The woman in the next stall urinates loudly as Miriam squats over the toilet bowl. Nothing comes out – she is too anxious. A bespectacled man stares at her from a poster glued on the door. She imagines him before the photo is taken, unsure of where to put his hands, settling on above his crotch before the click. Beside him is a cascade of ailments a specially formulated herb is supposed to heal: premature ejaculation, libido failure, infertility, erectile dysfunction…. She grins at what she thinks is misplaced advertisement just as it occurs to her it is meant for the wives unfortunate enough to be married to men silently suffering from sexual shortcomings.
“Harakisha,” a woman outside knocks impatiently.
Miriam sighs, rising to pull back her panties and straighten her skirt. Several pairs of eyes bother with her as she wedges her way between queues. Once outside, she catches a whiff of public toilets on her blouse. Her phone beeps.
“Have you made copies of your CV?” Wanja inquires.
“Great. How on time can you be?” Miriam types back.
“Relax, you will be great,” Wanja offers.
Miriam ponders at the incredulity of her statement. Wanja is the go-getter between them, confident and trail blazing. She had no hard time getting employment after graduation; employers eat that type of personality up. She had called in favors to get Miriam the interview, barely 23 and already with a pool of professionals who owed her favors; Miriam feels a strange mix of jealousy and admiration. She, on the other hand, is shy, socially awkward and terminally introverted. Confidence is all pretense, Wanja always says, urging her to embrace the four words as a mantra.
She joins a throng headed for the Church across the bus terminal. The Priest begins Mass as Miriam settles herself in a middle pew. She is hardly religious, in fact, she could count the number of times she has attended Mass in the year on the fingers on one hand. Her attendance this morning is an act of desperation, an embarrassing fact she acknowledges. “Dear God, render me victorious today,” she mutters a prayer. At one quiet moment during the Mass, when heads are bowed in both silence and reverence, she thinks she hears the Congregation heave a collective sigh of anxiety? Fear? Skepticism? She knows she is not the only one burdened: the country has had better days, now, the economy is slumping, unemployment is on the rise, and corruption has widened the already pronounced wealth gap.
“You can always leave the country,” Miriam’s mother had said a few days ago, alluding to her cousins who had trooped to oil-rich nations abroad and now sent handsome monies back home. Miriam wanted to say something about her education, how worthless it seemed now before her mother’s smile on her graduation flashed in her brain. Her mother has seen a lifetime of fear and short bursts of happiness. Once, Miriam brought her a somewhat expensive handbag, and after a brief moment of joy, she had wondered out loud how much of a financial dent it had made on Miriam’s meager savings. Even on her graduation, Miriam’s mother had shifted from proud and ecstatic to skeptical on account of Miriam’s poor job prospects.

After years of living in society’s lower class, Miriam’s mother had unconsciously learned not to allow herself pleasant things or pleasant thoughts or pleasant situations, or anything pleasant at all.
After mass, Miriam pays for copies of her CV to be made, and, armed with all the necessary papers, makes her way to Biashara Road. The watchman at the gate requires her to sign a visitor’s book and give brief details of the time and purpose of her visit.

The words Smartech Solutions intimidate and excite her. She imagines flashing out her business card in formal cocktails, the recipient reading the proud words: Miriam Wacuka, senior analyst, Smartech Solutions and being thoroughly impressed.

An impeccably groomed secretary eyes Miriam through the glass walls as she approaches and she immediately feels self-conscious; even her clothes feel inadequate, especially her second-hand coat which pales in comparison to the obviously expensive coat the secretary sports as she approaches her.
“Hello, you must be here for the interview,” a well-manicured hand meets her unsure grip. “Let me show you to the panel room.”
Miriam’s stomach lets out a growl, a precursor to what she calls the diarrhea of fear.
“Where is the bathroom?” She hopes she didn’t sound too urgent as the secretary motions to a hallway on her left. Miriam almost breaks out into a run. The secretary is still waiting after she emerges; she avoids her eyes, mortified. Miriam is led to a spacious foyer, complete with a set of chairs where one other hopeful has settled on. It’s a woman, short-haired with skin the color of coffee, who throws a quick glance their way not in the least bit welcoming. Miriam seats next to her and rests her bag on her thighs.

