LIFE BY LOUIS: Lessons from my first job interview

The popular job interview opening line 'Tell us about yourself' is dreaded the world over. I remember with shivers the first time this interview question was fired at me. ILLUSTRATION | SAMUEL MUIGAI

What you need to know:

  • I spent a lot of precious moments in front of a mirror trying to rehearse the looks and demeanour that could earn me favour with the interviewing panel.
  • Those days I did not have access to Google to help me with interview preparation tips.
  • The minute I stepped outside our home that dreadful dawn headed for Nairobi, my shoes were already dusty. I arrived at the interview location in a plush looking office located in the leafy suburbs of Nairobi looking miserable.
  • I was tired and sleepy, but the apprehension of the impending interaction with the interviewers kept me alert.

The popular job interview opening line “Tell us about yourself” is dreaded the world over by all prospective job seekers. It only rivals the domestic question “I think we need to talk” when whispered through clenched teeth into a man’s ear from his spouse.

PREPARATION

I remember with shivers the first time this interview question was fired at me. Fresh from college and dressed badly, I was invited for an interview in a large multinational that dealt with petroleum products.

Those days I did not have access to Google to help me with interview preparation tips.

I spent a lot of precious moments in front of a mirror trying to rehearse the looks and demeanour that could earn me favour with the interviewing panel.

I also tried out several of my best clothes that I thought fitted the profile of the holder of the job that I was looking for. Sadly for me, no one had prepared me in college to own a suit and tie, leave alone how to wear one. The new tie that I had bought specifically for the interview felt too tight and seemed to be pressing tightly on my Adam’s apple.

NIGHTMARES

I could not get someone of my size to borrow a suit from. My prospective suit donors were rich men with significant mid sections, and the suits seemed to hang from my shoulders like I was a clothes hanger in a display shop. Other samples were too small and even where the jacket fitted me, the trousers hovered just above my knees in length. I finally settled on wearing a shirt with tie and no jacket, and one final look at the mirror confirmed that I looked decent enough.

I did not have any known friend or relative within a 50km radius of Nairobi, so I had to commute from my village Matimbei, which, thanks to our roads, was like walking out of a busy quarry on a hot and dusty afternoon.

The risk of waking up late on the day of the interview was too high to be acceptable, so I set three alarms on my table clock to wake me up long before dawn. In between the long and endless night, I dreamt several times that I had woken up the following day at midday and missed the interview, and these nightmares jolted me up gasping in horror and sweating profusely.

Morning finally came and I was all set to go. The minute I stepped outside our home that dreadful dawn headed for Nairobi, my shoes were already dusty. I arrived at the interview location in a plush looking office located in the leafy suburbs of Nairobi looking miserable.

I was tired and sleepy, but the apprehension of the impending interaction with the interviewers kept me alert.

THE INTERVIEW

The offices were impeccably clean and the reception afforded us drinking water in both cold and hot servings plus cable television.

The workforce there looked like they worked for the large multinationals that we used to hear about in Wall Street. They were all jolly looking and talking a lot of fluent English. They also wore handmade designer suits and heavily starched shirts for men, but the ladies were a bit informal in their outfits.

When I was finally summoned into the interview room, I was relieved that there was no panel. It was just one lady interviewer who seemed at ease with herself and at peace with the entire world. She spoke swiftly and her voice seemed to be escaping her body through the fine pores on her face. I had to lean in closer to her for me to hear her questions correctly. She freely dropped heavy vocabulary, and words escaped her mouth like a person who was chewing onto a flavoured dictionary.

“My names are Muiruri of Njoki,” I started when she sweetly but firmly steered the conversation from the brief pleasantries and straight in to the business of the day.

She must have nearly gagged to hear I had several names. Google later taught me that you only have a name not names, but that was like closing the stable door when the horse had already bolted.

UNDERSOLD MYSELF

“I went to Karugo Group of schools,” I continued to be more irrelevant. Her good upbringing could not allow her to interrupt me before I could bore her to her early grave. She therefore patiently allowed me to regale her with my hobbies that included going for YCS meetings and catching butterflies and collecting old postage stamps.

She kept walking up and down making me coffee and fetching bottled water from a dispenser. She was constantly shuttling between two computers and two telephone handsets and I was just mesmerised by her sheer efficiency and ability to multitask.

“How much do you expect to earn from us”, she asked as she looked straight into my eyes and rolled a Parker pen between her well-manicured fingers. I grossly undersold myself to a measly twenty thousand shillings before tax, and she quickly scribbled something which I suppose was a laughing emoji.

She thanked me profusely for having taken my time to attend the interview, and her exit lines were full of exaggerated mannerism that made me blush heavily.

She escorted me all the way to the gate with promises of a response, and the minute she turned back I sat down on the pavement and regained my breath.

LESSONS LEARNT

Three weeks later as advised, I visited Nairobi again to check for the letter communicating the interview results. The letter was to be delivered to my former college’s faculty offices via the post office.

My legs were shaking and my mouth was dry. I had all along visualised myself bagging that job despite the fact that I knew I had performed dismally in the interview. I did not open the letter until I was safely seated in the back seat of route 120 matatu headed home.

The letter started by thanking me again for having taken my time off my busy Matimbei farming schedule to attend the interview. It proceeded to apologise for the fact that my skills (and probably my village dress code and poor English) did not match the job profile. It caused more pain by thanking me again and wishing me the best in my future endeavours. I stretched myself on the seat, leaned forward and tears came fast and furious.

The next time I went for an interview I was hosted overnight by a friend in the outskirts of Nairobi so that I didn’t appear in the interview room looking like a quarry assistant. He also lent me decent clothes and took me through a mock interview the night before, and the interview results were less disastrous.