It’s Friday, and my last day with The Company.
I’m doing a hand-over to my replacement, Ahmed Ali. Ahmed is from the Mother Company, contracting to The Company. He is a very amicable and talented chap, and fortunately already has considerable familiarity with my area of work.
We’re mostly done and, as I’m handing over my notebook, we discuss whether Ahmed should do the work on-site at The Company, or off-site here at the Motherland.
“I’d prefer to work here, I don’t like going to The Company”, says Ahmed.
“It’s very trendy and new-age there, but I think it’s OK”, I suggest.
“No, I’d prefer to work here”.
“Every time I go down there, they search me”, says Ahmed.
“What are you talking about? “, I question. “I’ve worked there over a year, and, provided I’ve had ID, they’ve never even as much as looked at me.”
“The security personnel search my bag – my phone, chargers, books, and everything.”
“What?!”, I ask increduously.
“Yeah”, sighs Ahmed, “I guess they think I must be a terrorist”.
After I recover from a small system reality failure, I can do little more but wish him the best of luck, and go in search of a beer.