Tag: business

Offboarding

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Jasmine’s heart was working a rhythm. It wasn’t quite pounding, but she could feel the flush in her face, the warmth flooding her body. It was all so cool in her mind’s eye. The delivery of the information, the breakdown of the facts, her clinical assessment of matters, all coming off like a Swiss watch. Her rucksack sat up against the table leg to her left. She found herself adjusting its position three times before the HR manager arrived. What exactly she was adjusting she couldn’t say.

Jasmine was keenly aware of her presence and perception in the workplace: quiet, in the corner, coder, unnoticeable. She wasn’t even a coder but a junior developer. As a techie in a department of a big bank, she accepted and understood her furniture-level importance to the grand operation she found herself in. She liked the job. It didn’t set her heart on fire, but the scale of it, the money and the prestige of working for an internationally recognized bank wasn’t something she took lightly. Looking round the glossy, clean off-white interview room, a bubble of anxiety rose within her.

Her mum’s face came to mind. Mum, prouder than proud the day she told her she got this job. Rarely one to openly express a beaming warmth and celebration on Jasmine’s success, she was clearly quite chuffed with this one. It was the name, it was the status of the bank. It was being able to tell her friends at the hairdresser “My daughter works for…” Yet this was her exit interview. Just some 8 months in. She didn’t really have a story to tell her Mum. She doubted she’d understand. Neither did she have a cogent plan of what would come next. Jasmine sucked in her cheeks and pursed her lips. What was just moments away scared her.

The doubt was porous. Forget being hot and uncomfortable, she felt foolish. Had she watched too many movies? This was the right thing to do… but was it the right decision for her? Jasmine looked up at the analogue clock on the wall ahead, just a minute till the appointment, when she heard a middle-aged brogue on the other side of the door. A dull clink signaled the lowering of the door handle. Malcolm Graves entered.

***

It was a breezy work day for Malcolm, sans kerfuffle or boondoggles. The weekend was just round the corner, and he had his weekly squash game planned for 7 p.m. Margaret had booked a trip to the Lake District for the weekend, and he’d merrily scheduled annual leave for the second half of Friday and the whole of Monday. Coffee in hand and paperwork under his arm, Malcolm was enjoying the pleasant frequency of not feeling too high or too low; he remained somewhere in the middle, trouble free.

The HR department had been gifted a lighter load in recent months. There were the usual unpleasant incidents involving abusive customers from the ground floors but nothing out of the ordinary. The email inbox was not inundated, and the implementation (and creation) of new policy had slowed compared to the heady days of some 5-6 years ago. Malcolm, in truth, had never met Jasmine. He had the name on file but didn’t recall it upon being assigned the exit interview. When he looked at the job description, he couldn’t tell you exactly what Jasmine did and well, with her being a techie, he entered the room with no qualms.

“Jasmine,” Malcolm briskly stated on entrance.

“Hel—“

In a flurry of nerves, Jasmine nearly tipped the interview table upon standing to greet him.

“Oh, careful there. That desperate to leave us, are you?” Malcolm gently ribbed, reaching a hand out to shake Jasmine’s.

Jasmine let out a nervous chuckle before gripping Malcolm’s hand, only making the briefest of eye contact. Malcolm could feel the anxiety radiating off of Jasmine, and he had to resist the impulse to wipe his own hand down; Jasmine’s was wet with sweat.

“Dear God,” he heard his inner monologue proclaim.

“These IT guys really do struggle with human interaction.”

He maintained his warm, off-handed, yet smiley demeanor. He guessed Jasmine was, at most, in her early 30s. Large glassy eyes were exaggerated in rimless glasses, and she was soft-voiced and quite clearly nervous. Malcolm was endeared at the thought of this young woman being deeply engrossed by a small, flickering laptop on a desk in front of her somewhere. Once they were both seated, Malcolm leapt into the standard procedural rhythm.

“Name?”

“Jasmine Thompson.”

“Position?”

“Junior Developer.”

“Department?”

“IT & Digital.”

“Manager?”

“Sharon Coates.”

“Start date?”

“It was err… I think, yeah, um, February 17th.”

“And leave date… is… today.” Malcolm reeled off mechanically, as he filled in the form. He looked up at Jasmine. Her face was beginning to glisten and seemed stuck in uneasy blankness.

“So Jasmine, would you like to tell me what your reasons for leaving are?” Malcolm asked, attempting the friendliest tone he could muster.

Jasmine looked down to her left and didn’t answer. Malcolm sat in silence for all of 10 seconds before it became untenable. He implored as delicately as possible.

“Look. Jasmine. If there’s something you feel HR ought to know, then now is the time to say something.”

