Читать книгу The Madams - Zukiswa Wanner - Страница 9

Chapter 5

Madamhood

The week after the braai was a strenuous one on the work front and I, for one, happily mouthed, ‘thank God it’s Friday’ at five o’clock, and meant every word. My body craved a nice, long, luxurious, bubble-filled, candlelit soak in the bath. Unfortunately, this was not to be. One of the inflexible family rules, as sacred as family dinner three times a week, is that Friday is family fun night where we go bowling, or to the movies or some such ‘bonding’ activity. I suppose, since I insisted on it in the first place, I have to live up to the whole shebang.

On this particular Friday, Mandla was the one who had prepared our schedule so I waited to hear what The Man had in store. Actually, I knew that he had plotted to dump Hintsa at Siz’s house for a sleepover after the family bonding, while the four of us went partying till the break o’ dawn. I knew this because Siz had called me straight after he called her and told me so. ‘But you aren’t supposed to know, so act surprised.’ I could do that.

When I got home, Mandla told me he had bought three tickets for the six-thirty show of Shrek 2. ‘Babes, do you think we can pack an overnight bag for your son?’ There was a twinkle in his eye. ‘He’s going for a sleepover.’

I responded with mock fury, ‘Why the hell should I pack a bag when you decided on a sleepover for him without consulting his mother?’

‘That’s easy enough,’ he responded, patting my bum. ‘You know how you are always nagging that you and I don’t ever do anything together any more? Well, I arranged it with Siz and Vuyo so we can have an Adult Night Out.’

‘That is so sweet, babes!’ If I do say so myself, I think I pulled off a performance worthy of an Oscar because Mandla leant over and kissed me to ‘seal the deal’.

Wearing my little black dress that showed my assets to best advantage, with my smart-looking babydaddy and my son in his BabyGap jeans and sweatshirt compliments of his godmother, we moved on out to the Eastside, better known as Eastgate Mall.

The movie was crap. Right at the end, a few minutes before Shrek and his fellow cast members finished singing the karaoke, Mandla’s son started pulling at his father and whispering none-too-quietly, ‘Daddy, I need to go to the loo . . .’

‘Okay boy, let’s roll,’ his father said, getting up. My guess was that he was equally unimpressed with Shrek 2. But as I was about to get up during the credits, Hintsa ran back. ‘Mommy, can YOU take me to the bathroom?’

I looked at him in the lightening theatre. ‘Hey Papi. But I thought you were going with your father?’

‘He stopped to talk to some lady outside and he’s still talking to her. Please hurry mommy, it’s urgent.’ I grabbed my bag and hurried out, planning to give Mandla a piece of my mind about flirting in the lobby when I was done taking the boy to the bathroom. But I had nothing to be worried about. The woman Mandla was talking to was fatter than me, and not the best-looking chick on the block. I hurried a ‘Hello’ as I rushed Hintsa to the bathroom. Must be some Sowetan nurse from Bara who knew Mandla from his stint there. On my return, she was gone.

We had our dinner like the perfect family that we are, and made tracks to Siz and Vuyo’s home so Mandla and I could have a night out and be the perfect couple that we are.

Upon our arrival, Pertunia took Hintsa off our hands, gave him a bath and tucked him in with the two younger Vuyos. She was really good. Even Vuyo senior, who had initially called her ‘a “Jim comes to Joburg” rural chick who could add no value to the household’ was starting to show begrudging appreciation for her. I could see his eyes light up as she talked to his children – he probably noticed she paid them more attention than his wife did.

As usual, Vuyo and Siz, in their designer wear, made us look like rural relatives. Vuyo was wearing a Hugo Boss suit, with cufflinks that you know he could not afford on his wages. If clothes maketh the man, then Vuyo was definitely The Man! Siz looked like the perfect partner in her brown and orange Chanel just-above-the-knee dress, a cute little orange clutch from the same designer house, and a pair of sling-back shoes that I would sell my husband for. Mandla and I, in my mind the perfect couple, now just looked like a dowdy pair in our ‘special’ Woollies threads. Mandla, perhaps sensing my dwindling confidence, grabbed my ass as we walked into the club and whispered, ‘I don’t care what anyone says, I still think my wife has the best-looking ass in Joburg.’ I knew what he was trying to do. I arched my eyebrows and asked, ‘Only in Joburg?’ Boy, I loved this man.