It is 15 minutes to the interview; Miriam feels lightheaded. She wills herself to be calm, chanting ‘confidence is all pretense’ in a murmur. The lady beside her has her hands folded on her breasts. She glances at Miriam occasionally to disapprove of her fidgeting. On her lap sits a CV a handful of pages thicker than Miriam’s. The words ‘first class honors and ‘five years’ experience’ leap out proudly from the first page.

It occurs to Miriam that the stranger has done this before: sat outside lifeless corridors waiting for several professionals to decide on her fate, and, in the process, has developed an enviable level of patience and composure.
In a moment of panic and self-doubt, Miriam forgets what she learned in ‘how to ace an interview,’ a book she had spent most of the night gleaning from. The questions come as stark as they were, but the answers elude her. Her eyes linger on the exit, contemplating cowardly flight just as a short Indian man walks briskly in their direction.
“How are you,” he starts, shaking each of their hands. “I thought we could get started, seeing as it is already eight.”

He motions to her neighbor to follow him; Miriam’s insides sink. She has an urge to google interview questions after they have disappeared into the panel room, but she remains motionless as fear settles on every part of her body. She hears laughter; she did not pack up on office jokes.
The lady emerges after thirty minutes; her face lit up, and her bag slung on her arm in the sure way of corporate women. “All the best,” she says to Miriam before dispatching a wink.

Miriam knows she does not mean it; she must know of her inexperience, must pride in it even, not from anything concrete but merely from Miriam’s demeanor. Miriam gets nostalgic for her first year on campus: as big as the school was the guys could make out the first year girls, uncertain and restless, and render them more confused with several winks. She gathers her belongings and makes tentative steps to the slaughter house. A long wooden table takes much of the room, and about seven seats sit across from a single one. The man rises from a middle seat and takes her hand again.
“I am glad you could make it, call me Patel.”
“Miriam,” she squeals, settling into the lone chair. She takes out her CV and pushes it to him. He appears disappointed as he gathers the two papers loosely stapled together. He skims through the wording as Miriam arranges herself as upright as possible- a point stressed on by the book.
“So Miriam, tell me about yourself.”

“I am Miriam Wacuka Kamau, a recent graduate in Finance from African University. I am passionate about Math and analysis,” she impresses herself.
Mr. Patel looks at her, unmoved. “What I see here is inadequate experience.”
She is tempted to rant about how internships are acquired through favors and connections; that even her sitting across from him is made possible because of friendship. But she only says, “What I lack in experience I’ll make up for it in enthusiasm.”

Mr. Patel looks unconvinced. She copied that response straight from the book. 

“Ms. Wacuka, there is certainly a place here for a mind as bright as yours, but truthfully, training costs are… prohibitive. I will retain your CV and get back to you.”
It occurs to Miriam that he will not get back to her as she gathers her belongings. He takes her hand again on her way out. She swallows back tears as she leaves the building, and when she is signing out, they threaten to get the better of her. She hums ‘no woman no cry’ as she trots to the city’s downtown area. She reaches the jobless zone, notoriously named for the crowd of unemployed youth who linger on a stone arch preceding the entrance of a five-star hotel. It is packed with a multitude, each clutching the characteristic brown envelope containing school documents. Miriam feels a sense belonging and, she too, watches people pass by urgently, wishing she had somewhere important to go.
She removes her phone and types, Okay.

A few kilometers away the recipient replies, “Where?

“Dubai.”

The lack of hesitation on her part surprises Miriam. She has read the stories of women beaten to the pulp by their employers or locked in foreign cells without their passports. She is afraid of being far from home. She is afraid for the hundreds of others like her, leaving their countries for the unknown.
“You know what is required,” the reply interrupts her reverie.

By Janet Wahu