Afromillennials, instead of whining, how about we fucking deliver exceptionally at work?

Exactly three weeks and a day ago, I undertook a project with an acquaintance. Exactly three weeks and a day later, he has still not come through on his part of the assignment. A task which with his skill, should have taken no more than three days to accomplish.

Here I am sitting in limbo, waiting. Unable to close reports and deliver end of action feedback to my sponsors and the gracious participants in the exercise.

With each passing day, my opportunity to make a good impression on my stakeholders, as an effective executor slips further away from my grasp. With each day, my sadness deepens because I know how hard I have worked and how much I have invested of myself in sacrifice to establish my professional reputation.

As an overachiever self-conditioned for excellence, I cannot stand mediocrity in myself and I loathe it the same on the people in my spaces. But am also a proclaimed sufferer of stage two of a mild case of the dreadful informal Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD). So I am a meticulous planner.

I visualize from beginning to end activities and events, and then I work my ass off to deliver and not let myself down, and to not lead those who put their faith in me on a daily basis to question their right decision.

The people I work with are not spared of my obsession with perfection. I hold everyone around me to the same high standards of discipline, of professionalism, of exceptionalism, even if very few ever match up to this bar.

I am disgusted by averageness, by small ideas, by the failures’ complex, by the lack of trying hard enough, and then harder.

Our generation has made more than a hymn of our joblessness it has become an anthem we are associated by. We are the unemployed Afromillennials.

The ones the older generations avoid for as far as they can, because when we are not throwing around our entitlement, we are crying about our circumstances.

We are ignorant, unproductive, digital-obsessed dots, they believe. How about when we get the spaces at the table, we do not prove them right? How about we fucking deliver and do it exceptionally?

How about when we get the opportunity at actual work, we remember that we have a responsibility to the rest of our cohorts to come through and shine?

How about we realize that that small desk we sit at is not just about us as an individual, but about all those out there who will one day become labeled by our shameful incompetence, our failure to use that space to do anything extraordinary?

She is good but she is young, they say as conference hall interview rooms close at our backs. In the waithood she goes. Lumped upon others already in wait.

We wear our nice shirts and smooth shoes and we deliver our mediocrity. We are enemies of our own progress. We are stones to the much hankered-after flight of our generation. And if we cannot fix ourselves, we should be cut off.

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