After our night of debauchery, we were back at Siz’s house around eleven the next morning with killer hangovers. I walked in yelling, ‘VUUUYO! Man, where are you with a Bloody Mary?’ It was Pertunia who answered, ‘He is still sleeping. Maybe you should leave him, but Nosizwe is up and I can tell her you are here.’ Whew, talk of Eve giving orders! And I noticed that she had just referred to Siz by her name and not ‘Auntie Nosizwe’ like she had always done. But, noting that my son was clean and happy I just thanked Pertunia for looking after him. We must have looked like a couple of alcoholics, asking for a hangover cure so early in the day – maybe that’s why Pertunia was a trifle abrupt with me, I thought. Maids are, after all, very protective.

Siz came into the reception room behind Pertunia, picking up a toy that one of the children had left on her ivory carpet. ‘Sis Pertunia, have you cleaned the house today?’ She sounded just like her mother as we followed her into the living room, and her loud voice was playing havoc with my hangover. ‘And look at this. When was the last time you dusted this TV stand? Honestly, I do not know what I pay you for sometimes.’

To which Pertunia responded, in one of those typical sulky-maid voices that sound as though they are talking to themselves but in effect want you to hear, ‘Uyandisokolisa uNosizwe. I can’t do everything at once. I had to wash the children and feed them, and cook and clean. I have a schedule for when I do the dusting in the house but some people, who cannot even cook, want you to do everything.’

Siz, naturally, heard and as she opened her mouth I went and closed it with my hand because I could see that, between Siz’s hangover temperament and the maid who wasn’t amused at her work being questioned, I could end up not getting any tomato juice for my Bloody Mary. So I kissed her, gave her a pat on her annoyingly perfect backside and said, ‘Hawu, Sis Pertunia. Uyazi kuthi uSiz uyadlala nawe. This house looks very clean for a place with two children. Eish, my house doesn’t even look this neat and I have only one child so not to worry, ibabalasi kuphela. But now for my hangover cure s’thando sami, since you are the woman of this house, I know where the bar is but where is the tomato juice?’

And she answered, ‘Ja ndiyazi but there are people who don’t appreciate all the work,’ and Siz, wanting to save herself from an angry maid said, ‘Ndiyaxolisa Sis Pertunia. Thandi is right, I overreacted.’ And with a mischievous grin she added, ‘S’right s’thando?’ which Pertunia ignored. She placed two cans of tomato juice in my hands and said, ‘I will take the bus to my class today.’

Siz and I shared a look, and Mandla said, ‘Damn Siz, you got one pissed off maid.’ To which Siz responded, ‘Who is saving me on petrol with her outburst. I think I’ll ask Vuyo to pick her up from her classes. Because if I go, she might ignore me. And that way I can take a nap.’ As she spoke, Mandla got a funny look on his face. ‘Talking of that man of yours, where is he? By this time all the Sowetan drinkers are on their fifth drink. He seems to be forgetting his roots now he’s in suburbia.’

When Mandla left the room to go and wake Vuyo up, Siz continued worrying about Pertunia. ‘Pertunia’s been like this for the last few days. I don’t know what her problem is. Eish, sometimes maids can be problematic.’

‘Maybe she is PMSing,’ I offered. ‘Or maybe she misses her children in the Eastern Cape. When are you giving her leave?’

Siz answered, ‘Girl, she better forget about leave until Vuyo’s kids go on school holidays. Who would cook for all the Vuyos? You know I can’t cook to save my ass.’

‘You must cherish Pertunia, man,’ I told her. ‘Ay, I hope to high heavens that I will be so blessed, and Marita is as good a worker as Pertunia.’

Siz started laughing, ‘I think now you are smoking some bad shit because you know your white maid will be whining about blisters just from using the feather duster on those two-hundred and one Biko and Sobukwe framed posters of yours.’

