My Friend Douglas

Douglas is the security guard/yard boy for the house across the lane from where I live. He is 32 years-old and works from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m., seven days a week, except for those Sundays where he is given the afternoon off so that he can go to church. I don’t know what he earns, but I understand that such a job would be paid around $75 per month.

Douglas greets me when I’m going to work or returning home and is always in good spirits. He comes to the gate and we talk about the weather, my work, or I practice a few words of kiswahili. I haven’t even met the English couple who employs him. In the early days he would wish me a good day at work and tell me he loved me. I know he was speaking in his third language and that he didn’t mean it “that way,” but I never did get comfortable with it. Somehow he must have sensed this because I haven’t heard him say it for quite a while.

I don’t have too many things to unload before I depart from Kisumu, but one item that I’ve already given to Douglas is my bicycle (only ridden twice). I told him that he could sell it if he wanted, but he said that he would not sell a gift and that he wanted to keep it to remember me by. I didn’t offer him my ghetto blaster because I know that he doesn’t have electricity where he lives.

It didn’t occur to me to ask, but it turned out that Douglas didn’t know how to ride a bike. However, he proudly told me a few days ago that he had spent the previous Sunday afternoon (presumably after church) being taught by a friend and now he can ride with no problem. He is very pleased with the bike and most appreciative. I’m happy to have given it to him, but the best part to me is that he didn’t say he loved me.