My Boss Saved Me From Living On The Street — 'There's More To Being A Leader Than Just Paying Wages'
Instead of judging or shunning me, my boss gave me a place to lay my head.
Rana Sawalha | Pexels “Is that all you can give?” I sighed as the fisherman tossed me a fish.
“Oh, Peter, what do you want, boy? All my fish?”
Jean Claud had been giving me leftovers for days in return for some donkey work, like cleaning his boat, scaling fish, which I was terrible at, and carrying the catch of the day to his van. He didn’t need me, but about a week before, he had noticed me lingering around the port. When I first set eyes on the beautiful city of Saint Pierre, Reunion, I never thought I’d be homeless after a couple of weeks and begging a Creole man for fish.
“Jean, it’s not scaled,” I complained some more as the orange sun set over the Indian Ocean.
“Peter, take it to Luc in La Salle Gross. He’ll cook it for you,” Jean said as he puffed on a rolled cigarette — his silver hair sparkling in the evening sun.
“Same time tomorrow?” I asked, hoping for more work but also not wanting to push my luck.
“Qui, Peter. Same time.”
I turned my back on the port and made my way to my home — a towel on a beach next to a rock.
In January 2011, I arrived on Reunion Island on a one-way ticket with no money and the promise of a job. It didn’t work out.
After a few weeks, it became clear that I could not afford to stay in the apartment. So, I took my money and decided to live on the beach.
It wasn’t a horrible experience, but looking back on it now, as a 36-year-old man, I believe it was a traumatic experience. I’ve worn these memories like a badge of honor, but no one knows how it went down. Not even my family.
I lost a lot of weight and spent my time cleaning Jean’s boat in exchange for fish, cigarettes, and petty cash. All the while, I was sending my CV to every language school I could find. I knew there was only one way off that beach and that was to find a job.
The memories of Reunion Island are unsettling, filled with odd encounters, and questionable characters, but amidst the salty sea, volcanic ash, and bull sharks there was a boss, my first boss.
Marek Piwnicki | Pexels
There are no words that can fully help us comprehend the majesty of this earth, especially at daybreak. Sleeping upon a towel, next to the rocks, and always waking up around two am shivering was never fun but when that first ray of morning sun kissed my skin the trauma of the night before always vanished.
Smartly, I had decided to set up camp by the cafes and the public showers. Luckily, no one had tried to move me on. It was the third week on the beach, and after a quick swim, I made sure to shower and fix my hair before sitting down in the cafe so I could send as many emails as possible.
On one such day, my friend from America, Nate, texted me about a job opportunity at a local language school. The owner's husband was his friend and Nate had told him that I was looking for a job. Nate didn’t mention my living situation because he didn’t know.
Nobody knew. I had told my friends after leaving the damn expensive apartment that I had found a room in the city center. They believed it, I think. I’m not sure they cared.
I was just another wannabe hippy in the hippy kingdom of love, peace, sex, and goodwill. I had seen guys like me drop off the map like flies. I didn’t care, nor did I miss them. Why would anybody miss me?
For a few weeks at least, while I still had money and an apartment, I was living the lost boy’s dream but no matter how idealistic we try to be, one must come to the sobering realization eventually that even this Island utopia ran on money.
And I had none of that. I emailed the school, knowing that if I ever wanted to see home again, I’d have to nail the interview.
I wasn’t a complete waster, and my goal had never been to end up on a beach scaling fish for petty cash. I had some education under my belt and had even gotten teaching certificates in preparation for the phantom job that was promised to me when I booked that damn one-way ticket. I felt I had enough in my tank to land the job.
As I walked up the street of Les Bon Enfants, I began to sweat. It was midday and the Island's Summer was harsh around this time.
My sandals were barely keeping my toes in place, and as I approached the school, a terrifying realization hit me like a ton of worms. Slippery, scary, and invading every crevasse of my confidence.
‘I look terrible,’ I thought to myself when I glanced at my reflection in a car’s mirror. I was carrying my backpack and my dirty pillow under my arms. I did not look professional.
Across from the school, I saw a dumpster. I ran over and hid my bag and trusted pillow behind it then spent the next five minutes tucking in my one good white shirt and fixing my hair. When I was ready, I made my way to the school.
“You must be Peter,” A beautifully enthusiastic voice said. It was the owner. She was petite, beautiful, and had the most stunning afro. Her dress was flowing, colorful, and vibed with the island. Her accent was one of those sweet English ones and already I was at ease.
I introduced myself and soon we were drinking tea, talking about her school and the methodologies she used to help her students. I tried to say as little as possible but I did nod in agreement at every beautiful word she uttered.
Her name was Dani, and she was from Kenya and educated in England. We hit it off. After an hour of chit-chat, she offered me ten hours a week teaching her adult learners which I accepted. We shook hands, and I left. I was to start next week.
