A day at a ministry and why I now want a government job

The more common imagery associated with Uganda’s Public Service is back-breaking near servitude in dingy, cramped offices and long hours in the day of a mind-numbed paper pusher.

At least that’s what I thought until I was plucky enough to venture into a few offices. Let me tell you, it is nothing like that. While they are not frolicking in the lap of luxury, there is plenty going on to entice one into any of those jobs.
At the top of the food chain was the ministerial office in a swanky, relatively new piece of prime estate mid-town. The leather couches were plush and polished, the cool interior laid out like a model space, with everything spick and span.

The ministerial desk itself is a thing of beauty, as wide and expansive as is fitting for a public officer of stature. Those are tax shillings well spent. On the walls hung a neat collection of tasteful art – wild animals and of course the ubiquitous, benign face of a more youthful President smiled down on us enigmatically.

We spoke in the hushed reverent tones of civilised people, ever aware of the gravitas of the location. A ‘secretary’ offered trays of chilled, bottled water – mostly declined. Outside the vast windows, a stunning view of the city in the distance – far enough to conceal its flaws. At this point, you are breathing rarefied air; if you are going to work for the government, this is the way to do it.

A few floors below, we interacted with a lower cadre public officer. The offices were still large, but the desks much more cluttered and the furnishings cheap but cheery. Cups of tea and coffee came and went regularly, and the smell of fried dough lingered in the air.
The people downstairs maintain good humour and laugh with abandon; every so often, your meeting is interrupted by the door opening and a head poking through with a friendly greeting.

On the way out (and in) one must make a stop at the security desk to exchange their identification for one of those visitors’ badges. This is where all the bureaucracy is happening: there is a dog-eared book for you to write in with a pen firmly anchored to an invisible peg like a goat on a rope. Apparently, the said pen is always in danger of aggravated robbery.

You wait quietly in line, while two women – always two women – watch sternly, and exchange badges for IDs. When it is your turn, you comply meekly even as you write gibberish – I always put the wrong phone number just to rebel against this foolishness. Sometimes I write in my mother’s name just for a laugh. But I am terrified of those bossy women at the front desks. They clearly have power and they are not afraid to wield it.

Even more terrifying are the mountains of food consumed briskly as we wait in line. Clearly, public servants have no time to eat at home because the hours of 8 to 11 are dedicated to breakfast and snack time.
They eat with no compunction about the fact that they are sitting at the front desk in the hallowed lobby of a government building.

Food containers are opened gleefully to reveal glistening mounds of sumptuous offerings, alongside towering flasks of ‘African Tea’. When they said ‘man eateth where he worketh”, they were only wrong about the gender. Sign me up for this job already.

Ms Barenzi is a communications professional and writer
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