When I was travelling from Mumias to work for Mama J, no one called to check whether I was nearing Nairobi despite her promise that the driver would.
I was past Limuru when a strange number rang.
“Hello Irene, I’m Dan. Mama J said I should pick you. Where are you?”
“Hello, I’m just past Limuru.”
“Don’t get to the CBD because of traffic and no parking, alight at Uthiru. I’ll meet you there.”
We kept communicating until I got off the bus and into the car.
The drive took thirty minutes, winding through the city and into a stunning mansion. He helped me unload my bags and rang the doorbell.
A woman in her early forties, tired with teary eyes opened the door.
“Madam, she’s here.” The driver said and left.
“Welcome Irene. This is J, my last born who’s seven months old. His milk is in the kitchen to your left. Feed him. I’ll come down soon with more instructions. I need to lie down a bit.” Her voice broke into soft sobs as she walked away.
I fed the baby and sat on a plastic chair in the kitchen. I didn’t know what next.
I prayed.
Not loudly. Not with fancy words. Just softly, “God, please let them be kind. Please let me last.”
Soon, their teenage daughter, Noel, and the man I assumed was big boss arrived. Noel gave me a broad smile but didn’t say anything.
“I’m sure you’re Irene our new help. Welcome. Has mama left the house?” Big boss asked.
“Hello, she’s inside, sir.”
“Why is she not picking my calls?” He muttered more to himself than me
The days that followed made me write more as a way to unburden. Our house was either pin drop silence or loud arguments between madam and big boss. A new day brought forth a new case.
“Why do you act like Rita was only your daughter? Why give me pain and refuse to seek therapy? Why do you find excuses of harassing me? I’m equally in pain. If Rita was here, everything would have been different.” Madam would shout.
“You’ve been a bad wife.” Big boss would shout back. “You never listen, never work, never spend time with us. You’re rude and always locked in this room. You use Rita as an excuse to your pathetic behavior and I’m tired of you.”
The arguments would last for minutes, or hours until one of them stormed off. Occasionally, we would hear madam screaming telling big boss to stop hitting her but there was nothing Noel and I could do. When the screams got louder, Noel would rush to her bedroom crying but I would hold J tighter, keep silent, continue working. J was with me 98% of the time.
I wondered where Rita went to because I heard the name being mentioned severally in their arguments. I decided to ask Noel during dinner.
“Rita was my big sister. She passed away four months ago after a short illness. Since then, my parents fight over everything.”
Silence followed. J giggled, smearing ugali on my hands after his attempt of feeding me failed.
“Irene, I wish I were you. You seem at peace. You don’t carry any burden in your life while trying to act normal. I have everything but my heart is bleeding.”
I looked at Noel’s innocence but I didn’t say anything.
Noel didn’t know that I wasn’t at peace either. She didn’t know how many times I wished to stop big boss from hitting madam. She didn’t know I wanted to scream when madam was screaming, but you don’t scream at your boss when you need the money. You don’t speak when silence is safer. Noel didn’t know my silence during her parents fights was what was shaping my daughter’s future.
She didn’t know my job was very simple:
Be efficient. Be invisible.
I had to be invisible even during their fights.
Noel didn’t know I was just getting by. Finding solace in my letters. Letters to God. Letters to my daughter. Letters to my mother. Letters to my late father. Letters I never sent but that somehow kept me breathing.
When I ran out of words for them, I wrote about my life.
How it felt to wake up and carry J like he was my own.
How it felt to boil porridge with tears in my eyes.
How it felt to pray quietly in kitchens filled with tension and grief.
It was during those moments of writing that I forgot Madam’s screams, the silence in the house, and the emptiness of living so far from home. Noel didn’t know I had a void too. She didn’t know the kitchen chair I sat on was my only therapist.
She didn’t know that I was the help in her house but a survivor in my story.
And perhaps, she didn’t need to know.
Because not all pain can be shared. Some of it just lives quietly on pages only the soul can read.
After twenty one months, it was time for me to leave.
I wrote one last letter to God in that house.
Dear God,
They were kind to me. Thank you for answered prayers. Heal them from the pain they never speak of.
Irene