In India, ‘servants’ are scapegoats, flawed and guilty as charged even before the charge is known. Africa taught me some valuable lessons about dealing kindly with them
In Kenya, I had a large house with a vast garden and more house help than ever, including a driver, a cook, two watchmen and a gardener. Representation pic
Lesson number one, of course, is that you never ever call them that. Few words are as casually derogatory as servants to describe someone who just happens to have been born too poor and disadvantaged to own your house instead of working in it.
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In Kenya, I had a large stone cottage with a vast garden and more house help than I’ve had before or since, including a driver, a nanny, a housemaid, two watchmen, a cook called Hesbon and a 28-year-old gardener called Albert.
The usual Indian attitude towards domestic help is casual disdain, imperiousness and intolerance of even minor infractions. When push comes to shove, though, ’servants’ are inevitably scapegoats, permanently flawed and guilty as charged even before the charge is known.
In Africa, two incidents taught me about the need for both compassion and intelligence while dealing with those who work in our homes to help us live easier.
Hesbon, our first cook, was close to seven feet tall and a really bad thief. Sugar, wheat, rice, vegetables would disappear from the kitchen, always in large, conspicuous quantities. Everyone knew he was the one, but one protects one’s own, so Hesbon stole with impunity.
One day I did something tribal. I summoned all the house help and sat them on the floor of the back porch. I myself took a high chair, which made me in their eyes the mkubwa, the Big Man. I first made them recount all the largesse they received from me. On principle, I have always offered my house help every benefit I received from my own employers, including house rent, medical coverage, school fees for their children and a paid vacation. They spoke in turn, all agreeing that as a boss, I had few peers.
“Alas, one among you is unhappy with this generosity,” I continued with regret. “Sugar, rice, flour, and other things have been disappearing from the house.”
Everyone nodded in commiseration, including Hesbon.
“I know who this person is but if I say the name, that person’s job would end. However, should this person confess freely, I may have an attack of compassion. I will leave you now for 10 minutes to confer about what the next step should be.”
When I returned, Hesbon was standing. “It was I, bwana,” he said, hanging his head. He admitted conservatively to stealing a single cup of sugar once. As promised, I forgave him, making him promise that he’d never steal, at least from my house, again.
Lesson: Treat your house help as family and forgive little transgressions. Expect the same human failings you see in your own family.
I had no problems with Albert until he ate my son’s pet rabbit, Mr Grey. Albert was a 28-year-old youth and our perennially drunk gardener. He had never done anything in a garden before except perhaps lurch around making passes at anything green. But we were new to Africa and I decided a drunk gardener who didn’t know gardening was better than none.
When I learnt that Albert had been seen leaving with my son’s rabbit in a cloth bag, I decided enough was too much and fired him. Albert was a Luhya, an emotional Kenyan tribe famous for its cooking skills and great love of litigation. Kenya’s labour court was packed with Luhya judges and lawyers.
Albert filed a case against me; I received court summons in a week. As a non-Kenyan and expatriate, the last thing I wanted on my record was a court case.
I called Albert again. He met me the next morning, full of affection and alcohol.
“You’ve always been like a son to me, Albert,” I said.
His eyes misted and he said, “You are my father, bwana.”
“On Christmas, as you know, I like to call all my staff and share a good bottle of wine,” I said. Christmas was three weeks away.
The mention of wine made his eyes mistier.
“I’d have called you, of course, but you have made it difficult by filing a case against me.” Albert’s eyes welled with tears.
“That was a big mistake, bwana,” he said.
“Yes, because you know nothing about gardening.”
“Not a thing,” he agreed.
“And you were always drunk.”
“It is my failing, bwana!” he said.
“Worst of all, you ate my son’s rabbit.”
He was silent, remembering. “What a dinner that was.”
Weeping copiously now, Albert happily signed a letter admitting that I was a wonderful and tolerant employer and he an ungrateful, alcoholic employee. We then shared a glass of pre-Xmas wine, hugged each other and I never saw him again.
Lesson: Always keep things in writing when it comes to work, but be kind, firm and legal.
As for Hesbon, he worked two more years with me. “The next time you want sugar or rice,” I told him, “please ask me. I will steal it for you myself from my pantry.”
Here, viewed from there. C Y Gopinath, in Bangkok, throws unique light and shadows on Mumbai, the city that raised him. You can reach him at cygopi@gmail.com
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The views expressed in this column are the individual’s and don’t represent those of the paper.
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