God forbid; but say you are on the operating table. Just think of the surgeon whom is to cut and then stich you up hates his work. He had been going into and out of the operating room hundreds of times and he’s just fed up. Every time he picks the scalpel and sees that exposed belly complains; “When, Oh when am I going to free myself from this?” Scary, isn’t it? Of course, not that he’ll mess up. No way! However disgusted he is one thing he wouldn’t do is mishandle the scalpel and all the other accessories.
That however is not the case with the lot of us claiming to hate the work we do for a living. Look, a security man who hates his work while welding that fearsome baton is the last man you want to deal with. All his frustrations might end up on the lower half of the baton which in turn ends up right across the middle of one’s back. Sometimes when you see unnecessary aggressive acts you say it is not about us, it is about them. Of the mean faces we see in many places most are not about us, it is about the persons themselves. They hate their jobs.
You have been waiting in line for the better part of an hour to pay some monthly bill. You expect to be treated like the client who never defaults on his payments. Not that they should pop the champagne cork into the ceiling; but you deserve some civility. Your turn comes and the young lady processing your payment seems to make it personal’ she is glaring at poor, you! “If you knew the rage I’m feeling right now, you’d be phoning you last farewells to your relatives!” the lines crisscrossing her features make her appear like a portrait painting gone horribly wrong. Look, she might hate her job no less than she hates that friend of her who landed an executive NGO job God knows how. Or her boyfriend might be telling her she should have already made a department head and look where she is! A low-level clerk.
Of course many hate their jobs for a hundred plus reasons. The problem comes when the problem affects others who have nothing to do with our ordeals. Not fair making everyone ‘Public Enemy number One!’
An MP who sleeps his way through sessions is in the wrong place. Well, more than once we have seen MPs having sweet dreams during sessions. The joke is that during the imperial regime the MPs are nudged from their sleeps when it is time to vote. “Those in favor of the resolution please raise your hands!” Up go all the hands of all who have been do zing. “The resolution has been adopted unanimously.” Bang! This country hasn’t been facing problems after problems for no reason! So if you want a “Yes.” vote to a certain resolution find a way to lull the MPs into sleep. No one probably told this to the senators in Washington.
Of course, the world is such a mess because the wrong people are in the wrong places; that square peg in round holes sort of thing. Maybe we should think of swapping places. Make the CEOs doormen, and the doormen CEOs1. How about that? Believe me, and in some terribly inefficient places you’d think the difference between the guy in the eighth floor leather chair and the one at the main entrance is about the seven thousand Birr suit and the nine hundred Birr uniform.
In some places confronting some service provider individual not happy with his lot might not be that bothersome. He can’t bark at you, “Come back tomorrow!” If the bank teller hates his job, you’re not particularly worried. I mean, you still get your money. He can’t say, “I’m tired now; come back tomorrow.” While we are at it, whoever first came up with the idea that bankers should wear neckties must be a genius of sorts. You’re not going to trust your money with guys who can’t afford neckties! Ha!
It’s approaching midday and however darkly you started your morning things should cool down by then. You ask the lady you’re there to see her boss. Now, why in the world is she giving you the hostile look! It was as if any minute she would pull out her nail polish and paint a big X on your face. You are not her problem, SHE is! You’ve nothing to do with the early morning run-in with her hubby. He demanded to know where the fading circular black spot around her eye came from and she goes ballistics. (Hey, you gave it to her! Just because she said “No!” to your testosterone-driven approach a few nights back you punched her!)
But the stern look on her face wasn’t only about the aftermath of a selfish hubby’s unwelcome advances. There are ways to deal with that Saturday night after dinner, and once the children have started snoring. She simply hates her secretarial job! A full decade into her job the only thing she gained is a few unwanted pounds around the midsection. Everyone she knows is either in a rich country’s embassy or a vintage NGO where many walked in on sixty-five birr shoes and dove out in a million birr car! And she is a low level civil servant where the word million is about budget proposals and not about cars.
Have you notice how brazenly some security guards act? Believe me, a security guard who hates his job is the last person you want to deal with. The way he frisks you you’d think there is a something he knows and you don’t about, who else, yourself! It’s not that; the guy simply hates his job. His friends are security personnel in high profile foreign institutions and they are aging backwards. With him aging wasn’t a reverse voyage but a hundred meters sprint!
“How I hate this job!” is an unfinished sentence; because soon the “I” changes into “They”… the innocent ones on the receiving end.
The Ethiopian Herald Friday, February 21/2020
Ephrem Endale