Jasmine heaved in a large breath and gave Malcolm a brief pocket of eye contact before returning to looking at the floor. Malcolm hadn’t encountered this kind of shutdown before; he was beginning to feel an uneasy sense of gravity. He probed further, conducting his voice in a near whisper,

“… if this has anything to do with why you’re leaving, it is important that we know.”

Jasmine gave an uneasy look. She then reluctantly reached into her rucksack and pulled out a beige folder of printouts. She put them on the table silently. Malcolm glanced at the folder, then at Jasmine before picking it up to examine. Inside, he saw a log of some sort, a spreadsheet.

“Can you help me out here Jasmine? What am I looking at? Outside of what looks like some sizable transactions…”

“It’s um, it’s, from a system I’ve been working on in my pipeline.”

“… go on.”

“This is a log of the cache for AML.”

“In plain English, please, Jasmine.”

“On the left are the client numbers from the identification portal. The middle is the transaction names, and then the dates, then the transaction type, sums.”

“Right.”

“Then the column on the far right is whether transactions have been flagged.”

“Flagged? In regards to anti-money laundering?”

Jasmine nodded and leaned forward.

“Turn to page 12 and after.”

Malcolm did so. He scanned it up and down, then the next page, then the next and the one after. Jasmine cleared her throat and stated,

“It’s the same clients, same transactions, same types, but they’re no longer getting flagged.”

Malcolm sat back and studied the papers, line by line, taking his time. He glanced up at Jasmine. In return, Jasmine looked everywhere but at Malcolm. She took a deep gulp of air and told Malcolm the truth,

“That warning system is mine, under my access, exclusively; I’m the only person in tech who could remove or alter a transaction’s flagged status.”

“And you didn’t do this?” Malcolm asked unblinking.

Jasmine shook her head. The burst of silence between them was heavy. Malcolm continued to look down at the paper.

“… then… who could?”

Jasmine’s eyes held Malcolm’s. She raised her right hand from the table and from chest height made a gesture pointing up.

Malcolm looked at the paper again. He found himself in the very well of discomfort Jasmine was stewing in. Malcolm paused. He skimmed through the last pages once more. He looked at the sums and how many. These were huge amounts of money.

“Jasmine, how much of this have you—“

A dull thud hit the table, rupturing the stilted atmosphere. A huge pile of folders lay between them, spilling across the table, covering its entire surface. Jasmine zipped up her rucksack. Her voice shaking, eyes wide, she pleaded,

“You can’t tell anyone this came from me. Please– I just wanna get out of here.”

Unemployed and Uplifted by Strangers

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Lost in my job hunt

For several months, I have consistently scoured LinkedIn and other job posting sites for a variety of available roles. During my senior year of college, my mental and physical health took a toll, and I fell behind in job hunting.  After graduating, I spent part of this summer searching for employment opportunities. 

Being unemployed can feel deeply isolating, especially when the people around you seem to have a structured routine. Several of my peers entered graduate school or already had jobs lined up, while I did not. I often find myself comparing my situation to theirs, and have done so recently. It is almost impossible for me to avoid.

Stuck in isolation this summer, I wondered how I could feel less alone; how I could feel like I truly belonged somewhere. A sense of belonging was difficult to have when I was at home by myself most of the day, especially during the weekdays.  

Making connections appears easy in the digital age, at least in theory, but face-to-face interactions can be hard to form when you do not have a way to get to social events. I wasn’t sure how to communicate what I was feeling to the people in my life, so I kept it all inside.

Finding my people online

In-person interactions were not always possible. People sometimes did not understand what I was going through. 

I found that speaking online was simpler.

In June, I discovered a group chat on Twitter (X) tailored for people who were struggling to find a job.  

A typewriter with a paper that says virtual companionship.
(Image courtesy of Markus Winkler via Pexels)

Once I discovered that someone in the phandom, as punned by Dan and Phil for fandom (Since 2015, one of my special interests has been the YouTubers, Dan and Phil. ), had posted about a support group for those who are unemployed, I knew I had to join it. 

Soon after, I noticed group members encouraging each other to apply for jobs and sharing small victories along the way. 

For the first time in a while, I felt seen. I then realized that I wasn’t the only person my age who was struggling to find their individual place in the workforce.

Drowning in rejections

In the deep sea of rejection emails, silent application views, and resume downloads that are trashed without a follow-up, I often wonder when an opportunity will finally appear for me. At this point, I’ve applied to over fifty jobs, with no interviews. 

Now, working with the Department of Rehabilitation Services is my only way into the workforce, my best path into employment. Searching for a job is already difficult for most people my age, who are affected by high costs of living, turnover, and the current job market in the U.S.  However, this quest is even more challenging as I have a physical disability that affects my ability to stand for long periods of time and prevents me from lifting much  weight. My dream field, editing, has been restructured, going from mostly human labor to mechanical work due to the incorporation of AI. 

