I often say that to swim is to first trust yourself before you can trust the water. You surrender to the water because you know it will surround you, wholly; all that you are seemingly as light as paper.
Much about who we are is dependent on the people that surround us, and one thing no one tells you is that sometimes, you do not choose the people that surround you. Take the work environment for example.
I met N. at the Covid testing scheduled ahead of our physical resumption. It was my first time at the office building, feeling at once nervous and a humble giddiness. I had not, as was the case with new hires and their fascination with their colleagues, particularly their line, looked her up. I did not know her LinkedIn, or what she posted on Instagram. In fact, when she called out to me, with my name, I was startled, corrupted at once with a fear that belonged to a criminal.
We introduced, and from behind her mask, her smile is vigorous. You see it in the narrowing of her eyes. I test my humour on her – gently, the way one checks the temperature of a pool before diving– and she laughs and laughs. Her entire body quakes. I learn one thing that day: it does not take much to amuse her.
In the coming weeks, we would work closely; finding our rhythm in the organisation, sharing looks that immediately communicated what it was we were thinking. Both of us being new hires, the days were easily overwhelming, not the least at a time of a continent-wide campaign. We found ways around the stress though, choosing to experience tension, not as a barrier but as a means to understand an underlying element in achieving our goals. Like a song, it became possible for me to allow myself the comforting thought that someone completely understood how I was feeling.
Often, N. and I would step onto the terrace to catch a breather, overlooking the solemnness of Macgregor; tree branches shading the small pockets of people who gather underneath. We exchanged personal anecdotes, the commonality in our language fostering relatability. Kedu. Ka chi fo. Jisi ike. These small, pregnant words of care.
Ten hours a day is a lifetime to commit to an environment, an energy. With N., it seemed that I was swimming through the day; that time moved with a speedier resolution. Rather than order me to do things her way, N. asked me questions about the work I produced that made me arrive at what it was she wanted. And this, of all the small victories, was what I admired the most about her leadership. It is rare and exciting.
When the work gets too labouring, N. finds it on my face. She reminds me to rest; reminds me that impact is as credible as numbers. It is another quality I admire, this quiet wisdom: unassuming but purposeful, at once willing and able to listen.
Thinking of the other half of the year, I am hopeful for the work we will continue to do together. With the right strategy, we work and continue to produce even when resources are few and when the heat is on. Together, we are effective and efficient, understanding that bigger is not necessarily better and starting small is not the same as starting poorly.
There is a song by the 80s band, REM, called “Night Swimming”. It is a quiet classic. It describes a summer night, swimming with friends and treasuring that night together. The premise of the song is on lost love, lost youth; it has about it, a sense of peace but also that brand of nostalgia that one falls upon when reminiscing a particular time. Shadows and light; warmth and water.
And this is for N., who is steadfast in who she is; unbendable, like water. You must know that although water can accommodate us humans, it would not change for us. It can never change. That is what gives us the grace to swim in it; that is how we come alive through it.
