Samuel Sleeping
Samuel is the guard at the Ruprah's gate. He works from early evening to about 6:30am when George takes over. George doesn't speak English very well and he refrains from communicating with me but I continue to speak to him every time I pass through the gate. One morning as I head to the gate, George isn't around. As I'm looking for him, I pass the small guard shack and there he is, supposedly hidden, urinating. I try not to react because I've seen plenty of men urinating in public since being in this country and have told myself not to be bothered by it. So I'm not bothered to catch George, just interested to see he's not circumcised.
Samuel's English is good enough that we can communicate if I talk slowly. He's so kind and thin and strong. When he sits by the gate and reads his newspaper, he'll push his glasses onto his forehead when interrupted. He wears a black and white print loose-fitting shirt, frayed at the collar and wrists. One Saturday when I arrive home, he's wearing a yellow dress shirt with tie and looks very sharp. When I tell him how nice he looks, he becomes bashful and says it's his holy day as a Seventh Day Adventist and he spent the day visiting people. It begins to rain. Within the hour, Samuel shows up at my door, speaking through the open window, “ex-cuuuuuse me, sorry to disturb,” and I say it's no disturbance and open the door. He's moist from the rain and cold, his yellow dress shirt damp, and he asks if I have two or three matches to build a fire. I give him an entire box of matches and he puts both hands together, bows his head and touching his hands to his forehead in a sign of respect.
The other night, about 3am, I hear water pouring off the back roof of my little house and worry the tank above might have a leak. I slip into my plastic sandals, grab the headlamp and walk out to Samuel's guard shack. The tiny shelter is about four feet by four feet with a doorless opening. Small pieces of wood sit on the walkway to the shack and inside, on the floor, sits a metal bowl full of burning embers, heating up the space on this cool night.
Samuel is in a wooden chair facing the center of the space. He leans to the back of the shack, his head propped up on the styrofoam block from my coffee maker box. I used the box as a trashcan when I first moved in and left the styrofoam pieces inside. The bottom became soggy and unstable, so I put the box in the trash. But I see the box against the back wall and see Samuel curled up, his knees to his chest as his feet dangle dangerously close to the embers. He is sleeping soundly.
A pair of athletic socks cover his hands and arms, keeping mosquito bites away. He wears a lightweight, black jacket with the hood secured so tightly around his head it shields part of his face from mosquitoes. I lean in and whisper, “Samuel.” Nothing. I touch his arm and say, “Samuel.” Nothing. I shake his arm and say a little loudly, “Samuel,” and he opens his eyes, then jumps to right himself. “Yes?” he says coming out of sleep. “So, so sorry to bother you,” I say. I tell him about the water running from the back of the house and he says it's because the tank on the roof is full from the rain. It's not a problem, he says, don't worry. I cannot apologize enough for waking him.
Last night, I arrive home at 8pm just as it begins to rain. Samuel is on the Ruprah's veranda and runs through the rain to let me in. He's wearing a white dress shirt and a double-breasted black suit. “Oh My, Samuel,” I exclaim as we shake hands, “You look so handsome this evening.” He becomes bashful as usual, smiling and looking down at the ground as he locks the gate. It's Saturday, his holy day, and he's been visiting. “Stay dry, Samuel, and stay warm,” I tell him. I enter my little house followed closely by sounds of Samuel chopping wood and dropping it into his metal bowl.
Samuel's English is good enough that we can communicate if I talk slowly. He's so kind and thin and strong. When he sits by the gate and reads his newspaper, he'll push his glasses onto his forehead when interrupted. He wears a black and white print loose-fitting shirt, frayed at the collar and wrists. One Saturday when I arrive home, he's wearing a yellow dress shirt with tie and looks very sharp. When I tell him how nice he looks, he becomes bashful and says it's his holy day as a Seventh Day Adventist and he spent the day visiting people. It begins to rain. Within the hour, Samuel shows up at my door, speaking through the open window, “ex-cuuuuuse me, sorry to disturb,” and I say it's no disturbance and open the door. He's moist from the rain and cold, his yellow dress shirt damp, and he asks if I have two or three matches to build a fire. I give him an entire box of matches and he puts both hands together, bows his head and touching his hands to his forehead in a sign of respect.
The other night, about 3am, I hear water pouring off the back roof of my little house and worry the tank above might have a leak. I slip into my plastic sandals, grab the headlamp and walk out to Samuel's guard shack. The tiny shelter is about four feet by four feet with a doorless opening. Small pieces of wood sit on the walkway to the shack and inside, on the floor, sits a metal bowl full of burning embers, heating up the space on this cool night.
Samuel is in a wooden chair facing the center of the space. He leans to the back of the shack, his head propped up on the styrofoam block from my coffee maker box. I used the box as a trashcan when I first moved in and left the styrofoam pieces inside. The bottom became soggy and unstable, so I put the box in the trash. But I see the box against the back wall and see Samuel curled up, his knees to his chest as his feet dangle dangerously close to the embers. He is sleeping soundly.
A pair of athletic socks cover his hands and arms, keeping mosquito bites away. He wears a lightweight, black jacket with the hood secured so tightly around his head it shields part of his face from mosquitoes. I lean in and whisper, “Samuel.” Nothing. I touch his arm and say, “Samuel.” Nothing. I shake his arm and say a little loudly, “Samuel,” and he opens his eyes, then jumps to right himself. “Yes?” he says coming out of sleep. “So, so sorry to bother you,” I say. I tell him about the water running from the back of the house and he says it's because the tank on the roof is full from the rain. It's not a problem, he says, don't worry. I cannot apologize enough for waking him.
Last night, I arrive home at 8pm just as it begins to rain. Samuel is on the Ruprah's veranda and runs through the rain to let me in. He's wearing a white dress shirt and a double-breasted black suit. “Oh My, Samuel,” I exclaim as we shake hands, “You look so handsome this evening.” He becomes bashful as usual, smiling and looking down at the ground as he locks the gate. It's Saturday, his holy day, and he's been visiting. “Stay dry, Samuel, and stay warm,” I tell him. I enter my little house followed closely by sounds of Samuel chopping wood and dropping it into his metal bowl.
posted by Cindi at 4:31 AM
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