Many years ago, I once stood in a queue so long it started to feel like a metaphor for my life. Not because I was enjoying the scorching heat of the sun—no. I was simply waiting to submit a CV. In triplicate. With passport photographs attached like we were applying to become citizens of a secret country called “Employment.” The gate never opened.

Nigeria has a way of making you feel both invisible and under surveillance. You dress in your Sunday best for an interview that will be canceled “due to unforeseen circumstances.” You rewrite your cover letter seventeen different ways and say, “Dear Sir/Madam” with the tenderness of a romantic suitor, only to get ghosted. Again.

And yet—grace.

You see, there’s a strange beauty in barrenness. The sort of beauty you can only spot if you’ve squatted beside a burning roadside akara stand, still wearing your interview shoes, and heard the seller say, “Oga, e no easy. But God dey.”

There it is: Grace. Not the loud, fireworks kind. But the type that whispers in your hungry belly, “Eat. Rest. Try again tomorrow.”

Let’s be honest—our job market reads like a dystopian novel where every plot twist is powered by nepotism, tribalism, and something called “connection” (which, ironically, never includes internet access). You might have multiple degrees, professional certificates, and an accent polished by years of YouTube tutorials, and still, you’re told: “We regret to inform you…”Sometimes they don’t even regret it. Sometimes they don’t inform you at all.

But what if this waiting—this so-called barrenness—is not a sign of absence, but of presence? What if you’re not being punished but planted?

I once saw a job listing that required 7 years of experience in a software that had only existed for 4. That’s not a job post. That’s a riddle from the book of Job. And still—people apply. That, my dear, is grace: the absurd faith to try again in a system designed to make you quit.

We speak of barrenness like it’s empty, void, sterile. But even the desert blooms when the rain falls, and no one calls the desert lazy. The Nigerian job seeker isn’t idle. They are engaged in a full-time hustle: surviving hope fatigue, dodging scams disguised as opportunities, and answering interview questions like, “Where do you see yourself in five years?” with a smile, when really, the answer is “Anywhere but here.”

And yet—grace.

You begin to learn things in the waiting. Like the value of community—those WhatsApp groups where people share opportunities and prayers in equal measure. You learn patience—not the passive kind, but the kind that sharpens you like a blade. You learn that rejection is not always a curse; sometimes it’s God saying, “You’re aiming too low.”

You might even learn to laugh again. At yourself. At your email inbox. At the uncle who asks every December, “You still no get job?” as if jobs are Christmas hampers and you forgot to pick yours up.

Grace is not always a miracle; sometimes it’s just endurance with a good sense of humor.

So, to every Nigerian job seeker still waking up before dawn, still praying before emails, still believing in the dignity of their dreams—I see you. You are not barren. You are brewing. You are not forgotten. You are becoming.

Because even in barrenness, grace is not absent.

Sometimes, grace shows up late. Think of it arriving in your inbox at 11:59 PM on a Sunday. Just when you were about to give up and go into fish farming.

Which, by the way, isn’t such a bad idea.

By Fr. Ken Nkadi, O.P.