So yesterday I schlep into town; it is now my third visit to the Department of Labour. Having retired injured from the Special Olympics team I used to work for, I am apparently eligible for some unemployment (UIF) benefits.
On the first occasion, I lodge all the required documents. It’s gonna take 35 days to get a response, they say. How many unemployed people can wait 5 weeks for an answer to whether they qualify for UIF or not, I wonder. But I know better than to voice my thoughts to government officials. I go home and put it out of my mind. Fortunately, I am not in imminent danger of starvation. But after two weeks I get an SMS saying Sorry, no you are not eligible for UIF benefits. Rejected. Speedily rejected. No reason. Not even an ‘It’s not you it’s us.’ Just rejected. Lodge an appeal, the SMS challenges me. Damn right I’ll appeal. But the SMS does not say how or where.
So, I gird my loins and go back a second time and ask these questions and after a few deliberations between various officials I get given a form. Fill it in and bring it back, they say. I figure I’ll fill it in right there and then and not have to come back again. But half of the form needs to be filled in by the mob I recently took leave of (it was either take leave of them or take leave of my senses), so I go back there. Sections are filled in and duly stamped and signed. They apparently have a policy that I must also attach to this form to strengthen my case, but where the hell is it? Scratch scratch. Drawers opened and shut, filing cabinets yanked and slammed. Eventually it is located in somebody’s inbox, printed, and given to me. It would have helped having this from the beginning, I say sweetly. Yes, they acknowledge, but we couldn’t find it.
Anyway, I staple together all the forms and policies and letters guaranteeing that I am no longer suckling at the institutional teat and once again I schlep into town, now my third visit to the so-called ‘Labour Centre’. There is a chap officiously directing the human traffic that has gathered at the entrance this way and that, left for complaints, right for first time applications, you lot wait there … so I assume, correctly as it turns out, that he is an official in the employ of the department of labour; when I manage to get his attention I explain why I’m there and ask, Where do I hand this in? What is it? he asks, taking the form and peering at it with curiosity. An appeal form, I say. Where did you get it? Here, I was given it by someone who works here. What are you appealing against? he wants to know. Against my UIF claim being rejected, I tell him. Who rejected it? he asks with a frown. They did not leave I name, I reply with controlled sarcasm, but I assume it was one of your lot (you fucking idiot, I say to myself). Did you get an SMS telling you your claim was rejected? he inquires. I respond affirmatively. When did you get it? Just before Christmas, I say. His eyes light up with some sort of Aha! Experience. That explains it, he says. He ignores the quizzical look that has overtaken my face and asks, Can you make paper aeroplanes? What do you mean by that? I am puzzled by this non-sequitur. That’s what you can do with the appeal form, he tells me, straight-faced. Excuse me? I splutter. Everybody gets those SMSes he says, still straight-faced. You must be kidding, I exclaim. You mean all these people lined up here to apply for benefits, they are all gonna get an SMS saying rejected, just like I did? Yup, he says, your claim was wrongly rejected, and all their claims will probably also be wrongly rejected as well. Why? For what reason? I demand to know as the veins in my forehead start throbbing. Dunno, he says, a slight shrug of the shoulders; maybe a system error, maybe they [meaning his employer, the department of labour] just want to piss people off. I am now speechless, numb, defeated. Anyway, he says, unconcerned, let’s look on the system and see what’s going on. Ten minutes we sit, waiting for the system to tell us what’s going on. Ah, he exclaims, the system also says you need a UI19 from [and he names an institution I once worked for]. Why? I say. Dunno, he says. Maybe it’s a system error …
Or maybe I died and and hell is really a Kafka novel set in a ‘Labour Centre’.
[PS – True story.]
allan.d.man 