Adaobi knew the interview was a formality. What she didn't know was how much it would humiliate her, the office was clean in the way expensive places are clean—silent air conditioners, white tiles, glass doors, and that sterile smell of lemon polish and power, the receptionist didn't look up when I entered. Her wig was perfect, her nails glossy, and her face said she knew I didn't belong.
I sat. Waited. I had gotten the interview through a friend of a friend who "put in a word." It was for a junior copywriter role at a flashy fintech company in Lekki that called itself "disruptive." I hated that word. Nothing they were disrupting included poverty.
A woman in sky-blue heels eventually called my name. "Adaobi Oke… Okeke?"
"Present," I said. Like I was back in school, answering roll call. I stood, fixed my scarf, and followed her into a glass-walled conference room where three men and one woman waited. Laptops open. Bored eyes. I smiled. The fake kind.
"Tell us about yourself," one of them said before I even sat down. I started the script I had memorized. Education. Experience. "I'm passionate about brand storytelling and—"
The youngest one, the one with a sharp fade and sharper jawline, interrupted. "Why do you think you've been unemployed for so long?" My stomach clenched. "I wouldn't say I've been unemployed. I've done freelance work and consulting—" "That's not employment," he said. "That's hustling."
The woman on the panel—older, sharp-boned, expressionless—clicked her pen. No one said anything to him. I swallowed hard and forced a nod. "Well, yes, it's been a journey, but I believe it has taught me resilience—" He smirked. "Everyone's resilient these days. Can you actually write?"
The question wasn't insulting. It was the tone. The look in his eye. Like I was some struggling joke from Ajegunle trying to sneak into their clean, air-conditioned world with big grammar and borrowed ambition. I felt my ears grow hot. My hands started to sweat.
"I submitted a writing sample," I said, calmly. "With my application." "We didn't read it," the woman said. Silence.
Something inside me shifted. A quiet click, like a switch. "I think I'm done here," I said, standing up. They looked confused. The room went still. "Excuse me?" the woman asked. "I said I'm done. Thank you for your time." I walked out before they could respond. Past the receptionist, who finally looked up. Past the lobby with its fake plants and real tension. Out into the Lagos sun, where the real heat met my skin like a slap.
I walked fast, not because I had anywhere to go—but because if I didn't, I'd cry right there in the street. I didn't have the job. I didn't have money. I didn't even have hope. But somehow, walking out of that room had made me feel… not proud, exactly. Just… less small. It wouldn't last. I knew that, but for now, I held onto it like it was something real.