On Facebook, they know me as Matete Irene the storyteller, some call me the woman with many men but where I am, they call me help.
Often, I feel like a ghost in a uniform. I’m only visible when a mistake is spotted.
My madam is the proud type. Not the good type of proud but the proud that’s punishing. The kind that enjoys watching you sweat and frown under the heavy work. Her house is sparkling clean, not because she’s clean but because I wash it repeatedly daily.
She never lifts her fingers to do anything. Well, I’m lying, she lifts her fingers to point at imaginary mistakes or make annoying requests.
“That spot isn’t clean.
Give me that phone(which is next to her)
Pass me the remote(which is on the seat next to hers.) Did you wipe this table?” She’d ask while tapping with her well polished red nails.”
My day starts at 5AM when everyone is sleeping. I scrub the floors, clean the toilets, clean the compound then prepare their breakfast.
Yesterday was a rough day.
The other day, I saw a white porcelain cup with a gold rim and a crack on the handle just near the microwave. I admired it because I’ve never seen one. I left it as it was.
At 530AM, she came to the bathroom I was scrubbing while screaming my name.
“Irene you broke this. Didn’t you?”
“No I didn’t…”
She stepped closer.
“Yes you did. Do you think I don’t know all the mistakes you make in this house? Don’t lie to me.”
“I swear I didn’t…”
“So now I’m mad? I don’t know what happened to my cup? Do you know this was from my wedding set and it’s expensive. Your one year salary can’t even buy this. No breakfast today. And mop the stairs properly this time.”
Yesterday, I worked with an empty stomach and a heavier heart.
She left for work at 9AM and came at 3PM. Her first stop was the guest’s bedroom.
“Irene” She called me while shouting on top of her voice.
“Did you wipe this table? And wash the bathroom?”
“Yes I did.”
“Scrub the bathroom again because I can see dirt.”
She has the habit of saying impossible things because she knows I won’t argue. She knows I need the money. My daughter needs to eat. I need to save.
Speaking of food-madam has very harsh rules about it.
She eats alone. Always.
She’s very selective of her food. The salt is too much, the chicken isn’t crispy enough, the mango juice isn’t freshly squeezed. She complains while eating slowly like a queen. When she’s full, she leaves the rest on the table-untouched and perfect.
I know better than to ask for leftovers because she fired a housemaid for eating a banana that had turned black.
Yesterday, she called me over and pointed at her food.
“Take it. I’m sure you’re hungry. You look like you haven’t eaten in days.”
I hesitated.
“Take it. You want food. Don’t you?”
Just as I reached for the plate, she poured water over it and apologized profusely.
“I’m so clumsy. Forgive me. Just drain the water and enjoy the food. You don’t have time to cook. I want you to clean my daughter’s bedroom. You have laundry to do and you have to prepare french fries and chicken for dinner. The food is good, just drain the water.”
My stomach twisted. Not because of hunger but because of humiliation.
At night, I sat with bread and water in my hands. I wrote a letter to my daughter describing everything that happened. I wrote every word, every action, every pain. I reminded myself that I do this for her. For survival. For school fees. For food. For savings. I know I’ll never present the hundreds of letters that I’ve written to her but I’ll write anyway.
I write because writing is my way out of pain. I’m a woman with a voice, I’m just waiting for the right page to scream. One day, I’ll leave this house, not by quitting, but by writing my way out.
One day, I will write her out of my life.