There is a Swahili proverb that says “Heshima si utumwa” which means that respect is not respect. My father taught me about respect in an unusual way.
I was admitted to the University of Nairobi in early September 1981. When I received the admission forms, I realized that I had to obtain the signature of a government official in my community. The official had to confirm that the admission forms were filled out and signed by the appropriate person. It was not a problem for me to get an officer because my father knew the magistrate.
After I filled out the forms, my father took me to the magistrate’s office. When he allowed me to enter his office, I led while my father followed. There were two seats across from the magistrate’s table. I took a seat after handing him my intake forms. My dad faced the magistrate, bowed to him, and then proceeded to sit down. We weren’t inside the courtroom, so I figured there was no need to bow.
The magistrate exchanged brief greetings with my father and went through my forms without looking at me or saying anything. After signing my forms, he handed them over to me, again without saying a word. I thanked him and got up to leave.
My father, who was sitting near the door, also stood up. But instead of leaving the office, he turned to me, grabbed me by the neck and twisted it around. I got the message. I had to bend over. He also bowed and we left the office. I was humiliated. I felt angry. He was asking me why I didn’t do it before they forced me to. BUT I LEARNED A VERY IMPORTANT LESSON.
Joe Marshall, the retired CEO/President of Idaho Power showed respect in a way that words cannot describe. Idaho Power hired me as a riparian ecologist in 1992 when Mr. Marshall was president. Just to put our positions into perspective, using a chain of command system, a message from any one of us would have to go through five steps.
However, out of curiosity and a desire to learn from my elders and leaders, something I have done over the years, I called Joe’s secretary and asked her to set up a lunch meeting with him. The next phone call was from Mr. Marshall himself asking if we could meet at the Red Lion-Downtown. In that lunch hour and later, I not only learned about his background, his relationship with his wife and children, but also how they cared for their sick parents on their sunset days.
When I completed the first draft of the East African Folktales book, I gave Mr. Marshall a copy to read and asked him to comment. Two weeks later, he went to the trouble of bringing it to me from his ninth-floor office to mine on the first floor.
Baffled by his presence in my disorganized office, Joe surprised me with his comfort level. He took a chair and spent a considerable amount of time encouraging me and appreciating my heritage. He mentioned that it took him longer to respond to me because he shared his folktales and morals with his children and his families. His last words as he left my messy office were, “Vincent, keep writing. There’s a lot we can learn from Africa.”