To confirm if a recruitment agency has sent me an interview invitation, I take a walk to my neighbourhood's Hopewell internet café this Tuesday evening. Looking around the streets and deep into people's faces, I realise that Arcadia is gradually becoming a dreaded locality. Not because of crime which is a problem, but for the disappearing hope of securing a job which is the reason I left Limpopo for Pretoria.

The multi-ethnic people in my area whom I used to cherish living among, and the broad road networks linking our streets, even the beauty of the sky-scraping block-of-flats now mean nothing to me, unlike the strong appeal they had when I newly arrived. Of what use is living in a modern locality when I go out in the morning and return home a jobless soul?

Barely after crossing the road, I bump my feet on a pavement slab, but something within holds me back from peeking at my hurting toenail. What does it matter if it bleeds, anyway? Do I have the cash to visit a clinic or the nearby pharmacy store? I soak in the pain and hasten to the café. No hurt can be worse than being jobless in Pretoria, an expensive city to live in.

"Give me fifteen minutes browsing time." I toss a two-rand coin at the café attendant, sidestepping the two young ladies chatting with him at the counter. My status as a regular café user grants me such privileges.

"Sure, Andrew." the attendant raises a thumb, pointing to my regular computer at the far corner, close to the shelf that displays colourful African fabrics for sale. Internet cafes in my area double as tuck shops or even eateries. Some sell fried chips or Spathlos – cheap meals for college students.

On settling on a stool, I stare at the computer screen, summoning the zeal to open my email inbox. This isn't the first time I'll be expecting an interview invitation. It isn't the seventieth time. Will today be any different?

Not to waste time, I scour my inboxes and discovers that none of the recruitment agencies has good news for me. No invitation email. No prospect of an interview. Only mails acknowledging receipt of my applications. If you don't hear from us after two weeks, consider your application unsuccessful. Their rejection messages now sound like a TV commercial.

I hand off the computer mouse, staring blankly at the screen till my time elapses. How else does one seek a job? All the recruitment agencies in the country have my curriculum vitae. I've also handed printed copies to people around me – neighbours, acquaintances, passers-by and strangers – just in case anyone knows someone who knows a friend or colleague who knows the person that might be of help. I even pasted my CV on the noticeboards of popular retail stores in different malls. Still, no one gives me a look in.

How does one explain three years of joblessness after struggling to get a diploma? I can't continue to watch as people leave their flats and return from work while I remain idle. If the big men in this area claim not to notice my daily wandering, maybe I should take a different approach to this job issue. Must I cry on the streets or use a megaphone before someone observes that I'm in need?

Come to think of it, is my ugly face the reason Arcadia residents avoid me? Does my face account for why companies refuse to hire me? In this crazy city where everyone strives hard to enhance their looks, that might just be the case. But my picture isn't on my CV, therefore potential employers can't know who's applying. Or is there a technology which detects an ugly face from a distance?

I disagree that there are no jobs in Pretoria or even neighbouring Joburg which is known to be the most industrialised city in the country. Taxis filled with passengers take people to their places of work each morning. Traders, cleaners and salespeople and what have you? Newspapers report that investors arrive in South Africa every month. And news makes the rounds on social media about new hires and job opportunities. Why hasn't it gotten to my turn?

There must be a conspiracy to keep me out of employment or so it seems. If not for Abdul, my friend and flatmate, I should be homeless by now. I should by now be a certified hobo.

Today it the day, I'll no longer wait to be invited for interviews. Sitting in an internet café all day won't help at all. With millions of job seekers ambling around, employers can't tell apart the desperate ones from the pretenders. Anyone that sees my physical condition, my crappy faded jeans and battered shoes should know how desperately I need a job.

I'll go out there to look for anyone who needs to hire a house-help or a cleaner or someone to shine shoes. Any job will do. Before I trek five-hundred kilometres across the townships, someone will take pity and hire me as a security guard or a waiter at a pub. An idle hand is the devil's workshop, they say. I won't be a vessel.

Impulses push me out of the café towards the taxi rank. On recalling that my pocket is flat, I take a detour towards the highway, ready for the long walk to Hatfield where University of Pretoria's students might need people to run errands for them.

I duck my folder under my arm, quickening my steps like a farmer whose product is caught in an inferno. The cool wind along the motorways offer a relief from the morning sun, and that makes the long walk seem like a land cruise.

After walking for about eighty minutes, I arrive at Hatfield feeling energised instead of being tired. The ambience differs somewhat from that of Arcadia I immediately observe. Here the roads are busier, the taxi rank more crowded and students loiter in droves. Not a few eateries and restaurant play Afropop music to entertain their customers.

My attention is quickly drawn to a group of job-seekers like me gathered in front of a private house on Ashbury close. Well, birds of the same feather must stick together. I decide to join them. They just might have the answers to my questions.

"What's happening over there?" I ask a funny-looking lad crossing the road towards me.

"Job interview," he says without taking a second look at me, hurrying away.

My ears twitch as those words drop. "An interview?" I whisper aloud, raising my brows while glimpsing the building as though a treasure trove. The decision to visit Hatfield is a good one after all. So things are happening outside Arcadia?