Although I often feel like it is hopeless for me to keep trying to find employment, I persevere with my quest. Every time I want to give up, I am reminded of why it is important, and that I must find a job in order to pay off my student loans. Through the process of attempting to get supported employment and work adjustment coaching, I remember that I am not alone, and there are many others in the same position as I am. 

In my struggles, I am fortunate that at least I have something that is equally important that uplifts & supports me: a digital space full of like-minded individuals, a community where I can share my concerns, voice my frustrations, and continue to be understood. 

I feel empowered by these strangers. It’s interesting and comforting at the same time. How easily we’ve built connection and trust through shared experience. Despite coming together from different places, we’ve discovered we share similar passions, career paths, and even interests beyond the phandom that first brought us together.

Two people standing on gray paving with text saying, "Passion led us here."
(Image courtesy of Ian Schneider via Unsplash)

Creative dilemmas

People always say that social media is unrealistic and flawed, but in certain online spaces, it can be the only place that fosters genuine conversations. There have been a few occasions when we came together and spoke about how exhausting it was to keep applying and being relentlessly rejected by companies. 

This vulnerability is important. Sometimes, you just need someone to listen and relate to what you are going through. We may not know each other outside of our screens, but I realized that this group chat has been meaningful and beneficial for all thirty-three of us.

I have shared my frustrations about job scams I’ve come across, asking if anyone else has also applied to similar listings that seemed legitimate at first glance but turned out to be fake. In this day and age, where AI is the standard, scams can seem legit, especially when you are neurodivergent, like me.

Additionally, dialogues about how frustrated we are by AI are a common theme in the group chat. My dream is to work in editing and the majority of the creative roles that I see list “AI training” as part of the job description.  

It is frustrating to see opportunities that value machine learning over human creativity.  It is very discouraging to know that I have a bachelor’s, and companies want applicants to use their degrees to train AI, the very technology that could replace them.

A group of four white robots sitting on top of blue laptops.
(Image courtesy of Mohamed Nohassi via Unsplash)

I often find myself reflecting on the ethical implications of using AI and questioning myself as to whether doing so is worth it. I can’t help but fear that AI will continue to advance until my skills will no longer be needed.  

I consider whether the money is worth the risk of teaching AI how to eventually replace me. To me, it is not. 

I may need a job within the next two months in order to be able to afford my monthly student loan payments. But I refuse to go against my beliefs and to compromise my values for a paycheck. I’m just glad I am not the only one within my generation who thinks the same. 

Commonality matters

Having something in common with people is vital in this state of the global job market and economy. While individuality is frequently found within physical spaces, commonality of experiences allows people to support and uplift each other. Even though some of us live hours or time zones away, we still understand one another’s struggles.

Not that we talk about unemployment, but we also often share memes related to Dan and Phil’s content, and anecdotes and stories about how we became their fans. It is encouraging. This may seem random, but it is my way of getting to know my mutual netizens and learn more about people behind the user names.

When my loved ones are busy or unable to chat, I know I can always turn to this digital support group — a space that reminds me I’m not alone.

Hope and optimism

Staying optimistic that I will find employment is emotionally intense for me. But, in the words of Dan and Phil: “Whenever I’m alone, or if I’m feeling grey, there’s one place I can go to brighten up my day!”

Maggie Mascot

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It wasn’t that she was the best; there were smarter workers. There were more articulate speakers, those with more connections, and those more “in.” There were certainly those who’d been at the company longer — but nobody gave more.

She could feel it, she knew it; people wanted her around. They desired her energy and forthrightness. She was wanted on the team and on their side in a proverbial playground scrap. They were always grateful for her input. She was forever cheerily met and greeted. Maggie (“Maggs”) was essential.

She was also the mascot, well, that’s how it could feel. That was the other side of it. She tried to keep her mind clear of such formulations of thought. She didn’t really like thinking about it. How petty it seemed, and, when she really stared at it, ugly.

The thankless tasks of spreadsheets, reports, social and messaging platform accounts; all organized when unasked for. Yet approaching her mid-thirties, Maggie was beginning to feel a discomfort at automatically going the extra mile.

“Still look 24 babes,” was a continual refrain coming her way. Maggie didn’t need telling this — she was quite aware. Like many a woman, superficial evaluation had lost a degree of thrill at the turn of 30. Hearing it from desired parties was always welcome, but the more important matters of status and being paid one’s worth held greater appeal.

…

She liked her little motor, resigned to the scruffy handbag on wheels it was. Loved a drive, her playlist blaring, charging down the road ahead, feeling unfiltered, unlimited, and… behind?  It was old. It didn’t reflect her. The age, the miles, and condition — this car spoke of settling. Maggie wasn’t ready, had no plans, and didn’t deserve to settle.

