PASTORAL MISCHIEF (EPISODE 1)

EPISODE 1: The Weight of the Gown The woes and dreams of a jobless man are heavy burdens to carry. I graduated from the University of Ghana with a Second-Class Upper in Sociology and Economics—a certificate I thought would be my golden ticket. During my National Service with the Social Welfare Department, I was buoyed…

Jean-Paul Agidi

Mar 14, 2022

3–5 minutes

EPISODE 1: The Weight of the Gown

The woes and dreams of a jobless man are heavy burdens to carry. I graduated from the University of Ghana with a Second-Class Upper in Sociology and Economics—a certificate I thought would be my golden ticket. During my National Service with the Social Welfare Department, I was buoyed by a sense of purpose, convinced that the professional world was waiting for me with open arms. I never imagined that entry would be a literal tug-of-war.

Once my service ended, the “rosy” world I envisioned vanished. I became intimately acquainted with the hollow courtesy of corporate rejection: “We shall get back to you soon” and “You will hear from us shortly.” I hunted for work with such desperate consistency that my neighbours assumed I was already employed. Every morning, I stepped out elegantly—black suit, silk tie, trousers pressed to a sharp crease, and shoes polished to a mirror shine.

When they offered warm greetings and asked how work was faring, the shame was a physical weight. I couldn’t bring myself to tell them I was still a ghost in the machine. On the rare occasions I was offered a role, the terms were insulting; the salary was a pittance, yet the workload was gargantuan. I turned them down. Call it pride or call it ambition, but I was a graduate of the country’s premier university. I believed I deserved a career that would lead to a home and a car, not a life of exploited labour.

The sting was sharpened by the success of my peers. I watched former classmates on television and heard them interviewed on the radio, discussing their business empires. I began to spiral into a dark introspection: Are they inherently better than me? Is there a secret qualification I missed? Or is there some mystical force, some invisible hand, throttling my destiny?

To escape the suffocating boredom of my bedroom, I attended high school reunions, but they quickly became a form of psychological torture. My eyes would involuntarily scan the car park, searching for a Mercedes or a BMW that I could claim as mine. I often fled these gatherings early, unable to stomach the repetitive, well-meaning jab: “So, Samuel, what are you doing with yourself these days?” The “Big Boys” would huddle together, their talk clouded by international travel and property portfolios. Meanwhile, we—the “have-nots”—formed our own circle, nursing our predicaments with a litany of empty consolations.

My father, a dedicated civil servant, tried to pull every lever available to him. But time and again, his efforts were thwarted by “Big Men” who prioritised nepotism over merit. Just as a genuine opportunity emerged for me to join the Ministry, the ugly head of politics intervened. A change in government brought a sudden embargo on recruitment. When the process eventually restarted, my file had conveniently vanished. I was traumatised; I felt my mind slipping. It took the frantic prayers of my mother and her pastor to pull me back from the brink. In those dark hours, I truly believed life was no longer worth living.

Spiritually, I was a nomad. Born into the Presbyterian faith but raised amidst my mother’s Charismatic zeal, I was a “festive Christian”—only appearing in the pews for Easter, Christmas, or Watch Night. My Sundays were dedicated to the secular: laundry, a bowl of waakye from the local Muslim vendor, and the digital escapism of my PlayStation 4. I was a fanatic for the English Premier League and La Liga, my emotions tethered to the feet of Messi and Ronaldo. When I wasn’t playing or watching football, I was losing myself—and my meager savings—to the addictive pull of sports betting. I lived as though life was merely something to be consumed, oblivious to any deeper spiritual dimension.

However, joblessness has a cruel spillover effect. At twenty-eight, being the firstborn son still living under his parents’ roof was a source of quiet agony for my mother. She saw my stagnation not as a failure of the economy, but as a spiritual siege. As an Elder at The Redeemer Cares International Gospel Church (RCIGC), she was convinced I needed an intervention.

She eventually booked a “consultation” with her Overseer. I felt she was blowing the situation out of proportion—after all, I wasn’t the only jobless graduate in Ghana. But I saw the desperation in her eyes. She was my mother, and for her sake, I agreed to follow her into the lion’s den.