Public Transport as a Barrier to Proper Presentation: A Narrative Review

You’ve finally gotten the call for the dream job. You are qualified. You have prepared for every possible question they can throw at you. You iron the most elegant, corporate gown you own. A gown is a classic choice. This particular gown has a classic silhouette. Fitted top and A-line bottom. You choose navy blue because it is a neutral, professional colour that is one step ahead of black. It has a white, peter pan collar that makes it stand out even more. Blue and white, the very picture of professionalism and trust, values you want your interviewers to think of when they see you. You practiced a makeup tutorial the night before and you applied it very easily this morning. You are ready. Nothing can go wrong.You step outside to walk to the junction. You start to sweat a little bit, but it’s fine. You came prepared with an electronic hand fan. You think about how easy it would have been to use a cab-hailing service. But, you can’t afford it. You’re not a baller. Yet. This job will change everything. You get to the junction and hail a keke. You have to take the last space on it, beside a large, sprawling woman. You can’t afford to be late. You sidle in beside the ginormous woman, who is too busy eating greasy akara to acknowledge your struggle. The keke ride to the major bus stop should take about 10 minutes, but it feels like an eternity as you are sandwiched between the rolls of the woman beside you and the unforgiving metal frame of the keke, digging into the flesh by your hip. You are sweating even more profusely, but you’re struggling to hold up the fan. You can barely move at all. Not soon enough, you see many yellow buses arranged in lines. You are finally at the bus stop. You cannot leave the keke quick enough. You quickly collect your change and hold on to your fan for dear life, hoping the makeup itself is still intact. You find the bus that will take you to your destination, but only two other people are in it. You had planned to get to the interview venue at least 30 minutes early so you could settle down, but having only three people on the bus at this time was a bad omen. You have no choice but to wait. You try to calm down. You look into your phone camera. Your face is sweaty, but the makeup is not destroyed. Your wig, however, is a different story. No one would believe that you spent hours fussing over it with your humble tools. A plastic wig holder and a cheap straightener. It looked good at home. But now, there are flyaways everywhere. You start digging into your bag, hoping to God you remembered to bring a brush or at least a small comb. You find the comb and start combing furiously. After 30 minutes, the bus has about two more seats to fill up. Or at least, that’s what you think before the conductor comes in to announce, “five for this line!,” and add one person to your seat that already had four people. Four had been snug. Too close to other people for comfort, but not explicitly uncomfortable. You had taken a window seat to receive fresh air. But with five people on the seat, you were once again squeezed against a metal frame, more dilapidated than that of the keke, digging into your hip. It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself while checking your phone for the time. As long as you get the job. The journey starts soon after and it takes another twenty five minutes to get to another bus stop. You’re running out of time, but you try to remain composed. At least, you won’t need another ride to get to the venue. You would just walk or take an okada if you were lucky enough to see one. Once the bus stops, you are so eager to get out of it, that you almost push the people in front of you away. As you rush out, you hear a rip. You look at your professional, trust-prompting, navy blue dress to find out that it caught on something in the bus and a thread had been torn out of the hem. You try to pull out the thread, but it keeps unravelling, ruining the hem even more. In your frustration, you give up and start marching to the interview venue. There are no okadas in sight. You notice people staring at you, but you refuse to believe the hanging thread is noticeable enough to warrant such reactions. In another fifteen minutes, you get to the venue. Sweat is dripping down your face and you are panting. At least, you’ve made it to the venue. Glass walls, panelled ceilings, and polished floors. Quiet, save for the low hum of full air conditioning. You breathe in and out three times to calm yourself. You are certain you look the part. You walk to the reception and tell the receptionist you are here for an interview. Her mouth hangs open. She tells you to use the rest room first. You don't understand. You have less than five minutes before you are officially late. You insist and try to explain this to her. All she needs to do is show you the room to go into. The receptionist shakes her head and hands you a compact mirror. You look into it. Bloody hell. ...Unsurprisingly, I found no scholarly articles on this topic. So fiction loosely based on anecdotal evidence will have to do. If you have had a similar experience or you just want to complain about how ghetto it is to be pre-rich in today’s Nigeria, leave a comment below.

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