Maggie parked up some 20 minutes early. A timekeeping extraordinaire, well, certainly compared to many of the men in her office. She opened the tin of Cavendish & Harvey fruit drops found in her side glove compartment. There was a cherry flavored one left and a little celebratory “Yes” left her in a whisper. She didn’t fancy facing the panel with a Halloween purple or sickly yellow tongue for distraction.

Opening up her printed, bullet-pointed, and line-itemed interview documents, Maggie could hardly focus. It wasn’t so much butterflies, but… disinterest. Muttering the sentences in double time under her breath, she didn’t need this prep: she knew it. She’d known it for the better part of a fortnight. As an actor would say, she was “off-book.”

Her eyes gazed across the car park filled with cars and devoid of people. A brief pocket of dissociation. Her body numb, her mind temporarily blank. When she came to, she could feel a dull edge of disquiet and angst. Maggie had been here before.

The Deputy Regional Manager position opened up four years ago and she’d applied. All the colleagues who knew were rooting for her. She tried to remember if she’d parked in the same spot; it felt like the same spot. At the time, it came down to Maggie and one other, Bill Rutherford; a longtime stalwart of Kenson Logistics.

A near waddling turret of self-appreciation guided by a gift of the gab, Bill was a known voice and face able to make the panel laugh with easy familiarity. Maggie was the good girl, checking every box with a hard dose of earnestness and a light sprinkling of concern for others’ sensibilities. Bill Rutherford got the job. Maggie went back to Gillingham to tell expectant parties she’d fallen short.

Four years ago was rough. Retelling the same story to different people over and over, receiving the same messages of sympathy was… frankly aggravating. She reflected that her approach hadn’t necessarily belied the truth; that communicating her capacity wasn’t the best way to advertise it. Perhaps checking boxes wasn’t the way.

Maggie felt she’d lost a great opportunity to someone with less to offer than her, on merits that had little to do with the job description. She was privately downcast for the next month. The extra mile didn’t go far up against cronyism. The mascot remained firmly in her place.

***

Entering the conference room where the panel sat was fine, flat even. There was a surreal, familiar numbness to this. The panel hadn’t aged a day and even appeared to be dressed exactly the  same as they were four years ago, a disquieting exercise in time warp.

The same conference room fronted the same table in the same position and layout. All was déjà vu in every last inconsequential detail; the laminated printouts, the order of the glasses, and their unopened complimentary bottles of water. Maggie sat in what very much appeared the same style of chair. It had been four years of standstill; nothing had changed at all.

Her hearing left her within seconds of the interview starting. Was this the interview? Was it an alternative timeline? It felt like a dress rehearsal for the interview. Another “not quite” experience as she found here not all that long ago. Maggie Mascot went through the motions; she couldn’t hear herself talking or her responses to any of the questions.

It was as if she had some third-person perspective of the interview over her own right shoulder. The expressions, timely nods, and notetaking of the panel felt like reruns. Observer and participant, her mind drifted. There was just one out, one potential that sat in the farthest corner of her consciousness.

Laura had never caused Maggie trouble. There was never any unspoken friction. It was more like they operated on different frequencies and vibrations despite working in the same office. They were always friendly and warm, but they weren’t close.

Laura had girls in the office she would share with and chat to; Maggie wasn’t one of them. It was the same the other way round. Though curiously, they did manage to share some confidants vicariously. Ultimately, they were different people who garnered different responses and reactions to those around them.

Maggie was indispensable, reliable, trustworthy… Mascot. Laura was… prestigious, for want of better words. An Oxbridge graduate, Laura came from money. Not generational wealth, per se, but “dad did well” kind of money. Her holidays and social media accounting of them were like visual brochures. Laura seemed a closeted influencer.  

Elf-like, porcelain and glossy, Laura had eyes like planets. The men around the office always found a particularly playful or attentive energy when interacting with her, irrespective of how bad a day they were having. She also managed to maintain one of those waists that suggest no internal organs live there. Laura was a cut above, and not just of Maggie.

Through her confidants, Maggie gleaned only a little on Laura, as she wasn’t really one to ask. One of the few slivers she gathered was of a budding workplace romance. Legitimate, mature, adult, not bedhopping or drunken and lusty. Laura was around 10 or so weeks into seeing the junior accounts manager Jack.

They looked pretty picture perfect when lined up together in one’s mind’s eye. Maggie didn’t feel one way or another about it. Jack was nice enough and cute but she had no particular interest in him. The nascent couple hadn’t, however, run their relationship past HR.

When the interview was near conclusion, just as four years ago, Maggie was asked to say a few words about the other internal candidate. The questioning began. Would she have a problem working for this person as her superior should they get the role? Then, the customary and standard kind words.

