Life for me as a casual staff member has not been easy.
I graduated from the College for Legal Studies in Yola in 2021. After I finished college, I started looking for a job. I applied for so many at law firms, banks, and even the government office, but nothing came up. Each time, the appointment never comes. Night after night, I wondered if my degree would ever pay off. So, I decided to just learn some handwork, most especially camerawork. By 2022, my family and I had moved from Yola to Hayengada, near Badirisa in Girei Local Government Area, trying to stay afloat. That’s when I heard about ATV, a state TV station not too far from our home. It felt like a long shot, but at least it was something to try. They said I can come and explain what I want. I went and talked to the director of programmes.
She listened but didn’t promise me anything; she only introduced me to a cameraman who would show me how to handle the camera. It’s what I wanted to learn, and also, the lack of jobs made me desperate, too. Seriously, even if you try to apply for jobs, if you don’t know anybody, you won’t get the job. Or maybe you might have the qualification, or you might have the knowledge of the particular work you are applying for, but at the end of the day, no one will even recognise you. I joined ATV, and I learned.
Since I was a child, I dreamed of journalism, not law. I was very nervous the first time I was handed a camera; it was heavier than I imagined. I learned. Every mistake taught me something. I practised tirelessly, fuelled by my own stubborn belief that I belonged here too. Slowly, I started to believe maybe I was meant for this after all.
Within two to three months, I learned everything about cameras. From there, I said to myself, I will not just sit at home doing nothing. Before I am able to get a better opportunity, maybe I should continue coming as a volunteer. I wrote my application, submitted my CV, and they accepted me as a volunteer. Three months later, I was employed as a casual staff member with a monthly paycheck of five thousand naira.
Five thousand naira a month feels like a joke, really. Not even enough for a decent lunch, let alone a good lipstick. What can I do? Thank God I still live with my parents; if I were on my own, five thousand wouldn’t even cover my monthly cost of transportation. Imagine I have a law degree, yet I’m earning what a street hawker might get in a few days. My dear, coping with 5000 naira is not easy. Sometimes, I do a little side business to manage. I call it local chocolate. In Hausa, they call it Dokuwa. Normally, it’s those Marigi, Michika people that will know that. But it’s natural and local chocolate. I pull the peanuts and palm sugar together, press them into little rectangles. I will package it, and if you order, I will give it to you. It is whatever I am getting from it that I’m managing with the 5,000 Naira the station is paying me.
They said the patient dog eats the fattest bone. I’m patiently waiting for a government job. If I see a better opportunity elsewhere, I will run and grab it. You go for what you will get, not what you will lose. If I see an opportunity elsewhere, I will go. I am 26. I’m a young girl. I will not spend my time and my generation and my privilege on 5000 naira monthly.
What still keeps me in this job is the learning and the people I meet. I don’t look forward to the money. I look forward to what I will learn, the morals, and how to live with people. In life, it’s not only money that you get that you celebrate. Sometimes money cannot help you go anywhere, but your association with people will take you far.
I try not to look at the people who have stable pay. I try not to measure myself against them because comparison is a kind of time-wasting; it steals away the small things I have earned honestly. I know I wanted to succeed as much as they did. I know I want to look as good as they look, too. But I will not compare myself with them. Generation comes, generation goes. I don’t know what that person does. I don’t know how that person got that, and I don’t know their background. Still, there are times when I feel so discouraged. I go to work and I think, “All of this for five thousand naira?” It hurts. It bruises my pride.
It feels strange — a law graduate working in a media house, not a courtroom. My name is Jamila, and this is my life for now.
As narrated by: Jamila Ishaku (Girei, Nigeria).
This snippet is published as part of the series, The Casual Workers of Adamawa.
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