At the end of three or four years at the university, you will be issued with a piece of paper addressing ‘whomever it may concern’. After that, you will be shoved into the cold and cruel world and be expected to learn everything practical in the job market. Industrial attachment, they will call it.

You will be excited, no doubt, until you realise that it is payless and thankless. Most employers seek skills. Herein lies a problem. It is a tall order finding skills in a Kenyan system that pumps handouts after handouts of theory into students’ heads. You will look at the application form and scoff. Two years experience, most will demand.

Experience in a field not recognised by the ministry. You will share the links religiously and enduringly wait for responses. You will not lose faith, because your mother did not raise a quitter. Most days, you will find comfort in conversations that go like this: “Umepata attacho?” “Hapana” “Mimi pia”. Shared misery will keep you warm and optimistic on most nights.

One thousand sent emails and a hundred interviews later, you will get one call. They will ask you to report on Monday for orientation. The village will celebrate. You will then graduate to the observers in the class group; that self-appointed mature group that does not contribute unless someone sends an inappropriate voice-note. Your parents will thrust a few notes into your hand and ask you to get decent clothes.

A haircut or neat hairstyle will be recommended. Their child is officially employed. When the day comes, you will go in armed with all the knowledge you surprisingly managed to grasp because your lecturer was always out of the country. You will greet everyone, including the selfish neighbour on your way out.

As you report to your place of attachment, you will be met by a receptionist with eyebrows that are struggling more than Kenya’s economy. She will most likely be arrogant, as is almost everyone in customer care service. You hate her, you will decide.

The bosses will be unbothered and detached. You will like that just like you will the high speed free WiFi. You will find a confused solidarity with other interns. For three months, during lunch-break, you will trade stories on your struggles and endurance.

At the end of the day, your parent will call and ask how your first day was. You’ll think: "I spent all day looking at memes." However, you will not say that. “It was okay. I learnt a lot.’’ “Eish. Utatuma pesa lini?" She will ask. "It’s an unpaid internship, mother," will be your response.