I was beaten
“I was beaten” was written by Nazareen Ebrahim and published in July 2014 on her LinkedIn account. This is her story, her tale. Her account of early beginnings and rough times. It’s a tale of yet another woman’s strength and endurance.
I was beaten
What are your first thoughts on hearing the word ‘beaten’? Physical abuse, violence, hard graft, anger?
This is my story.
I resigned from my job at a digital agency in January 2013. While I had a company (South African close corporation) registered (but inactive), I was completely lost on how I was to proceed from February onwards. For three months, I lagged along and eventually got one client who required that I produce articles for an annual.
My desperation for work meant that I completely ignored negotiating a better deal, formalising the transaction on paper, and clearly defining the scope of work with the client.
Needless to say, this project came to an abrupt halt and didn’t turn out well for both parties concerned. Gosh didn’t I need to go back to school on how to run a business!
In the meanwhile, personal funds had become non-existent, my confidence was shattered from this experience and I was relying solely on my family for support.
The nail in the coffin came one fine afternoon in early May. I had been sticking my head in the sand after all the mails, text messages and calls.
‘They’ came to repossess my car.
I will never forget that moment. I had no option but to quietly sign the notice of repossession, empty my girly car boot and watch an elderly man with a slight walking problem, drive off in my car.
On the day my car was to be auctioned, I brought her back home. If it were not for three individuals (one who didn’t know me at all) who stepped up to help, I wouldn’t have learned a great lesson there. Miracles do happen. And self belief and focused action is paramount.
One of the individuals then offered me a chance of employment at their non-profit organisation. Just to keep me afloat. I grabbed at the God sent life raft. I didn’t know what to expect.
“Don’t worry, you’ll be answering telephones, receiving beneficiaries for assistance, and doing basic admin,” was my verbal hiring and briefing.
A month into working at the NPO, I was told it was time to get my hands dirty. We ordered massive amounts of grocery items to be packed into hampers for delivery to impoverished communities.
My job with my fellow colleagues: keep an inventory of all stock, keep the calendar of visits to various communities, physically load the van with goods per community visit, interact with the community on our trips, and ensure that the hampers were offloaded and distributed at our destination regardless of the distance of the homes.
We worked early mornings, late evenings and full weeks. No rest for the courageous. Yes? No. I swung between moody (little rest), to emotional (seeing little kids with no chance of proper education and the will to succeed).
Two and half months into our distribution of aid, I got to the office one morning, made a cuppa and stared at my hands. While I’m used to physical hard work, I had relegated that to the home front. When I was at the office, I was meant to be the intelligent professional, not the menial labourer. I had laboured for years, until my resignation from my previous company, under this delusion. Of course, one must exercise confidence as a professional. But when does that confidence become dangerous?
As I stared at my hands, I realised that something had changed. I felt an overwhelming sense of happiness at the hard labour that these hands had undertaken. I realised at that moment that there was true nobility in exerting oneself through any means of an honest living.
My hard labour had beaten me. Beaten me into shape. Beaten humility into me.
As a professional in the past, I would take a knock to my ego if a member of management asked me to do something which almost made me feel like I was serving them. For e.g. “can you pour me some tea please or get us two plates from the kitchen?”
While you shouldn’t get walked all over by your boss, it is important to remember: there is as much dignity in answering the phone at reception as there is in addressing dignitaries at an international conference.
I left the organisation after four months, as projects had slowed down and there was no need for an extra hand. The lesson was hard learned. And a new humble confidence was born.
Today, as I run a Media & Communications startup company, my mind drifts back to the time I packed boxes of milk into the back of a delivery van, and I feel gratitude for the school of life.
