Clerks, Connections, and the school-leaving Certificate

Apr 27, 2025 Peeping Tom

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Peeping Tom…

Kaieteur News– There was a time, not so long ago, when passing your school-leaving examination meant something. Not a whole lot, mind you. You didn’t exactly win a Nobel Prize, but there was a faint, comforting hope that you might become a clerk. Not a brain surgeon, not a lawyer—just a clerk. A proud keeper of files and stamp pads, a connoisseur of carbon paper and paperclips.

Of course, you still had to know somebody. Preferably somebody who knew somebody else. Ideally, somebody who was related to the manager or could at least put in a good word for you. Because, dear reader, passing the school-leaving exam was like buying a lottery ticket with no numbers on it. It showed ambition, sure. But unless your uncle played dominoes with the head of personnel at Bookers, your prospects remained lodged somewhere between “maybe” and “dream on.”

In those days, connections were everything. If you were born into the Right Family—you know the type, people who had expensive curtains in their homes and ate biscuits with the cream still inside—you were guaranteed a fair shot at life. Even if you couldn’t spell your own name.

Some of those well-connected fellows did end up with “big wuk”—jobs that came with a desk and a secretary who answered the phone by saying “Good Morning, Sir.” But not because they were brilliant, oh no. Some of them used to get mercilessly whipped in arithmetic by the bright boys—the ones who did their homework and the other kid’s homework for fun. But life, as we all know, has a twisted sense of humour. The bright boys stayed poor, and the rich dunces became middle managers.

Now, the poor fellows, they had ambition. And a school-leaving certificate. And dreams. Big dreams. Like “get a job in the civil service” and “own a pair of leather shoes.” But dreams alone won’t buy you a bus ticket, and so they started from scratch. Many of them stayed there. Others made small progress, just enough to pay rent and buy soft drink on payday.

Naturally, they blamed the system. And when I say “system,” I mean the great invisible beast that’s responsible for every minor tragedy in our lives—from missing out on a job to getting cucumbers instead of salad in your lunch. The system became the national scapegoat. You didn’t fail your exam. No, no. You were denied success. You weren’t unemployed. You were a victim of systemic oversight.

Then came inflation and nationalisation, two words that make accountants twitch and poor people cry. The “boss man,” realizing the revolution might not wait politely at the reception desk, began shipping out his money. And his children. And, if he could, the office furniture. He kept the company open just enough to say he still had “roots,” but his heart—and his bank account—were in Miami, New York and London.

The poor man stayed behind, like a loyal dog tied to a collapsing house. He watched the cost of living go up, up, up—while his wages stayed fixed like a traffic light in a blackout. He told himself it would get better. That business would pick up. That the bossman would remember him at Christmas and hand him a bonus that wasn’t socks. But things only got worse.

Now he’s planning to live until 90—not because he wants to, but because he has to. Retirement is a joke—one of those cruel cosmic ones, like mosquitoes and in-laws. His pension, if it ever comes, won’t even buy him a decent coffin. He’s not planning a funeral; he’s planning a clearance sale.

Meanwhile, the boss man returned once a year with a suntan and a tin of sardines, which the poor man hid from his children like it’s a Rolex. Sardines, after all, were luxury at that time. Especially the ones in olive oil.

And as he sat, hour after hour, waiting for the phone to ring or the ceiling fan to stop wobbling ominously, he thought about that exam. The one he insisted he passed. “They cheat me,” he said. “They robbed me of my future.” And he believed it. Because it’s less painful than admitting the truth: that even if he had passed, he didn’t stand a chance unless someone’s cousin’s neighbour’s godfather vouched for him.

His friends tried to cheer him up. They said, “Try pork-knocking, man! Easy money!” But he didn’t want to mine for gold. He wanted a swivel chair and a desk calendar. He wanted an office. Instead, he got a job in the storage bond, moving boxes and misplacing invoices.

Now he pins his hopes on his children. Maybe they will get that clerk job. Except now it’s not “school-leaving”—it’s “CSEC” or “CXC” or “GCSE” or some other acronym that sounds like a printer malfunction. Kids are writing 14 subjects, and still can’t find a job.

So, the cycle continues. He watches as the “bright boys” of today get passed over, just like he did. Except now, the system has evolved. It’s no longer content with just robbing you. Now it laughs in your face while doing it.

But he’s grateful. Because despite everything, he still has his two-cent job. Which is approximately what it pays.

(The views expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of this newspaper.) 

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