Many earn below Government's recommended Sh14,421

Security Guards match on during Labour Day celebrations at Uhuru Park (PHOTO MOSES OMUSULA)

“It is the human being that counts; I call upon gold, it answers not; I call upon cloth, it answer not; it is the human being that counts,” goes an old African saying.

We place our lives in their hands, then close our eyes and fall sleep in peace inside our posh homes. But at the same time, we close our eyes to their predicaments.

The value of the African heritage, which portrays humanity and appreciation of people around you, is illuminated through a simple word of greeting. But this remains a matter of wishful thinking for some security guards working in the city.

“We communicate through honks and flashing headlights. My boss does not lower the car windows when she passes,” says Charles Nyakundi, a security guard in Kilimani.

“My greetings would fall on deaf ears. But that is not important any more. She is my boss and I have mastered her voice since I occasionally hear her screaming orders around.”

The security guards in upmarket communities have continued to languish in deplorable working environments as they struggle to eke out a living. We meet Robert Walunge, who works in a gated estate in Kilimani. He is seated on a concrete slab outside the entrance.

Tough life

His sunken eyes and cracked lips depict the plight of security guards pushed by circumstances to provide services beyond their capabilities.

“I sit here every day of the week, watching over people who see me as a machine wired to open and close the gate with a smile, and interrogate strangers coming in,” says Mr Walunge.

“A machine is, however, serviced every once in a while. I on the other hand live without hope and in my head, tomorrow is just another yesterday packaged in a different wrapper,” he adds.

The 46-year-old man who guards a compound of 11 three-bedroom maisonettes off Kirichwa Road says there is even no toilet designated for the guards.

Walunge, who works alone during the day before two of his colleagues take over for the night shift, is forced to use the servant quarters toilets, located at the furthest end of the large compound.

“We do not have toilets so we use the ones at the servant quarters at the far end of the compound,” he says.

Walunge says a trip to the toilet and back can take at least five minutes when one rushes there, finds the toilet unoccupied, uses it and leave immediately. This, however, is rarely the case, and the tenants do not take absence from the duty station well.

“Only yesterday, my supervisor called to say the residents had complained that I leave my work station unattended for up to 10 minutes sometimes. But what could I do? I had a stomach upset and had to use the toilet.”

Walunge says the two toilets in the servant quarters are often occupied as they double up as bathrooms for the domestic workers. And because the toilets are not connected to a water supply pipe, the security guard says he fetches water from a drain outside the gate, using a container he carries from home, to flush the toilet.

“This poses another challenge because you can’t rush to the toilet hoping to finish quickly and get back to work. So for short calls, we are forced to find alternatives,” he narrates.

Short calls

These alternatives often end up lengthening the time taken for short calls. Walunge has to keep looking around to make sure no one is in sight. Stranger or tenant, both can be equally dangerous.

“A stranger could be someone from the city council. If he catches you urinating outside, he will arrest you and demand a bribe of at least Sh500 to release you,” he explains.

To avoid getting caught by the city askari who sometime hover around the estates, Walunge goes to the guardhouse for the short calls. But the pungent smell left behind ruins the atmosphere.

“Sometimes, we go for short calls behind our shed but the smell afterwards cannot allow us to sit inside. The residents also complain a lot when they see you urinating inside the compound."

Walunge uses a spot situated between two walls outside the compound he guards, with the ever-present fear of city enforcement officers hanging over his head. But he says this is better than a regular confrontation with the tenants.

“I have to be extra careful to make sure there is no one around when I commit this necessary crime. After all, this is a call of nature I must respond to, with or without dignity,” he says.

Walunge is only one among many security guards suffering in silence. In a nearby estate, grey-haired Patrick Mageto welcomes us to his shelter at the entrance of another gated compound.

Mr Mageto’s shelter has a flushable toilet and a changing room, a luxury he says he willingly shares with his colleagues who work in the area.

Daniel Chepkwony arrives shortly after us and goes straight to the toilet before he greets us, confirming Mageto’s kindness.

“Daniel and the other watchmen around here come to use this toilet and I cannot stop them because I understand their plight,” says Mageto.

The 59-year-old watchman narrates how he once relieved himself in his pants after hours of holding it in because of a "busy" day.

“My former boss in Lavington had guests on this day and cars were driving in and out of the compound," he recalls.

“I tried to get permission to go to the neighbour’s compound, which had a toilet for the watchman, but my boss asked me to hold it until all the guests were inside. And then they continued to stream in and out."

Mageto says he finally asked his boss if he could use the toilet inside the main house, but he refused.

“When I could not hold it any longer, I let go. I didn’t last another day there. He wrote to my company and I was asked not to report back,” he explains, the past still visible on his face.

Weak bladder

Mageto also suspects his weak bladder has something to do with having to control for long periods the urge to go to the toilet because of the nature of his job.

“I work 12 hours a day, 365 days a year for a mere Sh10,000 basic monthly salary before any deductions are made. I earn just enough to make sure I am here tomorrow; I stay on and suffer in silence because I need the money to survive,” he said.

His friend Daniel refuses to speak to us, saying he needs to return to work urgently.

Samuel Owino is another guard. He works in Karen and shares a toilet with the caretaker and cleaners of the apartment complex that houses more than 40 families.

“Toilets are not a major issue for me because my colleagues hold brief for me when I need to go. However, we do not have drinking water. Woe unto me when I forget to carry my water bottle as that day will pass without a sip going down my throat,” he explains.

What Mr Owino considers a "woe" is that which is known to him. What he doesn’t know however, is that he is a security guard only by the uniform he wears every day.

“I signed a contract but they (company) kept all the copies. All they asked for was my bank account where they send Sh8,000 every month,” he says.

Owino adds that he has not received a payslip since he began working for the company seven months ago.