Intro:
I wrote this piece eight years ago, during a difficult season of starting over. I had just moved to a new city—jobless but hopeful. This is the story of one of many mornings I chased possibility, only to meet the kind of Nigerian reality that leaves you asking hard questions.
Sharing it now, as a woman who’s still learning to stand, to hope, and to try again, feels both vulnerable and necessary.
Maybe you’ve been here too, just trying to get through, chasing something better, only to meet the kind of response that makes you stop and ask,
“How did we get here?”
If you read this and it resonates, thank you.
If it reminds you of your own story, I’d love to read it.
- Chynwe-
Early that particular Monday morning, I woke up to my phone ringing. The tone was so loud, I wondered if there was a special occasion.
It was a call from a concerned friend, telling me to go submit my résumé at a health institute around the Jabi area in Abuja.
As a young woman who had just resigned from her job in one of the northern states and relocated to Abuja to start over, I needed a job badly. I was ready to start from anywhere, as long as it was decent.
The week before had been rough. I’d walked into several offices and hotels looking for work, and each time, after going through my résumé, all I got was, “We’ll get back to you.” I’d heard that line so many times it started to feel normal. But I wasn’t ready to give up yet.
After taking the call, I jumped out of bed, feeling unusually hopeful. There was no room for doubt. In less than an hour, I was dressed and ready to face whatever the day had to offer.
I had ironed my favorite blazer the day before, and wearing it that Monday made me feel like a brand-new managing director. (Laughs)
Finding the place didn’t take long. I asked around, and before I could even take a deep breath, I was standing in front of a beautiful building with the facility’s name boldly written across it. It sat quietly in the heart of the city, serene and organized. I could already picture myself working there.
Lost in thought, I didn’t notice the young lady in uniform asking what I wanted. She repeated herself, and that was when I came back to reality. She was neatly dressed and worked as security at the facility. I was amazed. For a moment, I wished I were her. “At least she has a job,” I whispered to myself. Yes, I wanted a job that bad.
I asked if she could let me in, but she insisted I had to be on appointment—and even then, the person I was meeting would have to clear me through security.
Hmmm. “No be small place be this o,” I muttered.
Trying not to feel intimidated, I told her I only came to make an enquiry. She offered to help with any questions I had, but I smiled and told her I’d prefer to speak to someone inside. Of course, I didn’t look my best to be stopped at the gate.
While I was still trying to convince her, a man walked out of the building, talking on the phone. Something told me he might be staff, so I quickly thanked the lady and stood aside, waiting patiently for him to finish. The call lasted nearly thirty minutes. It didn’t even feel long—I needed this job, and I would have waited even longer.
When he finally ended the call, I sighed deeply and approached him.
“Excuse me, sir. Please, do you have a minute?”
I sounded unusually bold, like a journalist on assignment.
He didn’t stop walking. “How may I help you, small lady?” he said.
He was right—I really was small compared to him. He looked every bit the Nigerian Big Man: tall, broad, with a protruding belly. His suit was neatly pressed, the creases on his trousers sharp enough to sharpen a pencil. His shoes were so polished, I could see my reflection in them.
I didn’t let his appearance intimidate me. I followed him past security—now officially inside the premises—and he finally stopped to hear me out. The look on his face said “don’t waste my time.” I got the message and went straight to the point.
I had barely said a few words when he burst out laughing. He laughed so hard, I had to look down at myself to check if I’d worn my blazer inside out.
Anyone passing by would’ve thought I was a comedienne.
I stood there, stunned. When he finally caught his breath, he said, “We don’t accept résumés here. To work in this facility, someone has to recommend you. You have to know someone inside. You can’t just walk in and drop your résumé. We don’t even advertise vacancies.”
My knees went cold. Every image I’d painted in my mind faded. All the excitement drained away.
“But,” he added, “I like your courage. You’ll need that to survive in this city.”
He said a few more encouraging things, but I was barely listening. His words floated past me. I nodded, thanked him, and apologized for wasting his time. I’m not even sure he responded—his laughter was still echoing as I walked away.
Leaving the premises, I felt drained. That was enough disappointment for the day. I decided to go home.
As I walked toward the bus stop, the only question in my head was:
How did we get here as a country?
A place where you must know someone to get anything done.
Sometimes even to get a plate of rice at an occasion.