In the morning everyone can feel the excitement in Siya’s home. His mother knocks on his door at six thirty.

“Wake up and get ready, Siya. Zilungiselele ngoba kungenzeka bathi ufike early,” she says.

Siya rises with a sense of happiness and lightness. The dark shadows have slid away. He is ironing his clothes in the main house when his nine-month-old niece, Owethu, crawls up to him and grabs on to his ankle. Siya smiles down at her smiling up at him. Owethu’s mother, Nonhle, walks in moments later.

“What time is your interview?” asks Nonhle.

“Ten.”

“Let me iron those clothes for you. No brother of mine will go to a job interview with a shirt that is not perfectly ironed,” says Nonhle, moving Siya away from the ironing board.

Siya shaves and showers.

“It’s been weeks since I saw that beautiful smile. You look handsome, my boy,” his mother says, and hugs him as Siya enters the house clean-shaven and dressed up.

“Like a male model,” says Nonhle, straightening his collar.

His phone beeps. “My battery is about to die on me. On this day, of all days, how did I forget to charge my phone?” Siya is irritated by his own carelessness.

“Take my old phone, Siya. It has no Twitter or Facebook, but it works like a dream,” says Nonhle.

“Thanks, Sis. This call from Makhendlas is one call I can’t afford to miss.”

He leaves his smartphone charging in his room and locks the door.

“Take the spare key,” his mother says to him, as he is about to leave. “We are going to the hospital today. I am getting my blood pressure medication and Nonhle is taking Owethu to get vaccinated.”

At the taxi stop Siya is deep in thought, comparing what he envisioned his life would be like after he graduated to what it actually is. His big dreams – owning his own business, providing for his family, buying a house – are all on hold. He hails a taxi.

Makhendlas said the interview was at 10 a.m. Siya is there by 9.15. He looks presentable in a formal shirt, trousers and shoes. He holds a folder with his updated CV, certified copies of his degree certificate, driver’s license and ID in his hand. He makes sure the cellphone is not on silent. He stands attentive, scanning for movement inside the gate. He calls Makhendlas at 9.45 a.m. to tell him he is outside.

“I’ll be with you when the supervisor is free. He is busy at the moment – just wait there,” Makhendlas tells him. He is abrupt.

Two hours later, Siya spots Makhendlas approaching the gate with a tiny grey-haired man. In the introductions the supervisor gives away nothing. He seems almost cold in response to Siya’s warm smile.

“Have you worked before?” asks the supervisor.

“Yes, sir, it is all here in my CV.” Siya attempts to take it out, saying, “All references have been updated, with copies of my qualifications.”

“Don’t take it out. You look very young. How old are you? ” asks the supervisor, his eyes not even on Siya.

“I am twenty two, sir. I graduated two years ago and I have worked…”

“The problem with young people is, well, problems,” the supervisor cuts Siya off. “I have given chances to a lot of people your age but the thing is you don’t take work seriously. On Monday mornings you’re not here, you’re nursing hangovers, and work suffers as a result. You are full of drama, which makes my job as a supervisor very difficult.”

There is not even the hint of a smile as the supervisor speaks.

“I don’t drink and if you look at my CV, sir, you will see I have references and I never missed a day of work when I was employed,” says Siya.

“I must get back to work. Makhendlas will be in touch,” the supervisor says and leaves them there. He does not look impressed.

“Did I say something wrong?” Siya asks Makhendlas.

“I don’t know, Siya. I will talk to him and call you around lunch time. Hey, I am short on airtime. How about fifty rand?”

Siya needs ten rand for the taxi back home, twenty for bread and milk, the rest for his own airtime for checking emails and surfing the net for jobs.

“Things are bad, Makhendlas. I can only spare ten rand. After that I don’t know where I will get the next cash,” says Siya. He knows how it works, how you pay your way in the world, but surely Makhendlas knows how tight things are for him right now?

“OK, give me that ten. How do you think I will be in contact with you when the supervisor makes his decision? I will not use my own airtime,” says Makhendlas.

Siya fishes the note out of his pocket and hands it over.

He is in the taxi home, wondering why his fortunes have faded, when Makhendlas calls.

“What does the supervisor say? Is there a post for me? When can I bring my CV? I can email it if needs be.” The words rush out.

“Forget about CVs and your emails. You educated youngsters with your fancy English terms need to learn how things work in the real world. It is all about money here. Do you have R2 500?”

“No I don’t. You know I have not been working in the past months, Makhendlas.”

“Well, you better try to organise it by the end of the week. If you can give it to the supervisor by the weekend, you will start working here on Monday.”

“Really? Listen, Makhendlas, I am sure I can figure something out. Give me a day or two. I will be in touch.”

“There are other people who also want this job. Whoever can pay first will get it. So get the cash together as quickly as you can,” says Makhendlas.

Siya is elated. He does not have a cent to his name but he bought good appliances when he was working – a laptop, smartphone, the LED TV, his beloved sound system. If he can pawn these appliances he will have the cash to bribe the supervisor, plus travel money for the first month in the job.

It is a hot day, so Siya stops in at the main house for a glass of cold water when he gets home. He is hungry – there wasn’t time to eat breakfast in the excitement of possible employment. He fixes himself a sandwich and sits on the verandah, cooling down in the breeze, while munching it down. By the time he’s finished he has decided to take the portable appliances – laptop and smartphone – to the pawn shop.

Siya’s eyes are dazzled by the sun as he walks across the yard to his back room. At first he thinks the brightness of the sun is playing tricks on him because the door to his room seems to be open.

The sun is not playing tricks on him.

His room has been broken into and every appliance – the very ones he was banking on pawning to get cash to pay the supervisor – has been stolen.

***

Tell us what you think: Is it common practice for people to have to ‘pay’ to get a job? Who takes this money?