At a quarter past four, the rising sun peeps into the room prompting me to jump off the sofa. The first thing on my mind is to get familiar with the interview questions printed at the café yesterday. I soon leave for the bathroom to prepare for the big day, wary of obstructing Abdul who usually leaves the house at half-past six.

Menlyn, the interview venue, isn't far from Arcadia. A single taxi ride will take me there in about thirty minutes. I set eyes on leaving the flat at seven, making a mental note of not being the first at the venue, neither must I be late.

Donning my security attire, I join the queue of commuters at the street-junction taxi rank. Unsurprisingly, eyes turn on me from left and right. Eyes which query if I've been hired for a job somewhere. Eyes that rejoice with me though unsure if I'm employed or not.

Though some of these faces are familiar, I absorb the motives behind their stares with mixed feelings. On the one hand, it feels good to have somewhere to go so early in the morning. Yet those whose flapping eyes query my presence here keep my feet rooted to the ground. As for the jealous ones envying my outfit, I reserve my comments until I return with a favourable result after my interview.

Not to offend anyone with my action or inaction, I nod in greeting to those who lock eyes with me. Who knows what someone may do wrong on a day like this when a job opportunity is in the offing? I put on a friendly face and try to be polite to everyone around.

Soon I hop into the half-filled fifteen seater bus heading to Menlyn Mall, sitting in the far corner of the back row. Other passengers follow suit and in no time the bus is ready for the trip. But for some reasons, the driver refuses to kick-start the vehicle.

"Contribute your money from the back," he says eventually, mouthing some gripes while looking into the rear-view mirror. He won't move an inch until we all pay up.

"Let's go, stop wasting our time," a lady says with a Sotho accent. "We will pay you on the way." She issues a prolonged hiss, apparently peeved at the driver's delay tactics.

This isn't the day for theatrics, I reckon from my corner, peeping out of the window. Nothing should make me arrive late for the interview. Checking the time on my phone which displays quarter to nine, I quickly take the initiative to collect the fares from the back row, urging others in front to do the same.

To my left is a lady carrying a baby shrouded in a pink shawl. I nod in greeting to the mother and she does the same. She should be in her early twenties. She hands over the ten-rand taxi fare and so does the other two people on the row. I hand over the sum to those in front for onward delivery to the driver. Others also contribute their money and the driver doles out changes to those that need them.

As soon as the bus moves out of the rank, the baby yells.

"Feed your baby," the Sotho woman advises. Perhaps her fifty-year-old face qualifies her as everyone's mother. Issuing instructions to strangers or advising youngster isn't uncommon in this clime.

Reluctantly, the mother breastfeeds her baby. Flanked by men on both sides, she's uncomfortable with exposing her breasts but feeding the hungry kid in necessary. Somehow she keeps him silent.

"How old is your cute baby?" I ask.

"Nine months."

"Oh, almost a newborn."

"Yes."

"Happy mothering."

"Thank you."

I love babies and enjoy playing with them. The opportunity just doesn't present itself often. My Limpopo sister's kids are no longer toddlers. And Arcadia mothers don't allow strangers to come close to their children. Well, when I finally get a job, the opportunity to date a girl will present itself. And then I can have a baby of my own which I'll play with as much as I want. At twenty-seven, siring a child doesn't sound odd.

Feeding over, the lady cleans the baby's mouth, turning him over to a position that shows me his face. I'm tempted to touch his chin, so I stretch out a finger. To my surprise, the kid frowns on seeing my face. I flash a smile to assure him he's safe but instead of warming up to me he let out a loud yell, as if pricked with a needle. I withdraw my hand right away.

The mother hisses, thinking the kid wants more milk. Conscious not to upset some passengers, she turns him over to the former position to resume breastfeeding, but she soon realises the little one doesn't need more milk. She covers him up, places him over her shoulder and pats him while humming a tune. A relishing smile sneaks onto the baby's face.

But the smile is short-lived because he lets out a yell as soon as he glances at me.

"Attend to your baby," another passenger says. And yet another.

The worried lady seems confused, unsure of what to do next. She has fed him enough and the weather isn't one she can complain about.

Unbeknownst to all, I alone know why the baby yells. Little ones cry anytime they look into my face. The brave ones frown at least. Even toddlers struggling to walk stamp away while fleeing from me.

I've come to accept that my face isn't child-friendly. I'm used to it, anyway. It took eight months before my nephew and niece got used to seeing me around the house in Limpopo. Babies crying at me make me cringe, but I get edgy when adults throw tantrums when discussing with me. They usually do so out of hate. We don't have the power to choose our faces or do we?

This baby's actions almost get me out of my interview mood. I toss away the brewing thoughts in my mind trying hard to stay focused. Today isn't for sober reflections.

In a bid to stop the little one from yelling, I look out of the window during which he stays calm. And for a long while, I remain in this uncomfortable position. Not until the mother drops off the bus do I have the liberty to sit properly. I stretch my neck left and right for relief to douse the slight strain. Such are the sacrifices I render to people around me when necessary.

I drop off at Menlyn Mall at half-past-nine, strolling to the interview venue afterwards. And as Abdul mentioned yesterday, the residence is a large duplex building in a reserved neighbourhood.

After knocking on the gate once, a man with a whitish moustache peeps through a hole and then opens up slightly. "Yes, what can I do for you?" He sizes me up from head downwards.

"I'm here for an interview."

"Are you Andrew?"

"Yes, boss."

He looks away, narrows his eyes and tightens his lips. "You said you're here for the security job we advertised?"

"Yes, please." My lips extend as wide as it can in a courteous smile, as I expect him to invite me in.

"I'm sorry. The job isn't for you." He says in a manner devoid of emotions.

"Please sir, give me a chance to prove myself. I'm prepared to do whatever you ask of me. As you can see, I have some job experience."

"Sorry, the job is taken," he says frantically.

"Please don't disqualify me based on... My heart is pure and different. I have a diploma certificate and I work hard —"

He bangs the door, leaving me to stare at the "Jesus is Lord" poster on the gate. I doubt these people believe in the things they brandish around.

Confusion seizes me for some minutes as I try to guess what might have gone wrong. I was invited for an interview and here I am before the agreed time. I was courteous to him and there wasn't any kind of argument between us. Why should he lie to me that the job is taken?

I tarry a bit, hoping he'll return soon. Or at least someone else will come around to give me details of their experience here. When no one shows up after a while, I walk away, ruing the missed opportunity. Human beings will always be who they are: judging a book by its cover. My situation calls for a dire approach.

As I plod reflectively out of the street, it occurs to me to check on Abdul and narrate my experience. Perhaps he'll have something to say. But I soon abandon the thought and head straight to the taxi rank, yet again confronted with those thoughts which come up after botched interviews.

When I showed a preference for an office job using my diploma certificate, people doubted my skills, some even queried the genuineness of my certificate. The serial rejections led me to seek opportunities in retail stores, even leaving Limpopo for Pretoria, but those complain that my face isn't customer-friendly, amidst other derogatory remarks. Now that I've changed my mind to go for menial jobs, those that won't bring me in contact with customers, I'm still rejected and scoffed at like a ravaging plague.

If they won't accept me as a gardener or a security guard, what kind of job do they want me to take up? Getting modest household jobs shouldn't be a problem in a big city like Pretoria. For how long will this continue for God's sake? When will someone give us ugly faces the opportunity to prove ourselves?

Well, they can hold on to their jobs, but they won't kill my drive. If God can feed the birds flying around, and the ants living deep in the dark depths of the soil, he'll carve my path for me. I won't take to crime or rob others of their livelihood. I'll surely overcome, it's a matter of time.