Topping up The Condom Jar

One of the privileges I experienced working as a janitor was the free access I had to the ladies wash-room. I could walk in at any time in my official capacity as the cleaner. Our office had several wash-rooms set aside specifically for our lady colleagues – one in each wing. The ladies toilets were identical to the gent’s toilets apart from the presence of the discreet sanitary disposal units. There was one of the toilets though, which had an extra unique feature. It had a large clear glass jar in one corner on the floor. It looked like the kind of jar that is normally used to store cookies. This jar however, did not contain cookies. It had something more important than cookies. It was full of condoms – At least it was when I started working there as a janitor.

The condom jar became a bench mark for cleanliness in the office. My supervisor would pick it up and scrutinize it while looking for any signs of dust or stains. She would seemingly ignore the contents, much to my disappointment. I was so curious about that jar. It portended so many unanswered questions like; who came up with the ingenious idea? Or who brought the jar and stocked it up? And who among my colleagues were the beneficiaries of the contents? These were the questions that passed through my mind every morning as I held it against the light and carefully wiped it clean. During my first few weeks of work at that office, I concluded that nobody picked condoms from the jar. I continued with my daily ritual of cleaning and observing the jar and its contents. After some time I noticed something very strange. The level of condoms in the jar was going down slowly but very surely.

From the day I discovered that the condoms were actually being used up, I couldn't help but view the ladies in our office differently. Every time I saw one walk into the wash-room, I would wonder whether she was going to answer a call of nature or of the hormones. It’s painful that I will never know. At least I now know why many ladies carried their handbags to the wash-room and left with a smile.

Our office had an interesting culture. When people reported to the office in the morning, they would head straight to the kitchen to get their tea and bread (we used to “convert” one packet of milk into bread but it would still appear as milk in the books of accounts). Since almost everyone would be in the kitchen at the same time, some informal discussions would take place and it was often said that the most important decisions were made there. The office chatterboxes would have a field day in the kitchen and their discussion group was eventually christened ‘The Kitchen Cabinet’.   

It was during one kitchen cabinet session that I jokingly talked about the condom jar in the ladies wash room and the ‘dangerously’ low level it had reached. Many members of the kitchen cabinet were in senior management and I hoped that one of them would use his ‘influence’ to get us replenishment – hopefully for free. When I talked about the jar, I thought it would be news to the men. I was surprised to hear almost every man in the kitchen cabinet describe that jar in impeccable detail. I didn't expect them to have seen it. I was the only man allowed in the ladies wash-room so I wondered how and when they had not only seen it, but also scrutinized it closely.

Needless to say, that kitchen cabinet session ended in typical chauvinistic laughter, and no solution was arrived at to address the dwindling supply of an apparently essential commodity. I never got to satisfy my curiosity as to who among our modest colleagues were the consumers of the commodity – maybe it was the ‘unusually’ informed male members of the kitchen cabinet, or both men and women. Anyhow, all the condoms got used up and eventually even the jar disappeared. I guess one of the ladies thought it would make a nice cookie jar for her children.

Unceremoniously Locking Myself Out

On the second day at my new work place, I planned to be more organized. I passed by the kiosk on my way to the office and collected the milk. I had timed the milk boiling duration the previous day and realized that eight packets of milk took exactly fifteen minutes to boil. I set the big sufuria (pot) full of milk on the stove and put it on. The fifteen minutes were just enough to clean the ladies and gents toilets, and vacuum the reception which had a wall to wall carpet. After putting the milk in the flasks, I now had adequate time to clean three offices whose occupants usually arrived early. After about an hour of frantic work, I was ready to face the day.

When everyone had settled down for the day, I was looking forward to the main work in my job description – Driving. My then supervisor had a lot of work for me. I was to deliver some letters to all embassies and foreign missions in Nairobi. Those were a lot of letters. I however didn't have a problem in locating the places owing to my long experience as a cab driver. I arranged the letters according to route and wrote them down in that order in the delivery book in which each one of them had to be signed for. I set off with my “newly” assigned car which was an old Isuzu trooper.

With the zeal of a recently released prisoner, I got down to work and in three hours, I had delivered more than half of all the letters. I was on a roll when I went to deliver the letter for the Swedish embassy. The embassy was, and I believe still is, located in Lion place on Waiyaki way. I remember parking in the squeezed parking lot and the security guards telling me to be out in a hurry or find my car clamped. I assured them I wouldn't be long, banged the car door shut, and rushed to the lift just as the door was closing. As promised, it didn't take me long to deliver the letter and have the secretary sign my book.

Back downstairs, the impatient guards were waiting for me. They were suggesting that I give them “something small” for letting me park at the “executive” lot. Much as I would have wanted to be generous, I was not in a position to do so. The only money I had in my pocket was bus fare for going home in the evening. I politely brushed them off as I reached into my pocket for the car keys. I got that sunken feeling when I realized I didn't have them. As I tried to recall where I could have dropped the keys, I saw them. They were “safely” inserted in the ignition. That was the one place where they could never get lost. What to do now was the question. I was stuck.

When one is in any dilemma in Nairobi, people are always willing to help – at a small fee. In a few minutes, every security guard within a hundred meter radius was there to “help”. I knew I could not afford the help and yet I needed assistance. Problems do not come singly and that day was no exception. My boss called. I was needed in the office urgently and so I was supposed to drop what I was doing and head back. I tried to convince her that that was not going to be possible but when she insisted, I had to tell her the truth. She was not amused. She asked me to report on any progress with my problem.

With the office sorted out, I could now focus on the job at hand. I looked for the kindest looking guard in the big mob that had surrounded me and my car. When I saw one, I pulled him aside and asked him if he could help me with a wire hanger. He went to his small cubicle and unhooked the hanger on which he had hung his coat. I took the hanger, unclasped the coiled end, and used it to unlock the car. I was grateful to the guard and also to my time working in a garage where one of the skills I learnt was to unlock car doors with a wire.