Cyril

In Nairobi, most apartments and homes come equipped with an “SQ,” or servant’s quarters, that undoubtedly used to live up to that name, but now hold varied purposes. An SQ is usually a small apartment, but rarely are SQ’s bigger than a single small room. Some of the families and groups of singles that I know around town will use their SQ’s if they’re attached to the home as added space, others will have a friend or relative use the space as a kitchen-less apartment. Our house’s SQ is at the back of our compound, clustered together with the rest of Lampco Court’s SQ’s. Our friend, Cyril—whom I remember mentioning in an October entry because of the adorable entrance he made when we invited him to our mzungu Halloween party and he showed up with white goop all over his face for his costume—lives in our SQ. Our house has been passed around from one group of single WNS teachers to another over the past several years, and our landlady, Florence, has graciously taken wonderful care of us all, including Cyril.

Part of our relationship with Cyril (whom we call “Cyri”—“Sih-ree”) involves him coming to our house to fill up buckets with water from our first floor tap because his place doesn’t have running water. We usually chat for a bit and catch up on Cyril’s current job search or talk about his family back in the DRC. He’s a delightfully pleasant guy to have around, and we always enjoy his visits.

Last Sunday, as my roommate Jen was headed to Mombasa for her spring break trip, she left Becca and me with special directions for when Cyril would next arrive. We were planning to pass off our rent and utilities money to him when he came over for water so he could take it to town for us, and Jen had neatly and carefully organized and labeled each of the envelopes. But before she left, she handed us a sealed envelope with a hand-written note on the front as well. The envelope, she told us, contained a monetary gift from one of her former roommates, who apparently had contacted Jen to let her know that she’d felt God leading her to extend a gift to Cyril. The note on the front was for Cyril to read, but the donor wished to remain anonymous, hoping that Cyril would thank the Lord for his provision and blessing instead of her.

When Cyril arrived that night, Becca and I greeted him at the door and got him started on filling his water buckets. After we handed over our bills, we told Cyril about the special envelope that was for him. He looked surprised at first—and this perplexed furrow appeared between his dark eyes as he held the envelope in his hands. He then read the note on the front aloud. “The person who has given you this envelope does not want you to know who they are, but felt that the Lord was leading them to give you this gift and knows that you will use it well. Please pray about how to spend this money. God bless you, Cyril.”

As he finished reading the note, he looked up into Becca’s and my faces with an expression of complete incredulity and wonder. He looked back down at the envelope, clutching it carefully as if its contents would disintegrate should he handle it less than delicately, and read it aloud again. And again. On one read, he placed the emphasis on the first sentence. On another, he stressed the request to pray about how he would spend the gift. Then over and over again, he repeated the line, “God bless you, Cyril…God bless you, Cyril.” He smiled broadly and sucked in a deep breath, pointing at his envelope and deciding, “You know, this is a challenge. This will be a challenge to me.” I looked over at Becca, standing in the doorway of our kitchen with a tear resting in my eye, overwhelmed by Cyril’s expressions of gratitude and amazement at someone’s extension of kindness. I believe no one could have been a more gracious recipient of a loving gesture than Cyril was in that moment.

Finally, Cyril gave one last sigh of encouraged happiness, and went to work filling his buckets again. Becca had made a pie, so as the water ran, we all sat down together to enjoy a piece. Cyril remarked that he would fit in well in America, because over the years of living alongside American girls, he’d grown to appreciate our sweets (and it is true that we Westerners have some powerful sweet teeth). When we’d finished, Becca and I offered to help Cyril carry back his buckets to his home. I didn’t realize how heavy and awkward they were until I’d splashed water all over the compound yard, but Cyril seemed happy with the company and the offer of help all the same. He lead us through the back gate to the line of SQ’s and proceeded to give Becca and I our first tour of his place. We walked down a narrow path to the very last door—Cyril’s.

After snapping on the light, Cyril proceeded to proudly introduce us to each of his pieces of furniture and other odd possessions. The room was neat—in one corner stood a gas cook top stove, next to that, a desk and small television. In the opposite corner stood his bed (Cyril had just told us over our pie about how much he loves his bed and sleep), and a small dresser was wedged in the last corner. Some obviously second-hand decorations were hung on the walls and were neatly placed on the coffee table and desk (I say “obviously” because of the prominence of roses and other feminine objects as strong thematic presences), and Becca and I spied a particularly ironic placement of Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio embracing lovingly above an image of the Titanic in a poster above Cyril’s dresser. We smiled about that later.

But perhaps the most striking feature of Cyril’s home was its size. His entire home was smaller than the bedroom I occupy in our house in the same compound. Maybe 7’ by 10’ total. But this man was so proud of his home. So eager to show off his things and tell us about how he prepares dinner and how he watches his TV from his bed or from his desk, and how he moves his coffee table when he has company to create a dining space. The tiny public washroom and showers. The neighbors with small children living in the same sized rooms. The passing back and forth to retrieve water from our, in comparison, absolutely grotesquely massive home. None of it appeared to bother him at all. Nothing seems able to shake Cyril’s sense of contentment and blessing. “God loves me too much,” he said.

“I will call you sometime soon,” he smiled as we headed back home, “And I will have you for some dinner, okay? I love to have you over to my home. You will come soon.”

And we agreed.