The Watchman Syndrome

Guard, custodian, watchman, or security are all the names used to describe an international profession. Where I'm from we call them wochi. Only recently did I become aware of what I have termed the wochi complex.

I always wondered why Watchmen made it so hard to get through. The begging showed up as small talk and a forced laugh with the slip-in of the word boss tafadhali translation boss please. If he’s in an extra spicy mood that day the boss tafadhali would be followed by a smile. Who can resist a pretty girl and a few emasculating words? This recipe was not always sufficient when I encountered a woman. This was a whole other ball game.

I would like to tell you I have cracked the code on the female wochi but I haven't its more of touch and go in their case. A smile won't work with her, you need to beg and take everything she says in stride. I was once at the gate of a university eager to apply and even more eager to receive my rejection as I was no stranger to my grades.

This institution was known for upholding a strict dress code, no well-fitting trousers or skirts above the knee. On this day, I wore my trusted oversized leather jacket and loosely fitted pants. I thought I looked good and was per the rules but the guard at gate B saw the reincarnation of Jezebel and felt she could not stay silent.

She stopped me and gasped up down up down her glance traveled and so did my discomfort and anger. Unava nini wewe? That is the Swahili version of What in God's good name do you think you wearing? I was silent as I knew it was a rhetorical question not to be answered or defended but to be heard. And the backdrop of what would be a 30-minute lecture.

As actual students passed, she held me to the side, and like the multitasking queen she was she found time to check bags, continue her questioning, and bunter with the male guard about my scandalous trousers.

In 30 minutes, she managed to embarrass me as her increased volume attracted a group of students who were bored enough to be interested in the drama. She also managed to sprinkle in bits about her youth and the location of a good shop to get ‘God-fearing trousers’ her words exactly.

I swallowed my pride and said ‘Asante sana madam your advice helped me pole for making your job hard.’ I lowered my gaze as I said, ‘Please forgive me.’ The cherry on top to sweeten the deal.

I walked away with tears lining my waterline and a bowed head. That experience made me sad because it was something I was used to. On my ride back home, I reflected on why I was no stranger to the alchemy I had just pulled in front of that guard, and just like the unmarked speed bump on Wayaki Way it hit me. I had always been surrounded by the watchman syndrome it just showed up in a different uniform it showed up in friends, classmates, and the most commonly in my father.

It was a painful realization but one I had always known. My entire life was filled with instances and people who could only thrive once I was small enough for them to feel large. My indoctrination began from my childhood with my father's hot and very cold temper and by the age of 12, I was well versed in it. I could tell his mood from the way he opened the door, and I transformed myself to meet him in the middle. I couldn’t be too happy when he was mad, or I would be plagued with questions or dirty looks. I started with hiding my joy then I didn’t have to hide it anymore I traded it for anxiety and a killer sense of humor.

What started as an expected thing at the entrance of most buildings turned into a voiced realization and an even stronger intuition. I however don’t blame watchmen I realize that they guard fiercely something they hold dear as I now do too which is my heart. My greatest talent now is realizing this disease and moving as far from it as I can I warrant you to do the same my reader there is no size small enough for someone who wishes to hurt you.