Maggie came alive all of sudden. She went from dipping in and out of dissociation to being beamingly, near painfully, present. A few words… on Laura Talbot… and what she brought to the Gillingham office.

In a semi ad-lib, Maggie spoke warmly of Laura and her presence. She also, right at the last moment, managed to express how pleasant and refreshing it was to see a workplace romance flourishing in this HR-heavy day and age.

The panel somewhat froze, all four members rather stiffened. The air changed and the faces lost a softness to them. The only woman on the panel asked Maggie to continue with a simple, “Oh?”

And the rest is history. Sure, a “good girl” wouldn’t have done it. Absolutely, her face felt flush as she said the words. Was it out of character? Maybe a little. Was it what she wanted to do? Not so much. Was her drive back to Gillingham conducted in eerie quiet? You bet ya.

Yet, at the end of the following week, Kenson Logistics had a new Deputy Regional Manager, and Maggie was “Mascot” no more.

The Other Side of the Counter

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‘That’ customer in me

I feel the need to start by saying: we have all been the rude customer at some point — myself included. The last time I felt like a bad customer was when my wife and I moved into our current apartment. The leasing office had claimed that if we did not come in to pick up our keys on the official move-in date, it would affect the lease. A lease we had already signed. Not only that, we had already paid the first month’s rent. 

I explained to them that it didn’t matter to me if we picked up the keys a few days later, even though we already paid. They weren’t having it. In the end, this was not due to some overzealous property manager but a computer system designed by some far-off entity operating from the unreachable shadows. I never once considered that. I should have known better, given my years in customer service. This article is not meant to bully rude customers. It is simply my method of handling the rude, the kind, and the incompetent.

Feelings behind the counter

My career as a personal trainer, spanning nearly ten years, has been almost entirely focused on customer service. I’ve seen the other side. 

Most of the time, the person on the other side of the counter would be more than willing to give you everything you want. We can’t, though. 

We have bosses who have bosses breathing down our necks. There are systems in place that make it impossible for employees working in the trenches to be helpful in a real way. We are seen and treated by employers as a shield to criticism rather than empowered to solve problems.

The fact of the matter is, we are not paid enough to care whether or not you get a better deal. Our wages are never affected, for better or worse, on approving or denying customer requests. We only aim to keep our jobs long enough before we bounce to the next slightly better-paying position. This leads to negative experiences for the consumer.

Oftentimes, negative encounters result in the representative being told, “This isn’t very good customer service.” This is something I hear quite a bit in my current work. Which I assume is meant to make the “desk jockey” feel guilty. 

The idea that customer service is giving everything the customer wants is ludicrous. At the gym where I train clients, people often want free guest passes for their friends and family. Let me tell you something, I would love to have a pocket full of free guest passes to hand out. More people coming through the gym with a great experience eventually could lead to me having more clients. 

A sign reads “free entry” in red print with a pointing arrow.
(Image courtesy of Karim Manjra via Unsplash)

However, the company feels differently. No free guest passes for you! Employees in general are shackled by a strict set of regulations out of their control, and we follow them because rent is due on the first.

Myth or the truth

This is where my philosophy on true customer service comes into play. 

Customer service is not about giving everyone what they want. It was never meant to be that. And never will. Customer service is the employee treating you the same as everyone else, while giving you all the available information in a clear and concise manner. 

It doesn’t matter if we have a friendly rapport or if I perceive you to be the most miserable person I have ever met. I greet you by name if I know it. I answer the same question repeatedly without a hint of annoyance. I apologize when I am unable to fulfill a request. Such as moving gym equipment so you can do one single exercise in a specific spot that can be accomplished in several other places. 

Yes, this actually happened, and not out of feeling exposed to the male gaze by a certain exercise.

Wooden Scrabble tiles spell out “I am the truth”.
(Image courtesy of Brett Jordan via Unsplash)

There was an instance regarding the prone hamstring curl machine, which positions your butt in the air for all to gawk at. We did have a woman bring this concern to our attention, and we gladly shifted its position to be more modest.

Some requests are reasonable and will be executed. If yours was not, maybe consider that the employee is not the problem. 

Human side —no — gentle reminder

If a customer I have helped feels my service was less than adequate, I still greet them the same way the next time I see them. Customer service is the representative who never gives you a different side of themselves. 

But believe me, we will be talking about you behind your back. It’s just the way it is. 

So, next time you feel you’re being treated unfairly, please keep a couple of things in mind: the employee has no real power, and usually the manager doesn’t either. If we did, we’d give you what you want just to make you go away. 

Lastly, be kind to those who run the desk. We’re having a worse day than you. 

(The above excludes car dealerships, of course.)

Cog!

