Don't Call Me Ugly

Chapter 1

To confirm if a recruitment agency has sent me an interview invitation, I take a walk to my neighbourhood's Hopewell internet café this Tuesday evening. Looking around the streets and deep into people's faces, I realise that Arcadia is gradually becoming a dreaded locality. Not because of crime which is a problem, but for the disappearing hope of securing a job which is the reason I left Limpopo for Pretoria.

The multi-ethnic people in my area whom I used to cherish living among, and the broad road networks linking our streets, even the beauty of the sky-scraping block-of-flats now mean nothing to me, unlike the strong appeal they had when I newly arrived. Of what use is living in a modern locality when I go out in the morning and return home a jobless soul?

Barely after crossing the road, I bump my feet on a pavement slab, but something within holds me back from peeking at my hurting toenail. What does it matter if it bleeds, anyway? Do I have the cash to visit a clinic or the nearby pharmacy store? I soak in the pain and hasten to the café. No hurt can be worse than being jobless in Pretoria, an expensive city to live in.

"Give me fifteen minutes browsing time." I toss a two-rand coin at the café attendant, sidestepping the two young ladies chatting with him at the counter. My status as a regular café user grants me such privileges.

"Sure, Andrew." the attendant raises a thumb, pointing to my regular computer at the far corner, close to the shelf that displays colourful African fabrics for sale. Internet cafes in my area double as tuck shops or even eateries. Some sell fried chips or Spathlos – cheap meals for college students.

On settling on a stool, I stare at the computer screen, summoning the zeal to open my email inbox. This isn't the first time I'll be expecting an interview invitation. It isn't the seventieth time. Will today be any different?

Not to waste time, I scour my inboxes and discovers that none of the recruitment agencies has good news for me. No invitation email. No prospect of an interview. Only mails acknowledging receipt of my applications. If you don't hear from us after two weeks, consider your application unsuccessful. Their rejection messages now sound like a TV commercial.

I hand off the computer mouse, staring blankly at the screen till my time elapses. How else does one seek a job? All the recruitment agencies in the country have my curriculum vitae. I've also handed printed copies to people around me – neighbours, acquaintances, passers-by and strangers – just in case anyone knows someone who knows a friend or colleague who knows the person that might be of help. I even pasted my CV on the noticeboards of popular retail stores in different malls. Still, no one gives me a look in.

How does one explain three years of joblessness after struggling to get a diploma? I can't continue to watch as people leave their flats and return from work while I remain idle. If the big men in this area claim not to notice my daily wandering, maybe I should take a different approach to this job issue. Must I cry on the streets or use a megaphone before someone observes that I'm in need?

Come to think of it, is my ugly face the reason Arcadia residents avoid me? Does my face account for why companies refuse to hire me? In this crazy city where everyone strives hard to enhance their looks, that might just be the case. But my picture isn't on my CV, therefore potential employers can't know who's applying. Or is there a technology which detects an ugly face from a distance?

I disagree that there are no jobs in Pretoria or even neighbouring Joburg which is known to be the most industrialised city in the country. Taxis filled with passengers take people to their places of work each morning. Traders, cleaners and salespeople and what have you? Newspapers report that investors arrive in South Africa every month. And news makes the rounds on social media about new hires and job opportunities. Why hasn't it gotten to my turn?