As I walked out of her school, which was a repurposed villa I felt a wave of pride and excitement. I had spent the previous month asking friends for help and money off fishermen but now I didn’t have to thanks to Nate and Dani. I grabbed my dirty pillow and bag from behind the dumpster and made my way back to the beach.
PeopleImages.com – Yuri A | Shutterstock
After two weeks of working in Dani’s delightful school, it became clear that I still would not be able to afford rent. I didn’t even know where to look. I was trapped in a lie.
I had told those closest to me that I had found a place weeks ago, and I wasn’t the best at confessing my lies. Keeping up the act of a man with his life together at an educational institution was becoming difficult and exhausting.
My pillow was long gone, and after a rainstorm, my laptop ceased to function. All I had was my pre-smartphone phone and Dani’s school. I had managed to keep clean using the public showers by the beach, but my one good white shirt was losing its freshness, and my beard and hair had grown long.
“Is everything Ok, Peter?” Dani asked as we tidied up after the lessons.
“Yeah, great,” I replied with faux enthusiasm, trying to hide my exhaustion.
“OK,” She said before giving me another look from the side of her eyes.
“Why?” If she thought something was up, I felt it best to know what.
“Where do you live?” Dani asked, and my heart sank.
“With a friend,” I lied.
“Where?” Her eyes became sad. We had become friends, and it was clear Dani liked me. I had turned out to be a decent teacher, and the students loved me.
“By the beach,” at least that was kind of true.
“By the beach? Ok,” She whispered as she grabbed her keys. “Want me to drop you home?” She asked with the keys to her car on full display. I politely refused and said that I was going to meet a friend.
Next week, Dani didn’t bring up the issue again although I would not have blamed her if she had. I was looking more and more weary and had resorted to washing my clothes with the soap in the public showers. I only wore my shirt ten hours a week but it had become a festering mess and I still hadn’t been paid.
As the week came to an end, Dani sat me down to tally up my earnings. I had made over four hundred euros and was salivating. I had only been eating bread, fruit, and the odd fish that Jean Luc had thrown my way. I was excited to buy a new pillow and a beach mat. An apartment was still out of reach, but new clothes and supplies were in my sights.
“Here you go, and thank you. You did a great job,” Dani smiled as her husband walked in.
“Is this Peter?” He said in a deep French voice as Dani nodded with a smile. He sat down next to Dani and shook my hand. “Can I speak?” he said in broken English and Dani nodded again.
“Bon, Peter, we can not be here all the time. For example, at night, we are not here. We live outside of Saint Pierre and Bon. Dani, can you?” He had run out of English.
“We want you to take the room upstairs. I’ll take 100 euros a month from your earnings. All you have to do is lock up, clean, and set the place up before the day starts. When school is over, the kitchen, the living room, it’s all yours,” She explained. She kept eye contact as if to gauge my reaction.
“Really? But I have a place,” I was such a pathetic liar filled with pride.
“I know, I know you do, Peter, but I need you. We need you, my husband asked Nate if you were trustworthy, and he couldn’t stop saying nice things about you. I’ve seen it myself. Please?” she said as she pressed her palms together.
“Sure, Ok. I’ll do it,” I relented in a grateful tone.
“Yay!” Dani shouted. It seemed she wanted me in the house. Her husband smiled and shook my hand. “So, do you want to go back to your place and grab your stuff? You can move in tonight,” her eyes were piercing my soul. She knew.
I looked at my empty backpack in the corner, then back to Dani and said, “No need, I have everything,”
Rido | Shutterstock
Dani nodded, smiled, and hugged me. That night, for the first time since I left Ireland, thanks to my boss, I slept on a real bed.
Our first real jobs can come in many shapes and sizes and mean different things to various people. My first job was in a school, working for a Kenyan lady named Dani who, instead of judging me or shunning me, decided to help her first employee.
When I woke on my first morning, there was a note on the fridge:
Dear Peter,
We filled the fridge to help you settle in. See you on Monday for work. The internet code is Villa23Qr. Please use my computer to Skype your mom.
Dani and Pierre
Uncomfortable memories tinged with sadness and gratitude wash over me as I pen this. Reunion Island in the early 2010s was a stunning time and place to be alive. No rock, mountain, forest, or sea has yet to come close to those dry island nights where friendships were forged, forgotten, and remembered.
The lost boys who fell from the scene were never to be seen again. For a time, at least, I was nearly one of them, but maybe, like me, they found their way home and are sitting down somewhere on this earth, surrounded by love and sharing the memory of the person who saved them.
Many people have saved me in my life, but Dani was the first stranger who did it for who I had become and not who I was before the island.
Peter William Murphy is a writer, teacher, musician, and content creator. He has published over 250 articles on Medium and has been selected for curation on 26 occasions. His work explores society, culture, politics, and mental health.