I Got a D!

I wonder what it takes to be CEO.

Truthfully, I don’t even crave the job itself. What I want is the honour of being referred to as CEO Reagan. It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? Carries the same gravitas and aura as President Reagan—just don’t pronounce it with that flat American accent. This is CEO Reagan, pronounced with a deep, rich intonation of Dholuo.

But still, what does it take to earn that title? Not just an executive officer—I’d be the Chief Executive Officer. So that if you’re my friend and we attend a black-tie event together, you can tell people, “The CEO is my friend, we watch SpongeBob together.”

Do CEOs even watch SpongeBob? If not, I’d like to be the first. Surely that would deserve a line in Forbes.

Of course, I know being CEO doesn’t make you the supreme ruler. You’re still an employee—just a very well-paid one—answerable to the board and shareholders. Still, it’s a title worth ticking off the bucket list. Not everyone will become a CEO. Not even of their own life.

Just last week at work, before that overly talkative lady on the matatu tested my patience, I was tasked with sending a document to the company’s Directors via the CEO’s email. He’s now somewhat of a friend, or so I like to believe, based on the sheer number of cups of coffee I’ve consumed in his office.

I remember the first time I stepped into his office for my interview. There was a shiny gold nameplate at the door: “Mr. So-and-So, CEO.” It looked cool-ish. But if it were my office, I’d go with:

MR. KRABS
Chief Executive Officer

Just for the humour of it. So that anyone coming for a meeting question whether they’re in the right place. The board would probably fire me before the fiscal year ended, but honestly professionalism has robbed the world of a lot of fun.

Speaking of interviews, the first professional interview I ever attended was a few years back for a school sponsorship. I had no clue what to expect. People had told me horror stories of heartless interviewers and nervous candidates who disqualified themselves by drinking office tea before even sitting down. I was a bundle of nerves.

Thankfully, I reacted by researching obsessively. I dug up everything I could about the school. I reached out to friends in the corporate world, grilled my sisters for tips. That was also probably the first time I truly used TikTok—not for dancing videos, but to get bite-sized interview hacks. If your algorithm’s in order, TikTok can actually be useful. But if your feed is full of twerking and wannabe celebrities, you may want to close this newsletter at this point.

TikTok advised: wear a blue dress shirt, a simple blue cashmere jumper, black trousers, and shining black shoes. My hair was freshly shaved, perfectly complementing my glistening forehead. I didn’t own a tie back then, and worried that might hurt my chances. But I figured I’d work with what I had.

I prepared all my documents two nights in advance. Each one printed in triplicate. Just in case someone tried that “we didn’t receive it” line. The night before the actual interview, I barely slept. My brain replayed imagined scenarios of stern-looking interviewers making my palms sweat. I hoped—no offence—it would be a panel of men. Female interviewers somehow made me even more anxious.

The morning journey to town felt like a crawl. That matatu could have been outpaced by the sloth from Zootopia. I got there early—7:32am. Interviews were to begin at 8. I’d heard some interviews could last three hours. What could they possibly want to know about me for that long? I haven’t done enough in my life to talk about myself for more than ten minutes. But I wanted to be first to be interviewed, get it over with.

No one else had arrived yet. Eventually others trickled in, laughing, cracking jokes. I was stiff as a mannequin in my outfit, unable to join in. How was I the only one who came alone? I was sweating in a cold Nairobi morning, silently preparing to beg for the opportunity, and then skedaddle!

Of course the interview didn’t go as planned.

Despite being the first to arrive, I was interviewed third-last. A few minutes in, I was already fumbling, mumbling, and gazing longingly at the Parklands skyline behind the interviewers. They offered me water. Then coffee, but I declined both. I composed myself and said, “Let’s proceed.”

I’m terrible at eye contact, but that day I decided to stare into their souls. I told myself they’d probably never see me again, so why not? My research helped too. I handled the organizational questions like a pro. I even remembered advice from my high school Director: Speak with your hands above the table. I gestured expressively, trying to show how much I wanted the opportunity.

Then came the final nail in the coffin.

“So Reagan, to wrap up, how are you finding campus life?”

I gave a polished answer, full of well-rehearsed professional jargon.

“You did Financial Accounting I last semester, right?”

“Yes,” I said—heart pounding. I was afraid they’d ask me to balance a ledger right in front of them.

“What was your grade?”

My world stopped. The air got colder. I felt every eye on me. I hesitated because the answered scared me. The lead interviewer then repeated himself:

“What grade did you get in Financial Accounting I? Remember, CPA is mostly accounting.”

Before he finished, I muttered, “I got a D.”

“Mmh?” high-pitched, eyebrows raised.

Exactly what I’d feared.

“I got a D!”

They gasped.

It felt like the letter D had walked into the room and sat beside me. They were quiet. Too quiet. Four interviewers. I looked into their eyes to see which one would laugh first.

Finally, someone said those infamous words:

“Alright, we’ll call you. Thank you for your time.”

I wanted to respond the Gen Z way: “Sisi wote ni watu wakubwa hapa, mniambie tu ukweli.” But professionalism forced me to smile, thank them, and leave.

I was gutted. Two interviewees were still waiting outside, but I couldn’t talk. I left the campus in silence. The trip home dragged on endlessly, just like the trip there. I’d planned to attend church afterwards, but I couldn’t even face God that time. I went home and slept the entire afternoon.

Interviews can be terrifying, especially your first. No matter how much prep you’ve done, once you’re in that room, your brain can betray you. Thankfully, my most recent interview went much better. The CEO I mentioned earlier is one of the good ones. The kind who talks to you like you’re human. You know how older folks sometimes talk down to Gen Zs, assuming we’re all disrespectful or clueless? Not him.

He asked about our home in Karachuonyo, about Kabete and UoN. He enquired about any work experience I had, if any. He poured me coffee and casually mentioned his land issues in Bondo. I’ve never been to Bondo. I didn’t even realize it was an interview until he said, “Alright, you’ve done well, jaKarachuonyo. Report on Monday at 8am.”

Those words could literally heal a comrade’s soul.

A few weeks in, and I’m already helping him draft emails to Directors. I’d say that was a good interview.

But I still walk past that boardroom from the first interview and feel triggered. That room still haunts me. To make it worse, the lead interviewer is also a lecturer—I see him in class every week. I wonder if he still remembers me as the D student!?

One day maybe I’ll be a CEO. And I’ll interview a fellow D student who walks into my office confused by the gold plate at the door that proudly reads:

MR. KRABS
Chief Executive Officer