End of a Long Month

John, our weekend 'relief' guard has been losing weight. Markedly. Not in a good way. I asked him if he was ok.
'Yes, yes, I'm fine.'
But Tom reminded me its the end of January, - a long month after Christmas and forking out for presents and maybe a trip up-country.
'He's probably not eating very much.'

Even in East African high summer and bright sunshine, away from UK grey skys and biting frosts, January is a hard month for many. That Christmas trip up-country and sodas bought for wayward cousins eating into January's options. Start of the school year, uniform, books and school fees for the kids.

But we give money for food for lunch for the staff, so he should be getting a good lunch at least.
'Oh but I don't get lunch at the weekend, they lock the food in the kitchen.'
'But you mainly work at the weekend. The money is for you too. For you to eat whenever you are here.'

I was furious. I didn't mince my words with Philip, our gardener cum handyman cum cook for the staff, who takes monthly receipt of the cash for the lunches.
'This is not your money. This is money for all the people who work here. Whenever they work.  Not just money to buy food when you are here, so they go hungry at the weekends.  You need to apologise to John. And to find a solution to put it right for him and for the future.'

What gets me so outraged is that they are friends. Chat together. Eat lunch together on a Monday, when John also works.  Philip knows that the guards don't earn well. Earn far less than him, and don't receive the extra benefits he gets from us. Must have seen John getting thinner too, and been quicker on the uptake as to why.  But has pocketed the money for the last three years. Or to put a better gloss on it, has diverted the money to better meals Monday to Friday.  Stealing food from friends who are hungry when you yourself aren't in dire need is for me a heinous crime.

I think Philip thinks we're fools that we use our money to support his kids to go to school. He is happy to pocket the money, to count it out infront of me, to attempt - once only - to bargain me up, when he felt I could contribute some more. That made me see red, and I gave him full measure next day.

'If we were from your village and were helping send your children to school, would you come and say we should give more? I don't think so. This is our charitable contribution not part of your wages. I know that there are many children in the orphanage who would love a chance to go to high school, and who don't have parents in work - or parents at all - to pay for them.   Your children's education is your responsibility not mine, so please don't ever try to bargain up my charitable contribution again, or you run the risk that it goes to children in greater need than yours.'

He didn't get why I got mad, but did - in that global way of some men when faced with an irate woman - shake his head and back off. And its about my hang-ups.  His attitudes and behaviour aren't off the spectrum here, though mine aren't either. It matters to me that people who work for us get a good meal while at work. It matters that we try to share our good fortune on things which matter to us and to them, wages, food, school fees.  Within limits.  I believe it builds community, models what we believe to be important, makes a difference, gives back, supports people who are almost part of our family.  But I hate that Philip takes, fails to thank, and further, grabs what isn't his.  Messes up the whole idealistic thing. Makes me feel shamed and a fool.  It's not a sacking offence, though I wish it were. It could have been a failure to think of the needs of others, though I know it isn't.

And John, when I asked him later how he thought it could be put right, was gracious beyond.
'The money for the meals in the past, is gone. I think we should forget that.  And my money for the future, I think we should put it with the money for the night guards, because they always leave their food where I can get it.'

And the lesson for me from this?  I don't see Philip in the same way anymore. I forgave him nicking the avocados from our tree. Almost. But diverting food from friends?  I won't forgive that.  But without inflating our tiny efforts for people inside our tent here, there are benefit cheats in the UK  too, but people don't let that undermine the welfare state.  And I really wouldn't want to live with myself, with enough food and more in our fridge, if a guard were losing weight at our gate and we were turning an official blind eye.

Other blogs on this theme:
http://www.onthethresholdafrica.blogspot.com/2011/01/blind-ignorance.html

Colleagues & Spice and All Things Nice

It's not that I'm a Gina Ford Groupie. I'm happy to tear up the masterplans, revert to plan B or F, or to busk it for a while. But three months on from throwing my toys out of the pram with BigCorporate (see here http://www.onthethresholdafrica.blogspot.com/2011/09/when-mum-turned-into-monster.html)  I do miss the structure of two days a week of being part of a team, the routine of arriving at the same office to action my bit of the project with the same gang.

It's not I'm being idle. I'm getting lots of individual clients and enjoy the work with them. I'm bidding for more corporate work, and think I'll be busy there too soon.  It wasn't that BigCorporate had the (minor) perks of UK offices - a kettle or a coffee machine, a printer, shared network or even a stationery cupboard from which to take a new sharp pencil when the rest of life seemed out of control.  I enjoyed the work, the clients, the clear signs of progress. But what I really miss are the colleagues and the structure of someone else's office.  Wouldn't want it full time if I can help it. But like a well-fitted supportive bra, you miss it when its gone.

Even when its head down, up to the wire multi-tasking pressurised stress, I prefer to have others alongside me. I enjoy two minute inconsequential chats with the security guards, with others in the lift. I liked trying to decipher Sheng, the cool yoof Swahili dialect. Being a fly on the wall as my Kenyan colleagues chatted together about life, and I learnt by osmosis the bits I didn't realise were different.  Being one of a team with whom to share successes, to chew over dilemmas, to reach group decisions. About whom to gripe in the evenings. Occasionally.

I grew up listening to the Archers, the long-running Radio Four radio soap.  Saw my life a bit in juxtaposition with my peers there. Well at least I'm not as smug as that Shula. Or as ditsy and feckless as Nigel of the Mr Whippy van. Sadly, not as much fun as Eddy, the ne'er do well country & western crooner and general cheeky chappie.  Liked trying on the realities of their fictional everyday life. And in the same way, my time next to the lives of my Kenyan colleagues and students added an extra dimension to my life here. New realities. New experiences.  New understandings. A more intense spicier reality than the blander more homogenous existence in the expat enclave.