By Shem Onderi
It lasted only a few minutes—
so brief that I wondered
how I managed to answer anything at all.
The panel sat like a quorum,
each one armed with his own questions.
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I was led to a swinging chair,
just unstable enough
to keep me from settling in.
Their questions came in low tones,
and I strained to catch every word.
Sometimes my voice failed me.
My tongue felt heavy,
my mouth dry and stubborn.
I forgot my last meal,
my height, my age—
all the simple things.
The panel was tough,
and so were their questions.
Their faces looked stern.
Sweat trickled down my back.
I remembered that many others
had sat in that same chair,
some chasing a first job,
others hoping for a better break.
Few were lucky.
Most left only with experience.
I had prepared for days—
borrowed clothes, polished shoes,
everything new but my nerves.
Yet the interview was over in minutes,
hardly worthy of a week of preparation.
The opportunity never comes.
Often it becomes just another moment
to sit before strangers
and try to prove your worth—
before returning to joblessness.
Then I woke up.
It had all been a dream—
a short one, yes,
but one filled with hope.
