Felix
Jay Silverman
When I arrived to teach in Cameroon, other Americans told me I'd need a "houseboy." I pictured myself in a white suit and Panama hat being served gin and tonic on the veranda. The image embarrassed me: I preferred blue jeans and beer. I told myself I'd find a laundromat, cook for myself, and clean my own apartment.
Two weeks in the capital, Yaoundé, changed my mind. It was October. Dry season had just ended, leaving every surface of my apartment deep in red dust. Rainy season had begun, and my entrance became a long smear of mud. If I stepped out into the street, even for a minute, my pants legs were speckled red-brown. Dirty clothes piled up. There was no laundromat. I ironed my first shirt and counted out the pairs of socks still clean.
The city had one supermarket, downtown. It would be weeks, maybe months, until the car I'd ordered would arrive. Three blocks from my apartment I found a sort of 7—11 and lugged home my first cartons of supplies. For fresh food, I'd have to explore the open market half a mile away. So when a friend told me that a foreign-aid official named Green was leaving Cameroon and looking for someone to hire his "boy," I called him and planned to meet that same afternoon.
