Felicia’s Interview

Felicia was somewhat of a maths prodigy. Actually, somewhat does not do her justice. Throughout her childhood, she found solace in numbers (and later algebra), which became her trusted friends and a way to escape the challenges of growing up as a girl in rural Ghana. Whether it was the death of her father or witnessing her mother struggle to feed Felicia and her sisters, maths powered her on with an infectious smile. She counted herself lucky – she did not experience the extreme poverty that was so widespread across the country and the continent, but it was not the upbringing you and I would have had. After winning countless mathematical awards and trophies and completing a degree at Ghana’s most prestigious university, she was awarded with a full scholarship to complete a PhD at the University of Sheffield, UK. She completed her 3-year PhD programme in just over a year.

Monday 15th February, 2021 was an important day for Felicia. She had it circled on the calendar that sat above her bed in the room she shared with her sister in a pokey East London bedsit. This was the interview for the much sought-after job of junior quant, a maths heavy role within a leading investment bank in London. This was not her dream job, nor her calling in life, but she desperately wanted it and had been preparing night and day for the last month in anticipation of this day. The sign-on bonus of $20,000 would be truly life changing, not just for Felicia, but her entire extended family.

She sat on the rumbling train en route to Canary Wharf, home to most of the investment banks in London. It was the height of the Covid pandemic and all non-essential travel was banned. Given that Felicia did not have a computer, she justified the short tube ride to the Canary Wharf Library as “essential” to join the video call, but fearfully kept her interview letter in an easily accessible pocket of her backpack just in case. She was still new to the UK and was not taking any chances with an overly eager train inspector who may deem that a suitable punishment for breaking travel rules would be a prompt deportment back to Ghana.

An elderly gentleman sitting opposite casted Felicia a bemused look. Trying to avoid an awkward meeting of eyes, she looked down at the floor. She knew full well that any curious stares were attributed this to her unusual attire: the combination of the (relatively) classy white t shirt (with the sales tag cunningly hidden) and her neighbour’s black blazer that was a couple of sizes too big paired with the more casual bright pink leggings and muddy white trainers. “When on video call, what goes on underneath is no ones business” she reassured herself.

To say that Felicia was nervous was an understatement. She shifted around on her seat, stroking her notebook for comfort. The Moleskin’s soft, furry cover evoked memories of her childhood Doberman which eased the knots in her stomach and somehow gave her a sense of confidence. The book was a gift from Ajoba, her older sister. Ajoba was 12 years her senior and had always been a maternal figure to Felicia, especially since Felicia joined her in the UK. She had convinced Felicia to take to opportunity of coming to the UK initially and accept the PhD offer in Sheffield. Felicia was nervous, but Ajoba was there with her every step of the way. They lived together in Sheffield, but now both had moved to London where Ajoba worked as school janitor to fund the extortionate rent. Felicia valued and respected her advice above all others. A week ahead of this interview, Ajoba presented Felicia with a beautiful pale blue notebook. She insisted that “Now, you must look and feel like you belong in these highfalutin places” and “Don’t forget to write lots of notes, especially in them crazy mathsy questions with funny letters all over the place”. Felicia figured that she was referring to the Greek letters often used by quants in equations. Nonetheless, she recognised this to be sound advance and it was worth reinforcing this as Ajoba knew that she would be reluctant to waste the pages in this beautiful book. Inside the front cover, Felicia had written her name and phone number neatly and proudly. She was not used to notebooks, and typically would use scraps of paper, often with demands for rent or bills on the back in aggressive bold red capitals that we clearly visible on the side she was writing.

She arrived at the library, nervously checking her phone for the time. She was a full hour early, but often she would have to wait in a somewhat dysfunctional queuing system for a computer. Her mathematical brain picked up on the key variables that determined the length of wait included how well you knew the librarian and how outraged you appeared to be at the suggestion that there would be a wait. Neither of these variables favoured Felicia so she thought it best to arrive in good time.

She was finally seated at a computer and felt the inevitable wave of nerves. Until this point, there were a series of challenges before the actual interview. Whether it was drafting a CV, procuring somewhat respectable clothes, or trying to make her unkempt lockdown hair sit fairly flat on her head, those tasks distanced her from the moment of truth. Now, with nothing standing between her and six to ten Harvard, Oxford and MIT educated Maths geniuses grilling her and using terminology only they understood, she felt her gut wrench with sheer terror.