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In a large hotel conference room speckled with round tables, I drank my lukewarm coffee and listened to my colleague extol the great work our advertising agency had done on a recent product launch. She recounted the late nights, the weekend work, and the hundreds of advertisements routed clean by our team.

“It was hard. It was grueling,” she said. “But we did it. And we did amazing work.”

Coffee cups, deadlines, and the weight of expectations

I kept my eyes focused on the table and played with the paper coffee cup in my hand. I didn’t feel like celebrating.

Weeks earlier, I had attended a pre-launch meeting on a Monday morning. After starting the Teams call, the Accounts person settled into her seat, greeted colleagues, and then, with a sadistic smirk, announced, “I hope you all enjoyed your weekend, because it is the last one you’ll be getting for a long time.”

And in the following weeks, I watched her words come true. The team consistently worked twelve- to fifteen-hour days, squeezing in thirty-minute lunches if they were lucky. Weekends disappeared. Even the Fourth of July wasn’t spared.

Overwork, exploitation, and the people-first myth

Even though I wasn’t technically assigned to the launch team, everyone in Editorial chipped in: I clocked in at 6 a.m. on multiple Saturdays to get in half a day’s work and still salvage my weekend plans. I logged in early and stayed late on weekdays, trying to avoid calculating how much overtime I would have earned if I had stayed at my former company.

A man holding 5, 10, and 20 dollar bills with his face covered.
(Image courtesy of Carola G via Pexels)

Were there other solutions rather than working the team to the bone? Of course there were. Management could have hired more temporary freelancers to reduce the burden, an option vetoed (I assume) solely because it would have cut into profits. Even if hiring extra manpower was impossible, they could have offered compensatory time to the overworked after the launch, but they didn’t.

Don’t get me wrong — I am genuinely grateful for my job. It not only provides me with a wage that meets my basic needs, but also allows me to travel and save for the future. I work remotely in the comfort of my own home, oftentimes with a purring cat on my lap. I get paid sick leave and vacation, and my agency even closes down for a week between Christmas and New Year’s. I am one of the lucky ones — truly privileged.

Yet, I can’t help but feel like I am a tool, a production piece, a tiny cog in a huge money-making machine. And perhaps I could accept this if the specific money-making machine manipulating me did not claim to have a people-first culture. If it did not insist it supports a healthy work-life balance while simultaneously telling, not asking, employees to work on holidays.

My complaint may sound like a tired one in a world that takes for granted that employees live to work, rather than work to live, a sad inevitability of a capitalist society and one many of us are resigned to. Most of us know, deep down, that no matter what companies say, they mainly care about their bottom lines and little else. 

To genuinely cultivate a people-first culture, which many corporations claim to have, companies will have to put people before profit. It is not enough to merely toss employees a bone when it is convenient or legally required. Rather, it is essential to choose to honor workers even when doing so curbs cash flow.

So, as I listened to the Accounts Team celebrate the virtues of our team at the all-agency meeting  (the amazing work we had done and how thrilled the clients were), I didn’t feel proud. I just felt sad.

I thought of my own parents, both in vastly different fields from my own, who regularly work seventy to eighty hours a week. They do so not because they want to, but because they feel that to do their jobs well and stay employed, they have no choice.

Cogs, families, and what really matters

Overwork is an epidemic in American society, and it’s often packaged as something noble. But it’s not. Employers can shout from the rooftops that working late nights and weekends, neglecting family and recreation, is something to be celebrated, but that doesn’t make it true. At the end of the day, companies — not their employees — are the ones who benefit from the sacrifices of the workforce.   

Twenty years from now, I seriously doubt most of the people who worked on our product launch will remember what they produced for a client. But I’d bet they’ll regret not attending their child’s baseball game because they needed to meet a deadline.

In the end, I’ll put in my extra hours like everyone else: to be a team player, to keep my job, and to make sure my company continues to see me as a valuable resource. Because I need the money: to live, to get married next year, and to start a family.

But make no mistake — any extra hours I’m forced to spend at my computer aren’t a credit to me. And overwork should not be celebrated. Corporate America, you can keep your round of applause.

I’m more than a cog in a machine. 

Honesty is the Best Policy — and Most Profitable One

Posted on by Jonathan

Teaching in a school and pay lags are forever associated. I am an education officer serving as a mathematics teacher in one of the government high schools here in Nigeria. 

Between a rock and a hard place

(Image courtesy of diana via pexels)

As a government school teacher in my country, you cannot survive financially without a side income. 

Starting a chain of tuition and coaching centers could be a good solution for a teacher, especially for a mathematics teacher. Ironically, if you want to go professional by establishing coaching centers for external exam candidates, you would have to be corrupt to make money out of it. No student would patronize centers where exam malpractices are forbidden. 

