LETTERS FROM A HOUSE HELP.

When I was fourteen, I became a maid.

And freedom as I knew it, as I had enjoyed it for the last thirteen years, disappeared.

At first, I liked the thought of traveling to new places, far away from the cold of my little village in the hills of the Mambilla plateau. I didn't know any thing outside of family, security and comfort, and as the bus heaved and groaned its way into the park in that townmarket that belongs to the entrepreneurs of my country, I was optimistic about the future.

Maid is a fancy word. It connotes black skirts, starched white shirts and flat black shoes. It bestows a sense of well done hair, softly accented English and discretion to rival the best of Swiss banks.

Let's be more honest, I was a help. A house help. 

Although I didn't know what being a help was until I met my first employer. I helped, and helped and helped, my life's blood poured out on an altar of yearnings and aches. I helped and helped and helped and one day, opened my eyes to see a doctor with a bright pink tie. I didn't see my employer again, she had the hospital contact my relatives and paid the bills.

A house help is treated like pimples on great skin, it doesn't fit, so please poke and push at it, until it oozes pus. And when the next one shows its ugly red, or yellow head, do the same thing. 

There's an indignity in helping people care for their children, their homes and themselves. I know, I have lived it. You can't shake off the pitying glances, the Mr and Mrs fix-its that only make it worse, nor can you protect your esteem. That's the greatest thing to lose, and the hardest to recover, your self esteem.

I have suffered great indignity, some of which I thought was normal, after all, I am only the house help. And it has taken some enormous effort to get me out of that ditch. That's one thing I'll talk about later, my child, the ditch.

I worked for many more people, and it was a competition, albeit unwritten or unknown, in cruelty. Cruelty takes different forms, shapes and sizes, it isn't just posts on Instablog and numerous curses and human rights activists and lionesses and shewolves in lawyer clothing. It's underneath sugary smiles and blood red nails, it is lurking behind the tinted car windows, and butter soft chairs. 

I tried to not die, tried to not be sick, tried to be better, tried to learn to read. I was like a poor wife bettering herself for her whoring husband. I tried to watch the news so I could maybe contribute to conversations, if anyone came into the kitchen. I tried so much and so hard, and I was never good enough.

My child, the cruelest persons are the ones who belong to institutions. Even the devil wouldn't shake hands with them, they're so cunning and sly, they could sell him balls of fire. Preening peacocks, the wretched lot, and I shudder in anger as I write this to you. A slave I was, a slave I remained.

I think that there's a lot of people who have have gone through this, and do their best to erase it from their memories. But it's like plantain sap on a white shirt, it doesn't ever disappear. It's in your eyes, and in your leniency with your children. It is in how you buy clothes compulsively and without rational thought, how you boast about material things and place great emphasis on respect and rights. It is in how you distrust people and how you treat your own domestics, your futile attempts to widen the gap between you and them.

My child, boring you with stories of my domestic years, is not my intention. This letter was to say something else, but I saw how Gavin yelled at the driver last week and how your husband slapped the house help in a fit. Perhaps, some perspective from the home front will help, don't you think? 

My child, child of my dreams and hopes, child of my tears, my lies and my truths. The one who has loved me the most and whom I have loved the hardest, please say it under your breath: 

Domestic workers are people too.

The End.

P.S. Whew. This one is really personal to me, and I hope that you agree with me too, domestic workers are people too. Nannies, maids, drivers, gardeners, and all the other other people that give their lives for yours.

P.P.S. Photo by Suzy Hazelwood from Pexels