On Monday, I woke up at 5am to ready myself for the 7am meeting with the board members.

Working for a white man means you abandon all African stereotypes about time. All the excuses of traffic, parking and rain do not count. One has to plan earlier and make sure such obstacles get out of the way. I hoped and prayed the tyre I had bought the previous day was not going to be flat.

By 5:50am, I was getting out of the house. I knew I would drive for only 20 minutes. I would also organize my report and put everything right for the meeting.

A flat tyre! Again! This was becoming unbearable. I had bought all the four in the past two weeks. I believe something is wrong, not with the tyres, but my neighbours. The guy at the fuel station tells me the tyres do not have a hole or anything like that. It is the valves. Someone must know how to manipulate the valves.

I undressed very fast and started on changing to a spare tyre. By the time I finished, I was sweating and dirty. I went back to the bathroom for a quick shower and off to office. I lost thirty minutes. This affected my presentation.

Consequently, last night I went on a mission to establish what was flattening my tyres. After supper, I went out to buy milk.

“Askari, I have to buy milk for the children from the supermarket. I will be back in a few minutes,” I told my security guard.
“Okay, Madam. I will be waiting for you,” he replied.

I came back and said good night to him, entered the house, switched off the lights and asked the maid to lock the back door. My husband was hesitant, but I did what I had to.

There are three houses in the compound and we have one gate; hence, one askari. I tiptoed into my car and slept in the back seat. I wanted to see the cat or rat that was eating my valves, or a human being playing with my car.

By 1am, I was sleepy. Surely, I dozed off. In my beautiful sweet sleep, I heard a sound of a hissing pressure cooker. I thought I was in the house and tried to get off my bed to go and check the kitchen.

Then I remembered I was on a mission. I pulled my body slowly and looked through the tinted glass. I saw the askari bent down on my car, holding something and my tyre was gently going flat. I opened the door and called my husband. I was also asking the askari what his reason was for doing this to me.

“I am sorry, Mama Fifi. Please, forgive me,” was all the askari could say.
“Only if you tell me why you are doing this, will I forgive you,” I told him.
“Forgive, Mama Fifi! I am just a poor man. Forgive,” he pleaded.

“So, a poor man will deflate someone’s tyres and that will make him feel good? I pay you on time and serve you supper every evening because besides guarding the houses, you guard my car. I always give you a ka 2k for your umkhomboti. Why did you do this to me?” I was in rage.

“Leave him. Forgive him,” my husband said.
“Oh! Yes. I will forgive him. But I will have to get to the root of this,” I said, pulling out my phone to call Great Guard Services.
“Hello Great Guard Services. Your employee…”

“Madam, please spare my job. It is your husband who asked me to deflate your tyres. He gives me Shs 2,000 every time I deflate one of your tyres,” askari said, kneeling. “Forgive me, Madam. Papa Fifi please help me and tell the truth.”

I am in office now, but still looking for a way of handling this when I get back home.