She sees me into a room, a boardroom. A swanky one. A large dark table stretches across the opulent room. The seats are all high back and they receive your weight with a familiar springy stoicism. One of them must cost like 50 big ones, seats so posh you can take them to dinner. Then there are these fancy phones on the table, about six of them. They look like they last rang in 2002. The windows are large and the blinds are open. The AC is on and it frosts the tip of my nose.
“Would you like some newspapers?” the lady asks officiously. I say, yes, thanks. She then effortlessly eases out of the room, like a ghost. I pick a seat that faces the door and wait. I put my phone on silent. I flip through my notepad; my handwriting is not any better than my daughter’s. I write down a few questions.
She returns with three newspapers and then asks; “would you like something to drink, tea, coffee?” To test if she isn’t a robot powered by efficiency I say, “A double whiskey on the rocks would be great, thanks.” She doesn’t laugh, neither does she chuckle. Her lips spread across thinly, which I imagine is how she smiles but it comes across like a snarl. But that’s not what amuses me, her answer does: “I’m sorry, we don’t have any alcohol.”
“I was only joking,” I smile but I can tell she doesn’t believe me, instead she nods curtly and says, “Mr X will be with you in a moment,” then she bundles out of the room, like mist under a door. It’s 8:45am. I’m 15mins early to interview some hot shot.
To earn my bacon, half the time all I seem to do is seduce men. I call them up. I introduce myself and I tell them that I want an interview. Some will say cool and we will block a date. Others will keep me on hold and claim to check their diary but I suspect what they do is go back to some hot chic’s FB album then come back on and say, “Biko, my week is a mess. Can you call me on Friday we make a date?” Sure, Donald Trump.
Friday I will call and they won’t answer, instead they will send an sms, “Sorry, in a meeting, call you after.” They won’t call. I will give them a few days and call back. They will pick and say how sorry they are for not having returned my call and they will say they are leaving for SA the next day, “Do you mind calling me when I get back on Tuesday?” Sure, Trump, Tuesday it is.
Tuesday I will call and we will –hopefully – make a date. Other will not pick my calls and I will put them on an icebox to be called at a later date. That’s how it works when you chase CEOs; seducing a woman is easier.
I remember some years back I called Sir Charles Njonjo’s office a million times and wrote three emails requesting for an interview. I was given the royal run-around for three months before I finally started feeling like an unrelenting lover and gave up. Then one day, many months later, I’m in Samburu, for Rhino Charge, I see this chopper land on this strip and who comes out, Sir Charles!
So I run over, hat in hand, and introduce myself and as he shuffles for a waiting Land Cruiser I tell him I have been on his tail for ages and his office had been non-committal. Would he be kind as to grant me an interview?
As one of his people hold open the car door for him he stops and looks at me. I mean really looks at me and his eyes are all milky and gauging. His skin, my God, his skin looked like he showered in milk. He was old and his skin was creased but you could still smell money on him and his silent power. But he was decent; he held my shoulder with one gaunt hand and said, “When do you want this interview?” And I said, “Right here, sir, if it won’t be much trouble.” He laughed and asked me to go to his office on Monday first thing. Then he jumped into his air-conditioned juggernaut and soon disappeared in a cloud of dust.
When I showed up at his office in jeans, he handed me a good hiding about my sense of fashion. He said it was unprofessional to come to his office without a blazer. He said jeans wouldn’t cut it in his office. I said my “Yes, sir,” and “No, sir,” and “My apologies, sir” and got my one hour interview. He was charming and brilliant.
If it’s a big fish you learn to kiss ass when you want an interview badly. But there are small fries that imagine that they are the big deal, those I don’t waste time chasing because they need the publicity more. Eventually they always call or email. But women CEOs are the best, they don’t give you the run around, they will say, “Listen Biko, let’s do end week, a girl needs to have her hair done first.” And I will say, “What a girl does with her hair is no man’s business, but no Mohawk’s please.” They will laugh.
Anyway, back to the boardroom. For two months I had hounded this man I was waiting for. I had spoken to his communications guy a dozen times, sent emails to his PA, hell I had to refer them the section I write for them to see how harmless it was. He is the real deal. Finally they had balked. And now I’m here. He is known for his haughtiness, and his wealth. Bad combination.
At 9.15am, he pushes the door open and strolls in and I know immediately that he’s going to be trouble. His body language screamed, “I’m a very important man, I don’t need to be here, I have things to do.” I stand up and offer my hand and – with no eye contact – he offers a tepid handshake and growls, “ I hope this won’t take much of my time.”
I say no, I can wrap it up in 30mins, will that be okay? He stares at his watch, shakes his head, sighs and shrugs and leans back in his chair. My first question rubs him the wrong way. I ask, “ What is the quality you miss the most in you before you became successful?” It’s a leading question, of course, one that thinly points to his total lack of humility.
But it’s not an unfair question, it’s just tactless. I needed to let him thaw first, draw him out then engage him. That question was somewhat threatening and threatening questions don’t get you far. But in my defence when you only have only 30mins you learn to cut to the chase and jump right into the main course. There is no time to ask about children and pets. Plus I didn’t want him getting too comfortable; when subjects get too comfortable they become a problem. They start controlling the interview.
Anyway, the wheels quickly started coming off. During the interview, he taps emails on his Blackberry and he picks calls. He doesn’t make bones about his disdain for common courtesies. And when I asked him how his childhood was, he says, “Why do you journalists bother with such old boring information?” and I’m tempted to tell him the only thing that had grown old and boring was his foul attitude, but I didn’t because I didn’t want him calling security. At some point he starts with the old subtle intimidation; trying to stare me down, condescendingly chortling at some of my questions and trailing off in the middle of sentence while he reads something from his phone. I felt like feeding him the newspapers. All was going south.
I didn’t mind these ill mannerisms too much because they give an article character. I had an intro ready in my head half way through the interview and intro he wasn’t going to be excited about when I finally wrote it.
Here is where the camel’s back breaks: halfway through the interview he picks a call (without excusing himself) and steps out of the room. I’m horrified at his rudeness. He is gone for 5mins and leaves me there wondering why I was tolerating this prick. I calculate how much I was getting for the article against the amount of anger and poison this guy was pushing in my blood and it didn’t make sense. So I decide it wasn’t going to fly. It’s never that serious.
He walks back in and of course doesn’t bother to apologize, instead while taking his seat he says, “That was my fundi asking for directions to my house, so where were we?”
I tell him delicately, but firmly, that I don’t think he has shown any respect, or interest, for the interview and that I don’t see any point to continue with the interview. “Aren’t you overreacting?” he asks and I say maybe but that the zeal for the interview has fizzled out, I’m sorry. He shrugs like he doesn’t give a rat’s, so I stand up and thank him for his time and I wish him a good day and I leave him in the boardroom, reading something awfully important from his Blackberry.
At the ground floor I’m stopped by security. The big shot’s office wants me to go back upstairs. Of course I don’t go back, because what was he going to give me, sweets to placate me?
That guy left a very bad taste in my mouth. For the whole week, I wondered what kind of life the people who worked for him led. If he could treat me – someone who was adding his PR value – like a bum, I wondered how he treated people who couldn’t do anything for him. Here is the thing, I remember that this guy wore cologne that smelled like sunrise but his overbearing arrogance and ego eventually overpowered the smell of that cologne. Too much ego reeks like a carcass.
This story is not about anything other than my letting out steam.
I’m good now.