Staffrider Vol.5 No.2 1982 - DISA

y Mpumie Cilibe
That afternoon, after work, Nzwaki
hopped into the boss's car. She sat in
the rear seat as the man drove home to
Humewood. She had gladly accepted
when the man asked her to go home
with him, for the missus would be entertaining
visitors that evening. The boss's
wife would need extra hands. The extra
money would do Nzwaki's family a
world of good, more so, since Bozo,
her husband, was unemployed. Their's
was a daily struggle, a struggle to make
ends meet, a struggle to live.
They entered the house through the
backdoor, the boss leading the way. A
boy or a girl, or perhaps, the African
servant's entrance is always through the
backdoor. Nzwaki knew this very well.
The house impressed her — the well
looked-after garden, the rolling lawns,
trees and flowers. The kitchen excited
her. She waited there, standing, while
the boss went into the inner rooms to
call his wife. Nzwaki glanced around,
her mind absorbing each and every
gadget and appliance .She breathed in,
and then released a long sigh as if she
had just finished a long journey — this
was luxury!
The boss appeared followed by his
wife. He said to the smiling woman,
indicating Nzwaki, 'This is Joyce. And
Joyce, this is the missus.' He left the
kitchen to join his visitors, leaving the
two women together. After some small
talk, the women were lost in the work
of the kitchen. Nzwaki toiled, but at
least she was not feeling tired yet. The
domestic science she had learnt at
school held her in good stead. The
missus was amazed by the speed and
dexterity of the 'girl'. She soon found
herself looking on, her arms folded on
her breasts, shoulders narrowed, a smile
playing at the corners of her mouth.
Thoughts wandered away to the black
woman's hovel in the location. She
envisaged Joyce working in her own
kitchen. And then it occurred to her
that the other woman's place was
different. She had seen those box-like
so-called houses in a newspaper photograph.
She shrugged and moved away,
towards the stove.
It was time to serve the visitors. The
boss's wife donned her starched apron.
Course after course of delicious dishes
were served by the missus — the perfect
housewife and hostess in a white,
impeccable apron. Nzwaki never saw the
visitors, she did not care to anyway.
She imagined bloated bastards, stuffing
their fat faces with roast potatoes,
licking their sausage-like fingers, nodding
their skulls in satisfaction.
Soon it was time to tidy up. The
missus was kind enough to let Nzwaki
collect the remaining food scraps for her
children. Also she did not have to worry
about washing up the dishes. She only
had to arrange them carefully in the
dishwashing machine and the missus
would take care of them the following
day.
In the location, at Nzwaki's house,
Bozo and their two children were
waiting. He rolled a zol, bit off its ends,
took out a match stick and stuffed both
ends of the zol with the match. He told
the children jokes. They laughed halfheartedly.
They were hungry and
thinking of their mother. Bozo could
see they were worried — he was worried
too. He was wondering what was
keeping his wife, for she always came
earlier from work. He hated being out
of work, he feared losing respect in the
eyes of the children, because he was unemployed.
He lit his zol, pulled and
blew smoke towards the dirty ceilingless
roof overhead.
Nzwali was paid ten rands for her
services. It shocked her. She had not
expected such generosity from her boss
for this was half the weekly amount she
earned at the pelts factory where she
worked. The visitors having left, the
boss and the missus drove her to the
township .They dropped her at the
bus-stop in front of the New Brighton
police station where she boarded a bus
to Njoli Square. In the bus, Nzwaki
fingered her hard earned money and
smiled. She shoved it in her bra,
between her breasts.
At Njoli Square, she alighted from
the bus and walked towards the
Jikelezas. But then it occurred to her
that she had no small change for paying
these township taxis, and it would be
unwise to take out the ten rand note in
front of too many eyes. She decided to
walk.
In one of the houses at Zwide
location, not very far from Cab's Supermarket,
a man had died. There was
a wake and men took turns in preaching
the word of God. A young man by the
name of Zizi had just finished preaching.
He glanced at his watch. It was ten
o'clock. He decided it was late. He left
without attracting anybody's attention.
He was dressed in an old army overcoat
and had a balaclava on his head. He
thrust his hands in his coat pockets and
walked into the night.
Nzwaki took a footpath that cut
through the open space just behind
Cab's Supermarket. She almost bumped
against the small bushes along the footpath,
until, when in the middle of the
open space, some of the bushes appeared
to be jumping at her.
She was too shocked to cry out.
She lay among the bushes and cold
steely hands were ripping off her
panties. The shiny knife-blades were too
close to her neck for comfort. She
pleaded with them not to harm her.
26 STAFFRIDER, VOL. 5 NO. 2, 1982