I tuck in my shirt before crossing the road to join one of the three queues which extend from the large sandy compound. A series of locked up stalls numbering about twelve marks the place as a warehouse but who knows? Four lorries are parked outside at measured gaps on the far side. And the tarpaulin banners covering them has designs of the company's products. They probably need people to carry stuff around. Well, who cares what they do, so long the jobs are meant for humans?

Standing behind the queue, the faces of applicants carry footprints of the worsening economic situation: men and women of all races are here, especially the blacks who make up about ninety percent. Some aren't as well-dressed as I am, for which reason I straighten my face feeling like a bona fide applicant. In no time, five new guys line up behind me.

With a smile that stretches the limits of my lips, I look around for someone to give me details of things around here. But on sighting one of the officials meant to screen applicants, I keep to myself, frowning as though I've been here for long.

He marches towards me and barks: "Where are your credentials?" He sounds like someone trying hard to please his boss.

I stretch out a copy of my ever-present CV, the sight of which makes him skip over to the next person on queue, giving me the impression that the job requirements aren't stringent.

The lad behind me touches my shoulder. "Is it the storekeeper position that brings us all here?"

I rid my face of any traces of a novice. "Is that what they told you?"

"Yes, that's what they said on phone."

"Well, they only told me to come prepared. No one mentioned what they want to hire us for."

The fellow sizes me up from head downwards, wondering which of us has the right details.

I maintain a straight face.

His brows rise. "They're recruiting for a big retail store that just opened here in Hatfield."

"Oh. That's not too different from the information I have," I say to him casually. "I just hope they'll attend to us on time."

As applicants walk in and out of the interview hall, I soon get a hang on the job details: BoomTime, a big retail company wants to hire twenty salespersons in their new Hatfield outlet. That up to five hundred people are being interviewed for twenty posts numbs me. Well, they'll only choose the best. And from my gauges of those around, only a few can boast of a diploma certificate as I do. That refreshes my hope.

To get me further prepared, I ask around for hints on questions being thrown at interviewees. It was in Limpopo that I last sat for an interview, and that was three years back. Proceedings might be slightly different in Pretoria.

I beckon on one of the lads returning from the hall, not minding his stoned face. "How did it go?"

"Good Morning, first!" he retorts, grimacing, though he pauses to talk.

"Sorry. Good morning my brother." I clasp both hands together and then repeat my question.

"Nothing special. Just the normal interview questions."

He moves on.

It crosses my mind to probe further. What are the questions he deems to be normal? But then will these people not belittle me if I continue to ask many questions?

As more people leave the hall, some share their experience with others. Judging from their reports I can tell that they are inexperienced and little qualified for the positions. I sometimes feel like pointing out their errors during the interview, but I abandon the thoughts altogether. If I knew all the answers why am I still unemployed?

All things being equal, I shouldn't have a problem passing this interview. Much as I believe so, old butterflies scurry my confidence, rendering my hopes precarious.

"Who's next?" A lady emerges from the hall and ushers me in.

I walk into the hall with measured steps, sitting opposite a panel of six people: three men and three women who form a semi-circle around a metallic table, each person gawping at me. My eyes drop to the floor while I muse over the questions they may throw at me.

When they won't talk, I raise my head to study the body language of the panel lead – a lanky man with a baritone voice. He should be about fifty-five though his smallish stature, white t-shirt and jeans trousers suggest he's young at heart. Nothing else about him says much about his personality. I just hope he's open-minded.

The man locks eyes with me and then bends sideways to have a word with his colleagues, each staring at me as if evaluating my suitability for the vacant posts. Something in their body movements brings deja vu. I flash the best brands of my smiles to influence their biases – whatever they may be.

Done with assessing me, their downcast gazes and sniggering gestures announce the result of the interview which is yet to start. A panel member wearing a Safari jacket, seated on the last but one chair, speaks first. "Your face doesn't suit any of the available openings," he says with a kind of broad smile reserved for a lottery winner.

My shoulder drops, resonating with my sinking heart.

Although this isn't the first time I'm being disqualified from an interview based on my looks, something about the trend brings deep concern. Will I ever meet people that'll allow me a fair chance during interviews? People who'll overlook the condition of my face and test my character instead. My personality.

A lady panel member jolts me off my troubled thoughts. "This isn't the right job for you, we're sorry." Her tender voice lightens the effects of my rejection.

"Please, ma. Just try me. I'm hard working and dedicated."

"Customers will turn back from our stores when they see your face," the Safari jacket man says, laughing.

The lady turns towards him with a frown but says nothing.

I stay put on the seat, expecting some reasonable persons to talk. They can't just throw me out for some flimsy reasons. Does anyone here think well? I maintain a steady gaze at the panel lead who finally finds his voice.

"I'm sorry, your profile doesn't match the kind of candidate we want." His statement comes with a tone of finality.

I lift from the seat and make for the exit door, wondering why my looks should determine my abilities. With these sorts of comments from people who should know better, how can one keep hope alive? Why should anyone open their mouths and say my face will chase customers away from retails stores when I'm not terribly handicapped or injured or permanently disabled. They didn't even give me the chance to prove myself. Their actions befuddle my mind as I leave Hatfield worse than I arrived.