to maneuver. If one lane moved an inch, the wheel would turn in its favor. Right then, the hawkers moved from the side of the road, to inside the trams and buses.
She felt stuck. Uneasy. All the frustration down to the fact that JOSS was a favor she had earned. You don’t overstretch a favor. She wanted to be on time for this one opportunity. She had counted about 3 active sites on her way, all under JOSS. From skyscrapers to footbridges. Heck, right upfront, it read, ‘Slow down, road under construction. JOSS Int.’
She wrung her cardigan in her palms with bated breath. Slowly, they began to move, then…hooting!
She looked back to see the driver exit the tram quickly, as a rowdy confrontation swelled up.
“W-what has happened?” Leila asked the lady, who was heaving to have a peek at what was going on. The whole tram was in a frenzy!
“I think we hit a car…”
“Yes. A government plate…”
“Wueh! Kazi tutachelewa hivyo…conductor, return my money I take another bus!”
From the back, the people streamed out, mobbing the conductor. Leila watched the minutes side on her phone, wading past the people. The lady saw her edge away, “Wewe kasichana! Pesa yangu?”
Leila looked back swiftly, “Chukua kwa conductor. Nimechelewa aki…”
“Unadhani sisi ndio hatuna mahali pa kuenda?”
Her feet were tied, luring her back into the commotion as every one robbed from the conductor whatever they were owed. Until, it was just her there…
“Nirudishie ile 100?” she shook, naively aware that it really wasn’t her money.
This, and the beet red eyes of the hustled up conductor made her scared out of her wit!

“Ulinipea pesa?” he asked, shrugging her away.
“Ya ule mama…”
“Mwambie akuje aniitishe mwenyewe!” he pushed past the thinning crowd, and onto incoming traffic.
On the side, the lady gestured at Leila. “Wewe! Pesa yangu?”
Leila felt stranded.
“Basi nipe 50, nitamuongezea yangu.” she pressed, hopelessly.
Without turning, a 50 shillings note flew in the air, Leila catching it desperately. She ran past the cars ahead, and tokened the Lady a split of a 100.
“Unajua nilimpea noti mpya! Enda tu, nimesamehea leo. Usizoee!” the lady smacked her lips,running ahead to a bus stop further down the traffic flow.
Leila watched the city clock, breaching the 7:15 mark.
“Oh no!”

“Madam?” an easy, calm voice called from behind her.
An electric boda hummed to where she was. “Twende nikufikishe?”
Leila did not think, “Eeh, niko na haraka…ata nimechelewa!”
“Hadi wapi?” the man asked, smiling.
“Uhm…” Leila bit her lip. “Westlands itakuwa ngapi hivi?”
“Ah! Twende tu. Bei tutaongea…” the man made a case so palatable for Leila, she hopped on, eyes on the clock pressing further down. “Nifikishe Mpaka road!”

“This traffic was caused by the contractor…” the man started, veering off the highway onto a busy footpath.
“Why though? What happened?” Leila asked, keen not to bring up the death-defying stunts he was performing past the pedestrians and food vendor stalls.
“This government refused to pay them. So they left their tools on the highway, unfinished!” the man swerved onto another road, almost dropping Leila. “Jishikilie vizuri, madam!”
As the wind propelled fast on them, Leila had questions for the ‘all-knowing’ rider. She raised her voice to his ear, “Kwani, they did not negotiate their contract?”
“Hee!” the man laughed mockingly. “I hear the contractor spent all his money there. He is almost bankrupt…”
Leila’s eyes popped.
“Na vile ako na site nyingi anajenga…”
“Hizo ni loans walichukua na security ya hii contract. Haiya, madam…” the man turned to a large cream gate, on it the wordings: ‘JOSS International Contractors’. 

“Huku ndio unakuja?”
Her heart became heavy, as she confirmed, “Eeh…”
The electric motor stopped, prompting a confused Leila to alight.
“Itakuja how much?”
The rider looked up, as if formulating in the air. “Ni 500 tu.”
“500?!” Leila jumped.
“Madam, you saw how desperate you were. Plus, you are my first customer this morning–I rushed here like an ostrich on fire. 500 is fair.” the man pleaded.

“Mnh…350. Mwisho.” Leila did not waste a second, eyes constantly moving between the boda and the gate of the establishment.
The rider looked at her, neck bent, making a final quote, “400, sababu hata ni kama huku mnafunga kazi. Let’s help one another. Labda siku ingine utanitafuta.”

“Sawa, let me go withdraw kwa kiosk, then.” Leila took strides to a money agent’s kiosk, returning to the rider in a huff. “Nimewithdraw 1,000, but hawana change…”
The man shook his helmet, “Hauna kwa simu?”

