Malawi 2004 - 2007

Alex The Watchman

Alex is a thin man. His slim frame wastes little in storing energy and gives the impression that he is taller than he is in reality. He is twenty one years old but looks older. He is a gentle, softly spoken youth with a knack of saying the right thing and quietly moving the boundaries you have set in order to meet his needs, but you can trust him with belongings.

Alex's story is a tale of a city boy's struggle to survive. The horizon of ambition ends at the frontier of hunger. A good day is one in which his stomach is full and there are a few kwatcha left for frivolous consumption. Life often conspires with Alex to turn even that hope into a distant dream.

In Africa, we do-gooders arrive with our own dreams and illusions of our beneficent virility. We can father new solutions, seduce people into change with promises of a brighter future, fight for their right to be like us. My relationship to Alex is the smelling salt that jolts the senses into a sharp perception of the reality of my place in this world.

The idea of V.S.O volunteering is that we work in a Malawian context. We live in local accommodation, and earn Malawian salaries. We are just like them, except that I still earn ten times as much as Alex, live in a mansion and drive a car. Because I own more than the clothes on my back, and have the means, I must and can protect what I have. Mr Newa says that in Kamuzu Banda's time no-one had to think about security. The avenging state, ensured sufficient fear to hold avarice in check. Now almost everyone would, if they could, choose to build a wall around their wealth, have metal grills at the windows and employ a guard. I have all of them. At first CEYCA shielded me from any implication in this process. They found a walled mansion and sent one of their watchmen to guard my property. Eventually this had to change and I had to face the responsibility of being an employer.

VSO actually pays the guard at a set rate of MK3,400 per month (£17 or $34 per month - just over $1 per day.). VSO advises those with a conscience to recognise the employment base in Malawi and accept that having even a poorly paid job is important to dispossessed people. It could be even worse. If Alex worked for Securicor he would be earning less than MK2,000 (£10) per month. It is no surprise when you meet someone with a sorry tale of house breaking, to be told that the culprit was the watchman.

So the first problem was how to find someone I could trust. Mr Chima had a man. He came for an interview. I told a man of my own age that I could not match his demand for MK4,500 (£22.50 per month).

" Then I have failed" he said sadly. "Please pray for me".

I took my anger out on Mr Chima.

" You knew the salary rate, why did you not tell him before he came?".

Alex was the next candidate. He shared a house with Kenny, a CEYCA watchman, who vouched for his honesty.

Alex arrived in his best clothes. An unlaundered shirt, creased cotton trousers and carpet-slipper-style flip-flops. He was too nervous to speak in English even though his English is good. He was desperate to get the job. He would have (and did) agreed to anything. We agreed a trial.

This began my relationship with Alex, which has turned out to be a mixture of employer, parent, and oppressor.

He arrived on the first night, at the appointed time in the same clothes. I had arranged that Jonny, a CEYCA watchman would work with him for the first two nights. This was a good move. Jonny was not an alien from a distant planet as I was. Jonny spoke Chichewa, occupied the same world, shared the same experiences. They spent an hour discussing the intricacies of the padlocks on the sliding gate before I left them to it and went to bed.

It troubled me that Alex was turning up in the same clothes each night. I had not even considered that the man applying for this low-paid job had no work clothes. Jonny had been self-sufficient and had new clothes. I went to the market and bought some jeans, a coat and some work sandals. At least he would be warm during nights which although comfortable to me are chilly to a man, used to being hot and with little fuel for the inner fire.

The next challenge to my slowly awakening sensibilities was the awareness of the unfairness of our employment situation. Watchmen are expected to work each night of the week, all year round. I listened to a programme on slavery in Benin. My employment of Alex was little different to the slave conditions that still exist in much of the impoverished world. This young man was totally dependent on my whim. He could never have a night off and had to catch his sleep in the day. How could he ever hope to develop a young man's life let alone find his way along the adult path to courtship and family life? This is the lot of most watchmen in Malawi. They risk attack and injury for $1 a day and a life consumed by work.

Here I was, a caring, sharing man, in Malawi to save the world and fight for the rights of the ordinary person, enslaving the person closest to my life. We negotiated a new contract. He now works on six nights, which means that he has two full days and a night at weekends. I also give him holiday breaks, and fringe benefits of occasional food and medical payments, but even though Alex is delighted with this un-hoped for generosity it is not a job you or I would care to accept.

The engaging side to this new arrangement was that the first pay-day allowed Alex to give reign to his youthful needs. Even without money Alex was bursting with a desire to enter the world of fashion. My purchase of a nice sensible green anorak was, of course, a parent's ill-judged purchase for adolescent taste. He resolved this crass stupidity by turning the coat inside out and wearing the tartan lining, washing instructions and all, on the outside. Now he could meet his new Pretakale chums outside the gate with pride. Within one week, he was asking me for an advance on next month's money.

" What have you spent the money on Alex?".

It was obvious what he had spent the money on. He had cropped his hair short. He had paid far too much money for plastic fashion shoes that have since fallen apart. He had bought clothes. Food was of far less importance than image. Later in the month he proudly told me that he was spending Saturday with his new girlfriend in Area 23.