She bravely clicked the link. Expecting the usual teething issues of needing to install a mysterious plugin or re-login, she was surprised to find herself immediately taken to the Zoom call which had already started. Four others were on, and seemed to be talking amongst themselves so Felicia did not interrupt and kept the camera off for now. More people joined, far more than she has expected. A lot more. She did not recognise any of the names – certainly none of the interviewers mentioned in the interview letter were on yet as she had learnt their names, backgrounds, research publications, pet’s names and what they liked for breakfast by heart. After all, she had been preparing for months.

“Who cares? We have already hired the guy we want. We are only talking to this Felicia to make our diversity quota – she’s a girl and she’s black – that’s two in one! If only she was in a wheel chair then that would be the holy trinity!”

Felicia was shocked. For some reason, her initial shock centred around the well-spoken gentleman’s mis-pronunciation of her name. Almost as if it was on purpose. She began sweating, she had anticipated all sorts of Mathematical scenarios but never this. To cover her shaking, and recalling her sister’s wise words, so she continued furiously writing in her Moleskin. She didn’t know how this could help, but at least it gave her an excuse to look down at her book and avoid the faces of those spouting such hurtful words. She simply wrote verbatim what was being said.

The farce continued, revealing increasingly shocking practices pertaining to this bank’s recruitment process.

“So we are hiring that rubbish new intern because Ian is sleeping with her?! He is such a moron - she is not hot at all!” accused a blonde lady with lips so inflated that Felicia was surprised that she could even speak. “His wife is so ugly, I bet he puts a bag over her head” was offered as if it was the suitable response.

Felicia continued to pen everything that was said, in the hope this was some kind of elaborate interview technique. This being her first banking interview coupled with the rumours of the more unusual interview practices employed by investment banks drove her to furiously scribe every word being said. “This is clearly a memory recall exercise” she assured herself.

As it turns out, it was not a bespoke, highly specialised memory test. It was just simple incompetence – the erroneous copy and pasting of a Zoom link. She sat there in shock after the “interview” has ended and immediately started typing out an apologetic email to HR to beg them to reschedule. She got as far as “I am sorry for….”. “What am I sorry for?” Felicia suddenly questioned. Replaying what just happened in her mind, she felt a twinge of annoyance. Or was it more? Was it anger? Before she could figure that out, and before she typed anything she would later regret in the email, she stood up and walked out of the library.

On the train back, she cast her tearful eyes over her written notes – somehow, she had maintained impeccable handwriting. Scrutinising each page, as if there would be an excuse that she could offer to her sister. She could not tell the truth. For some reason she felt she needed to shield them from the unfairness of the situation. Her mind wandered to possible excuses. Maybe she wasn’t good enough? Maybe they wanted someone with experience of programming in C++? Maybe there was a tidal wave in East London cancelling the interview? She snapped out of her daze as she saw the train doors open at Canning Town, her station. Quickly coming back to reality, she ran for the doors before they closed. She froze. The doors had already closed behind her as she turned around remembering she had forgotten her precious Moleskin on the train seat.

***

A few days later, Felicia, still dumbstruck from the events of Monday, received a phonecall. This was in itself quite a surprise given that she typically only had calls with her family in Ghana and they were always through Skype. This call was from a Clive Bannister enquiring whether she was the Felicia that left her notebook on the train. He had collected it from her train seat, and thumbed through the pages to see if he could determine the owner. He found Felicia’s name and number, and also found something else: Inspiration. Clive returned the book to Felicia in person that same day. Clive explained that he happened to be the head features editor at “The Spotlight”, a recently launched London magazine and was eagerly hunting down topics to shine the metaphorical “Spotlight” on. “I’m sorry if I was presumptuous, but I read a few of your pages of notes” he admitted to Felicia. “I would love to expose these pigs for who they really are – what do you say? This behaviour cannot continue”. From somewhere deep inside her, Felicia found the strength to agree with him. Anger raised up from within her and she found herself agreeing with him with more vigour than she thought herself capable of. She enthused “well surely you will need a picture of me!”. A month later, the magazine arrived in the post. She held the glossy magazine with her photo on the cover in one hand, and a crisp cheque for $20,000 in the other. It transpired that she had a talent for journalism as well as maths, and was proud that much of the writing in the article was her own work. “Maybe I have a future as a journalist?” she mused, and then thought of the story of her name. Her mum used to tell her this fact over and over and for what seemed like for the first time in her life, she lived up to her name: Felicia, meaning luck.