Culture Shock Snap-Shot: My Male Maid

I have a maid. His name is Silva (or is it Silver? Hard to say). He lives behind the patio in a stucco hut against the wall where the lizards and the rats run their night-time obstacle course. He wears white cut-off jeans that fall just below the knee, a button-down white shirt, and rubber galoshes. Sometimes he wears battered flip-flops. A white radio ear piece dangles from his right ear, reverberating a reggae beat . When I leave for work, he offers a gentle wave and wishes me “a good journey.” When I arrive home at the end of the day, he offers: “Welcome back” and a warm, smile-nod. On Saturday, he calls to me from my kitchen where he has already entered without knocking. Privacy does not rank high on the Ugandan values chart; shared space does.

“Hallo? Hallo? Madam?”

I stumble to the stucco arch-way in my boxer shorts and tank top, tripping on the tiny step at the foot of my room, and squinting at the glare from the sun. Silva sees that I am half asleep. “Good morning, Madam. You were still sleeping?” He hands me a pile of heavily starched and ironed laundry.

It’s 8am on a Saturday, and a male Ugandan maid has waltzed into my flat unannounced to hand me a pile of clean laundry.

“Are you staying home today, Madam?”
“For a little while.”
“May I wash the floor?”
“Yes, thank you.” I hear myself reply because I really have no choice.

Answering “Yes” feels uncomfortable and exploitive, but answering “No” suggests disrespect, dissatisfaction, a lack of appreciation. A “No” might even cost him his job, should the landlord think I am not pleased. In Uganda, this is just how it is: if you don’t live in the slums or out on the street, you have a maid. S/he comes with your flat and is included in the cost of rent, much like the sink and the burner. You have a maid whether you’re black or white—it’s not about race. You have one whether you live modestly or luxuriously—it’s not about class.

So, Silva washes my clothes, scrubs my shower, fixes the gas stove when it breaks, irons my shirts so I don’t get jiggers. When day breaks, he sweeps the patio speckled with flaky mosquito wings and sun-crunched mango leaves. When night falls, he does the same. He asks if there is anything special I would like.

I would like to do my laundry myself. I would like to offer you a cup of coffee. I would like you to be treated kindly by my landlord. I would like you to have a more dignified job. I would like to be your friend.

“No, Silva, I am just fine today. Thank you.”
“Have a nice day, Madam. Nice day and a good journey.”