This one is a tall glass of water.
That I can tell, though I find him seated at the patio. He exudes a reserved, collected demeanour, as if there is nothing that upsets him, as if he has endured a million storms.
The giveaway is not in the gauntness of his posture, not even in the distance of his gaze. It’s the tremulousness in his voice, a baritone of its kind, a voice like a foghorn, yet in between his speech, the flakiness.
He carries with him a small plastic bag the way you carry your sins everywhere and with shame. The ones they gave us at the supermarket before Nema’s ban.
It’s as if he does not know where to place it, for it remains clasped between his hands when I hand in my hand for greeting, and still there when I hand him a glass of water.
Later, I come to learn that it is his clothes and a few possessions in there. Probably everything he owns.
He has a lingering grip with a firmness that is exaggerated by the callousness of his palm.
It could almost pass for a warm handshake.
Leaning closely now, I can tell he is seemingly exhausted. His hair, his moustache as well as his eyebrows are dusty. The collar of his shirt, begrimed. Apart from the dust, his clothes are pretty decent.
But it’s his shoes. They are shoes that could tell a story. Tattered crocs that seem to have stood the test of time. They have treaded upon terrible terrains, unbearable rubble, murky waters, mud... They are painstakingly crinkled.
These shoes have toiled. They have seen things. They have been present in highs and in lows. They have done their service and they have paid their dues
These shoes have toiled. They have seen things. They have been present in highs and in lows. They have done their service and they have paid their dues.
He gulped down the water rapidly, stopping every few seconds for air. He carried the thirst of a desert nation. I keep refilling his glass. I have lost count of the glasses I have poured so far.
When he is quenched, finally, is when he tells me his story. He has travelled for days, vastly looking for work. He is looking for any type of casual work. He has been a shamba boy since he was a teenager. He never attended high school. He is about 35 years old.
In a village setting, people live in homesteads. Now to look for this kind of work means you go into almost every homestead that comes your way. Most of your potential employers live in gated homes. You walk into unknown perils. You will encounter mad dogs. Dogs that will chase you. Some will just bark.
You will meet some very hostile people. Most will turn you away politely. Sometimes, you will knock on doors that will not be opened.
On a good day, you will find a kind person. They might not offer you work but they will offer you food, or water, or a place you could sit for two minutes and just rest. The next day, you will wake up and you will continue with the cycle.
Patience.
Resilience.
Dusk has turned into nightfall.
He is far away from home.
And even if he could make it back,
there is nothing to go back to.
As luck would have it, there is work to do. Land to be tilled, tea to be picked.
He is skilled at both. The gods today have smiled upon him.
He is set for two days, and his cumulative pay would be Sh500.
The relief on his face! I almost trace a smile. Almost.
There is an empty room outside. He is offered a decrepit mattress and a blanket. It is far from comfortable but today, he is sheltered from the rain. His night will be warmer. There is food, there is tea, and the water here? In plenty.
He is grateful. I watch him as he toils for the next two days. He is doing more than was bargained.
For breaking his back, a charged bull, he is the wagon and it is his hands that hold the plough. He is a machine.
It’s as if he is fighting against his odds, proving every second he is good for his pay. Like his little way of saying ‘eff you’ to his fate. Dawn to dusk, dawn to dusk. It’s time to leave.
He comes to collect his dues. His countenance has assumed its usual calm mien. This time, it’s his eyes that betray him.
Something is always betraying him.
They are watery, as if he is breaking a million times. Inside, you can see his agony as he struggles to gain composure.
He is the typical African man. Macho, proud, dignified.
He has summoned his stoic superpowers. He refused to bend even in glaring bleakness. He will not show weakness, not today and not in a million years.
As he forlornly trudges into oblivion, you have to ask yourself.
Before you complain that you are dealt bad cards, about the sh*t government, about bureaucracy...
Are you riding against all odds? Are you doing enough for yourself?