A Gift

Gifts and giving have been on my mind this week.

Nairobi, Kenya, in the mid-1980s. I was working in the press office at a week-long international conference, one of about a dozen colleagues from Europe and the US, and staying in an upmarket hotel on the edge of town. Each of us in our group was allocated a car and a driver by the conference’s local organisers.

My driver’s name was Paul. It was his job to collect me in the car each morning from the hotel, take me to the conference centre and anywhere else I needed to go, to return me to the hotel at the end of the afternoon, and to be on call during the evenings.

On the first day we started to talk. He came across as softly spoken and friendly. I said that I had never been to Kenya before, I was going to have very little time off and I really wanted to see a bit of Nairobi – therefore would he mind taking different routes back to the hotel so I could see something of the city, if only from the car? He seemed surprised but agreed to do so.

So for the rest of the week Paul went the long way round when we headed back to the hotel. He showed me the city and the immediate surrounding area, the university and the buildings dating from the time of British colonial rule, and gave me a glimpse too of the wealthy suburbs and of the desperately poor shanty towns. He was a good guide, and he also told me a little about his life and his family. He hoped to be a writer and he had written a play for a local school to perform – he was working as a driver to earn a living.

At the end of the last full day I went out of my way to thank him and, as was the custom, gave him an appropriate tip - which I had been told to put on my expenses. We said our farewells.

The following morning my colleagues and I were packing up files in the hotel room that had been used as an office. Suddenly I saw Paul standing at the open door, holding a large brown paper bag.

He had bought me a present. Inside the bag was a decorative plate with a lion and giraffe motif round the edges. He told me he had enjoyed being my driver and he wanted to give me something to remind me of my time in Kenya. He had therefore been shopping.

I was almost speechless and tried inadequately to express my thanks. After a few minutes he left.

I kept that plate for years on the wall in my kitchen, and then sadly one day I dropped it and it was smashed. But whenever Kenya is mentioned, on the news or elsewhere, Paul always comes to mind.

It can be a powerful thing, to give. And to receive. Why else would I be blogging about this twenty years later?