If I had been completely lacking in awareness about the work conditions, I had been even more negligent in understanding his travel problems. I thought that Kenny, his house mate, lived close to CEYCA in Town. I questioned Alex one day on why he was consistently late.

" It is a long way to come."

" But it only takes 20 minutes from CEYCA to here"

" I do not live near CEYCA."

" Don't you live with Kenny?"

" Yes."

" Where is your house?"

" Likuni."

I was shocked. You may also be shocked that I didn't know his address. But addresses are pretty irrelevant in most people's lives. There are few street names, most people do not receive post and people are mobile. Individuals are recognised by their name not their plot address. So, my shock was caused by the fact that Likuni is seven kilometres outside Lilongwe. He has to walk or mini-bus to Lilongwe and then walk to my house. More than two hours travelling each day. Here I am moaning about his time-keeping when he uncomplainingly treks for an hour to keep his job. When I ask him in my do-gooder voice "Alex is there anything you are unhappy with in the way you are treated in your work?" Alex is genuinely pleased with his lot. When I ask if he would not prefer to look for work nearer home he is clear he would not.

We have tried several ways to resolve this. I offered to pay half the cost of a bicycle and loan him the rest to be paid off over along period. He rejected this - who wants to cycle when the rainy season is approaching? It finished with him finding a place round the corner in Pretakele. He wanted to pay MK500 (£2.50) per month but the best he could find was MK800 (£4). I offered to contribute to the rent to help make it possible. He would now bring his younger brother with him and care for him.

If life on a daily basis is a tribulation, then God (and Alex himself) has not helped his cause greatly on occasions. In the four months since he arrived he has managed to find a truck load of grief. One day I arrived home to find him sitting on the step. I launched into a stinging attack. He was told to get some jobs done that should have been done a week ago. He said little, but rose slowly. When I came out of the house half an hour later I went to talk to him. He turned round to reveal a livid cut on his head and lump out of his cheek. He had spent some of his new found wealth on demon booze and fallen from a bike. We applied ointment.

On another occasion he arrived at the gate 3 hours late. Again I attacked. He responded in Chichewa. He was upset and confused. His heart was pounding and I had to make a bed for him to sleep for much of the night.

The real capricious irony, however, lies in the area of security. I sit here behind Guantanamo fortifications endlessly talking with other azungos about the dangers of Lilongwe when it is Alex who really needs a guard.

Several weeks ago I arrived home to find Alex with a puffed cheek and closed eye. The story he told was that he had been followed from the mini-bus by three youths who had attacked him. Why? To try to steal his low quality shoes. This man with nothing but his clothes was the target of robbery. Some two months later he failed to show for work. I confronted him next day.

" Alex, I have just arranged to support you in a new house, paid your wages for the month and you fail to turn up for work, without explanation. Why?"

" Sorry, I had to attend a Funeral.".

Next morning Alex hovered by the door.

" What is it Alex".

" Can I tell you the truth?"

Alex had put his wages in his pocket. As he went through the market to buy some new shoes a bus boy had grabbed the money from his pocket and ran. Others surrounded him blocking his pursuit. Alex had lost the money for food for a month, and rent for the house he was due to occupy next Tuesday. He has nothing.

" What will you do?"

" At this moment I do not know what to do.".

Life is tough at the bottom in Malawi. It is enough to survive for most people.

Letala

Eventually, Alex's luck turned and he found a proper job in a workshop. I was delighted for him. Now he could at least sleep at night.

My next guard was Letala, a gentle soul who seemed to be in his 40s, a deeply Christian man with a wife and children. A more reliable, loyal and caring man it was hard to imagine.

I arranged that Letala could keep the back door open and sleep on a mattress in the kitchen when all was quiet. From his first wage packet he treated himself to some new shoes. After a few days I woke to find him uncharacteristically angry.

" Is there a problem Letala?"

" They have stolen my shoes. I left them outside"

Burglars Had scaled the tall wall and climbed down the paw paw tree. When I arrived home from work the paw paw tree was no more. He had taken his revenge on it to improve security.

Letala's loyalty was no better exhibited than on a night I spent away. On my arrival next morning I asked Letala how his night had been.

" There was a problem."

" What happened?"

" I heard banging on the wall at the back. Two men had brought a tree trunk and were trying to make a hole in the wall."

" what did you do?"

" I took that tool" He indicated a blue metal plumbing tool.

" and went outside and pretended that I had a gun."

" what did they do?"

" They ran away."

Letala stayed with me a long time and we built a close relationship. I wanted him to have more in his life than his uncomplaining low paid work. We agreed that he would like to learn tailoring. I bought him a sewing machine and his delighted tailor friend was paid to teach him sewing which allowed him to take on sewing jobs. He proudly made some cotton bags for me.

Letala stayed on with the next occupant of the house, but resigned because the Kenyan man offended his sense of Christian propriety. Last I heard he was back in his village as a full time tailor.

***************************