Another option for poorly paid teachers to cope financially is to run other parallel businesses alongside their teaching profession. Although this option is unprofessional, it’s always preferred by teachers like me who innately hate cheating. 

I joined a government school and started my own business with the small amount of money I had saved from my years of working with private schools. Unfortunately, not even a year passed and my business crumbled. Insufficient starting capital. Evacuating the rented shop was tough, but I had to. 

That capital? 

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It hit hard on me, but the idea of reorganizing the business never left me. All I needed was capital! Where to raise it though, the very thought haunted me. Nobody around whom I knew would lend me anything. Not even a small sum, let alone the big capital I was looking for. I was now subsisting on my salary alone, adding to my financial challenges. 

I did not let myself down. I worked hard looking for ways to secure the backbone of my dead business. I wanted to revive it and needed to buy an electric generator.

One of those desperate days, my wife brought home the information that her sister wanted to sell her electric generator at a discounted price, but I couldn’t afford even one-tenth the price she quoted. I looked at her with dejected hope. She knew the extent of my poverty. We were helpless.

Texting my plea

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Instead of submitting to my fate, I started thinking of ways to get money to secure the facility. My mind just landed on a friend of mine who studied with me at a polytechnic school, now a lecturer at the British University of Bahrain. I was hesitant, but I was in need. A very close and helpful friend I felt I could quickly reach out to. I didn’t want any opportunity to slip out of my hands. 

How I would put it to him was another problem. I intended to ask for a loan from him. But could I borrow such a large sum from someone who hasn’t been in Nigeria with me to see whether I’m lying or telling the truth? I just gave it a try through a voice note. I was scared of talking to him directly and dreaded answering his questions. I opted to send it at night, believing that I would gain the courage to see his response by the time he saw the message in the morning. Amazingly, the next morning, I saw a bank alert message of exactly the amount I requested. I immediately checked my WhatsApp, my friend’s reply to the voice note said that I should only refund seventy percent of the money while the remaining thirty percent should be taken as a gift. 

The message left me speechless and with confused emotions. I expressed great gratitude to him for rendering me such an enormous favor, especially during my dire need, and even without confirming the truth of my words. Thank God, I was able to buy the generator.

The next hurdle to cross was to be able to pay back the loan in an installment of seven months, as my lender stated. I tried hard not to skip any of the seven consecutive months of payback. My friend was not here with me in Nigeria to pressurize me to pay back the monthly installments on time. I did not want to let down his trust in me.

Trust refinanced

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In the course of the loan period, a lot of my friends and relations who used to pity my financial condition advised me to stop paying it back. Of course, the money would have helped me and my family. They pestered me that my not paying back the money would not affect my friend, financially. After all, he was a lecturer receiving a robust salary from work. I turned a deaf ear to all the ill advice.

To my surprise, it was not long before I reaped the reward of keeping my promise. This was the month after the seventh month I had cleared the electric generator loan, my lecturer friend in Bahrain called me, first to thank me for returning the borrowed money, and second to take an estimate of executing my business plan — the one I had not followed through because of financial constraints.

As a Nigerian himself, he knew I couldn’t depend solely on the government’s ridiculous salaries for teachers. Impressed by my trustworthiness, he promised to lend me money again for my business. He even told me bluntly that he had done similar favors to so many people who happened to be his friends like me, but none of them reciprocated his kind gestures the way I did.

It was then that I realized it really, really pays to be honest, and that honesty pays well. He gave me a loan again. This time to restart my dead business, He asked me to run the business for four months before starting to pay back the capital at a very convenient installment rate of 18 months. I returned everything. Last month I sent the last one. 

Doing the math for my future

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Now, I have been able to achieve a lot of things from my resuscitated business — courtesy of my lecturer friend. I’m not even the only one benefitting from this reward for my trustworthiness. Two of my friends are now working with me running the business. 

Due to the attachment I have for teaching, I continue to teach. However, I intend to leave the country in order to receive a salary commensurate with what I have always offered in schools as a responsible and veteran mathematics teacher. 

Millennial Customers Are Prickly, But I’ve Adapted!

Posted on by Jonathan

I have spent 38 years in the business of owning and running operations. 

Since 1987,  I have seen people of all shapes and sizes coming to buy from all walks of life. I have experienced people’s tastes rise and fall, change and change again. I have seen people’s attitudes change and reshape themselves both positively, negatively and emotionally. As a businessperson, I either had to adapt to the changing environment or fade into obscurity. I chose to adapt. It is an essential part of business. 

In the small business world, I have few or no employees, so my experience in an ever-changing environment stems directly from dealing with customers — experience in how to deal with them during each and every sale of the day. 