Leila was back where she had started. “Uko na 600 unitumie?”
Suddenly, the gate clung, swinging slightly open. A young man was let out in a neat suit and a brown envelope in hand, looking shaken. He marched on in cussing at the sky.
“Inakaa huko ni moto…let’s do this, madam. Give me the 1,000. When I have enough from my customers, I can send you the 600.”
Leila leaned back, “Aki sina pesa ingine. Hautaniibia?”
“You are like my child. How can I steal from you?” the man pursued. “Listen. Here is my number…infact, Watchie!”
The watchman came to the rider’s call.
“You see this lady? I have brought her and I owe her some change. Here—have my number as well. If I don’t repay her, you are a witness. Both of you can hold me to account, sawa?”
The watchman looked at Leila, whose patience was running out. She asked, “Interview zimeanza?”
“One person has just entered the interview room, just now…” the watchman said, turning to the rider. “What’s my cut?”
Leila fumed.
“Sawa, you agree. Mimi nataka 600 yangu before 13:00 hrs,” she said, stepping aside.
“Hold on, madam,” the rider came. “50,50. I’ll give him my 50, you give your 50. Sawa?”
“…argh, sawa!” Leila agreed, much to the delight of the watchman as the rider proceeded down the street.
“Asante kwa chai madam. Unajua, lazima nijiongee…” the giddy watchman pandered to Leila’s side.
“Interviews ziko wapi?” she asked hastily.
“Sign here first. Then I’ll direct you.”


The cream at the gate followed her to the walls of the sunken lounge hidden from eye’s view from the outside of the fence. She had counted 15 SUVs on her way to the reception, not to mention the people…Two cut the grass–no, manicured it. Three men guarded the large car park, while 4 others stood by with piping hot lidded drinks, chatting aloud about some awry deal somewhere.

With dust on her doll shoes, Leila sat alone on a form in the reception area. In front of her, a black bespoke desk with two well adorned receptionists watching their monitors. They looked rather well paid for a bankrupt firm. She crossed her legs, afraid to show her dirty feet.

Above her, a well done ceramic roof, darted with fixed lightings that lit the ambience to an even warmth. Flower pots raced into the inner corridor, on the walls, frames of awards and pictures of people with the president and other senior fellows.
Leila felt what it felt to feel big. Her qualms faded and she felt—important, again.
Her purse sat neatly on her lap, as her mind scaled imagination of what awaited her.
Then, “What will you have? Tea, or Juice?”
The voice was velvety smooth, non startling.
“Water will be okay,” Leila courteously mellowed her best voice at the receptionist, who stretched her hand to her right.
“Plastic cups are there, the water dispenser will be on your left.” all the while, her face did not leave her screen.
Leila stood up, clutching her purse, walking past the desk. She heard a giggle from behind her, “Look at this one…”
The other receptionist joined in the glee.
Leila turned shyly, only to see them craning their necks at a meme. One looked up at her, “Water is that way.”
Leila hated it.
She looked ahead, noticing how wide the other side was. The many glass doors and a large open office area. As she walked past the large open office, she noticed how few the people were. Nonetheless, she thought, “At least there’s a decent office.”
She was so engrossed, she didn’t realise that she had stalled in the corridor.
“Hey!” she was startled. “What are you doing?”
“Uhm…looking for water.” she hid her face.
“Here! Use this one…” A Somali man waved at her near his desk. “Before the others arrive.”
She filled up a white cup, looking around the office in awe. She turned to the man’s desk, noticing a report regarding a site.
“So, you are an engineer here?” she asked, being coy.
“Uh…” the man swung in his chair. “No. I am the accountant. You’re here…for the interview, yes?”
“Yeah! I had quite the morning getting here, actually. We stumbled upon a roadblock, coincidentally, it read ‘JOSS internanational.’”
“You know, all these early people here? They all use that very road. I, included!” they laughed.
“You’re a student?” the man proceeded to ask.
“Not really. I have done a little building myself,” Leila said confidently, chewing on the cup.
“You? Construction?” the man asked, jeering.
“Yeah! As little as I look…ninainua mawe!” Leila put back the cup, her eyes looking past the man, trying to piece out bits about the report on his screen.
“Ok. Just put your best foot forward, let’s see if you can snatch one of these cubicles, yes?” the man said, turning back to his desk, quickly closing the tab on his screen.

Leila walked away quietly. Her form condensed, as she returned to the reception area, bumping into another young lady. She was smiling. She even held out her hand to Leila…
“Leila Sabii…” the receptionist called, standing up. “Follow me.”
Leila left the young lady frozen with her hand out in the air.
She walked robotically behind the receptionist who navigated door after door, into a cold room. She did not proceed further, holding the door for Leila to pass. Leila slowly walked in, to a large table set. At the head of it, an elderly Somali and two other people sat beside him. One a brush looking white fellow, the other a slender middle-aged woman wearing designer glasses with a laptop in front of her.
“Sit.”
The words registered, but Leila didn’t see who spoke them. She moved to the end opposite of the interviewers, behind her, a large TV screen showing the news.
The receptionist walked out, leaving the translucent door to close.
“Leila, is it?” the slender woman started.
“Yes?” she responded, rather calmly.
The elderly man sunk in his chair.
“Leila, I looked at your papers and uhm…” he leaned towards the slender woman, who in turn lowered her glasses. 

“Give us a moment, please…” she said, showing Leila the door.
Leila stood up, walking out the door.

As she stood outside, she could hear rising murmurs. Not a word, could she make out. It sounded heated. She looked up at the ceiling, wondering what awaited her. I mean, she had spoken to one of the foremen, Salim, once. He had promised to send a good word to his boss regarding the open post, and clearly, she was qualified. At the site, only 3 people surpassed her in terms of expertise. A high-achiever, probably, but even so, something was amiss.

The door wheezed open, and the slender woman called her back in. Her eyes showed enough displeasure. She looked at where her seat was, behind it, the TV marked with a gory image of carnage. Leila’s heart raced up. She felt numb, all the way to her seat. There was an unsettling quiet in the room, then.
“Leila, you do realise what this post is?” the brush white man asked, with his hands on the table.
“Yes, I do,” Leila answered, her voice cracking.
“We have lost several contracts because of a reckless mistake. Salim, your referee…” the elderly Somali man started. He took the remote beside him, and turned off the TV behind her.
“One life lost is an accident, 12…unacceptable! I have seen all the people who have come through that door, young and inexperienced. I must confess, seeing you at first—I thought the same too of you. But, Salim assured me that you can handle the task at hand. Is it?”
The white fellow cracked his fist, eyes firm on Leila as the slender woman typed away.
“I think, I…to be honest, I hadn’t learned about these happenings before stepping into this room. I–I am a big admirer of the work your firm has done, and I know hundreds, maybe thousands of construction workers like me would do anything to actually get past that door.” Leila wrung her cardigan, as her words felt like they were cutting her throat syllable after another. One voice said, say yes! The other wasn’t so sure.
“I would like to examine myself first. I would like to see the site…to be sure that the reckless mistake is just that, a mistake. However, I cannot take the job unless I know all these.” she muttered. At that moment, she hated herself. Well, she did have her current work as a junior. With her effort, she could scale up to senior, maybe even junior structural engineer in 5 years…
“Ok. Then, you have the job!” the white man erupted.
Leila was stunned.

“But, I said no…”
“Yes. You did. However, life as it is cannot afford me the luxury to scour applications further. You start tomorrow. God knows how far behind that road is!” the white man threw something in his mouth, chewing as the elderly Somali man smiled at Leila.

“We—did not take lives. Corruption did. I needed someone I can trust to go restart the site and oversee the operations when we are away. You will not be doing the heavy lifting. I will. You will handle government inspections and report to me and my accountant on matters concerning construction materials. Everything else is set. Now, let’s talk compensation.”
Leila felt the air warm, like a calming presence lifted the tense blanket off her. She sat up straight, noticing how unhospital-like everything had become.
“Wait? This is so confusing…was that a test?” she asked.
The slender woman took off her glasses, looking away from the laptop, “Young girl, for whatever reason, you chose not to lie today. As they said, there’s little time to spare. The sooner we are done here, the better.”
The white man looked at the papers before him, “So, how much?”

Leila sat beneath a large bright yellow umbrella, as the day’s heat beat the cardigan off her. She looked past the table marked with tea and soup stains. She saw men labour to ferry water in blue tankers, numbers inscribed on the bowsers sharing the road with girls her age driving cars thrice their size. She saw the bustle and hustle and took it all in.
“Nikuletee nini?” the mama selling asked.
“Chapo mbili na beef…weka pilipili kando, na maji, eh.”
Right then, her phone vibrated. She checked. ‘You have received 515 from…’
‘He couldn’t even take out the payment charges from his end?’ she chuckled.
Leila gave a deep sigh, looking at the large signboard that read:
‘Slow down, road under construction. JOSS Int.’
She smiled as the mama brought a plastic plate, overflowing.
“There’s no negotiating my way out of this one.”