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Customers were courteous

In the early part of my business venture, customers exhibited a welcoming social grace. Customers were courteous, they used words like please and thank you. A customer would hand me the money and thank me for serving their needs and being there for them. Customers then knew what they wanted when they shopped, and they were grateful for the experience — appreciative  that you were providing a service. They would hold a light or humorous conversation and give you a laugh, a smile, a wave when they left. No agenda, political hatred, or need to voice opinions in spite. They dressed with style, enjoyed the community experience around them, and cared that others experienced shopping as a joy, alongside them. 

Then. 

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In 2016, the customer atmosphere changed. It became stormy. The change came in the customers’ attitudes. This generation of customers was no longer interested in the community experience or in savoring the experience of shopping. They now shopped with a “me” mentality. 

It’s not all about me, but it is about me

Open for me, serve me, order this item for me, serve me the quantity I want. The unwritten rules and social graces were no longer honored or followed. Customers felt entitled to be entitled and to bluntly let you know.

 If I want my stuff at 6:30 AM, who cares if you open at 8 AM, serve me! 

Customers now dressed in slippers and pajamas. Bras were suddenly not socially awkward. Shirts with the words “One, Two, F^^% You” and “If You Stomp on My Flag, I’ll Stomp on Your Face” are okay for children to see. Arrogance and outrageousness are badges of patriotism. Now, when I wish them a nice day, they grunt or spit out, “Who the hell do you think you are!” As a business owner, this is a shock to the system, both emotionally and physically. 

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The customer is always right, even when wrong

These days, a business owner must adapt to the mentality and attitude of every customer. I held my tongue and did just that. I have adapted to the ever-changing attitude of what is “important” to every single customer. I have applied my knowledge of conflict resolution, psychology, and psychoanalysis to customer service. One customer is happy and enjoying their shopping experience, the very next customer tells you you’re an asshole and to f^^% off. The question of “What would you like today?” turns into a nasty political conversation where the customer is always right. 

I must be quick on my feet to be able to deal with today’s customer atmosphere. I am. I must treat each customer with an outward respect — and inwardly store the knowledge of what to do differently next time. I must be thick skinned and let go of past gripes and grievances. 

For me, the knowledge of understanding has come from my training in conflict resolution, psychology, and anger management. Empathy over the years led to continuing success in my little business. And otherwise. 

I Am Just As Confused As You Are

Posted on by [email protected]

You are not alone, I am just as confused as you are. 

My life hasn’t always been the way I wanted it to be. I hated business studies in my junior secondary school, but surprisingly, I had the highest score on the “termly assessment” test. I wanted to be a science student, but I got randomly selected for a commercial class and ended up loving it. As a student of commerce, I graduated as the best in my set. 

Discovering what I wanted to do with my life and career was even more challenging. 

At 16, I started blogging on blogger.com, and I got so good at it that I began editing the HTML of blogger templates. Later, I got bored, dropped blogging, and moved on to writing poetry and short stories. I had a lot of readers, wow — random people spoke about how they loved my writing — I stopped again. Because I was confused! I really didn’t know what I wanted to do. 

A chameleon amongst leaves.
(Image courtesy of Michael Held via Unsplash)

I transitioned back to tech and began learning to code and write programs. I started from the basics by mastering HTML and CSS. I stopped again! All this, while I was a student of insurance at Ahmadu Bello University in Nigeria. 

Funny enough, I never wanted to study insurance. I wanted to study accounting, but studying accounting was so competitive, I opted for the more guaranteed employment provider — Insurance. I didn’t want to spend an additional year at home and I knew that becoming an accountant only required that you have the knowledge and pass the professional exams.

My grades were good, so I picked up my finance ambition again and dusted it off. I started my journey into investment banking and landed in some internships. I was doing well, yet my interest drifted to product management. I took a course on digital product management. My interest remained, but that was it. Nothing more. I didn’t feel the need to chase a career in product management. I came back to finance.

While juggling my passion for finance with product management, I launched a podcast series on discovering Africa. Unfortunately, after the first two episodes, I stopped. My problem is that I prefer actions to idle thoughts, and I love learning from my failures. I really can’t remember how many times I have edited my LinkedIn profile to suit my dynamic ideas and ambitions.

I can’t say whether I was really confused or not – I was that confused! All I knew was that I wanted to make a difference. Yes, I am crazy. But trust me, I am not the only crazy dude out there. If being crazy is the only way to break out of my comfort zone, then I want to remain crazy.

Why did I write all this? There are thousands of other crazy intellectuals and creatives out there who have yet to discover their passion. They have been on an never-ending journey of discovering their passion, and finding their niche has become their passion. 

If there is one thing I have learned during my journey, it is that no one has it all figured out. It is okay to keep evaluating your potential. It is okay to keep trying new options and exploring new opportunities. The world is limitless to those who know no boundaries.