As I was telling her to shut it, the men walked in. After our Bloody Marys, and after hearing Hintsa ask for the umpteenth time when we were going to pick up Marita, we left. On our way out, Siz suggested, ‘Hey Mister and Missis, why don’t we get together for drinks with Lauren and Mike later on this evening? I haven’t spoken to that girl all week.’

I told her it was a good idea, ‘But maybe tomorrow. Better if Marita just unpacks today before we throw her to Lauren.’

Marita was blown away when we showed her the cottage. Her eyes lit up, she laughed a deep guttural laugh and said, ‘Jissus, this is mine? I never had my own television before!’ This sent her on a reminiscing trip, ‘You know when I was growing up we had this small black and white TV, the picture was so unclear. And when I got married, the bastard man always wanted to hold the remote control. He wouldn’t let me watch anything if I didn’t make him enough money!’ I was glad she liked her cottage, but her enthusiasm seemed a little OTT to me. I was never really good with people thanking me, anyway. It was embarrassing. So I just said, ‘Make yourself at home, tomorrow I will show you around.’ One might suppose that she was receiving too much privilege for a maid, but I partly did it for selfish, snobbish reasons – so that I could still maintain my space with my family and not fraternise with the help. This was, naturally, very different from Lauren’s outlook, but that is because Lauren enjoys having a constantly full house. I often wonder why she doesn’t seem to miss having time to herself with just her husband and kids.

I was looking forward to the working week ahead as I have one of those gratifying civil service jobs where you get to be your own boss. As Executive Director of a Soweto office for the provincial Department of Tourism, I find my job highly satisfying – I daresay had I not met Mandla before I started the job I would still be single, fully satisfied, working late each day and creating new goals for myself.

My immediate superior is the Director General of Tourism in the Minister’s Office, a useless chap who is one of those remnants from the apartheid era who seems to be our token white guy – another interesting aspect of this country we all love. I’ve noticed that in the ‘New South Africa’, to use an overused and abused term, corporations usually employ a token black person to show that they are willing to transform, and government usually keeps a token white person to prove that the blacks are not taking over everything in the country and giving all the jobs to their relatives. This is how we in the DOT got saddled with our boss. JD (Johann du Preez, not to be confused with the hip-hop JD) as we all call him, seems to have zero knowledge of tourism. He had no idea where the Hector Peterson Museum was, or even who Hector Peterson was, last time he was here and I had the pleasure of taking him on a tour of places of interest in Johannesburg. And he seems content in his ignorance, unless he feels someone wants his job. Fortunately for him, none of us provincial EDs want his job, because we are glad to have our own fiefdoms far away from Pretoria, sorry Tshwane, politics. All of us, however, have to write him monthly reports on what we are up to, and his poor PA has to compile these into one document every time JD has to pretend to the head honcho (Mr Minister) that he is actually working and overseeing all provinces satisfactorily. It’s a small price to pay to stay away from Tshwane: a town mired in apartheid traditions even to this day – I visit there only if I absolutely have to.

The beauty of having offices in Soweto is that, nowadays, it seems to be the ‘in’ place for tourists coming to Gauteng. The other beauty of working in Soweto is that when I am not involved with my usual hectic schedule (read: when I do not create a busy schedule for myself), I get to drive to and from work with Mandla, since he has set up his surgery in Soweto.

Mandla, by the way, is a cardiologist who initially got into medicine because he ‘wanted to make a difference’. After six months working at Bara upon his return from Harvard Med, he realised that making a difference may make your conscience feel great but it seldom pays the bills.

So he set up shop – a surgery and pharmacy – with two friends in Orlando West.

His colleagues are Chukwu Anyaokwu, a Nigerian divorcé, Romeo, and surgeon (in that order), and the pharmacist, Kamau Kariithi. The three of them do a pretty splendid business: Chukwu charms, Mandla listens, and Kamau has a marvellous Kikuyu thrift that keeps the business side going. Their patients love them. Apparently though, the doctors deal more with sexually transmitted infections and dispensing Anti-Retroviral Treatments than anything they specialised in.

Mandla having a surgery works out well for both of us as it ensures one of us has a normal nine to five schedule, and this is the reason he is the listed emergency contact at Hintsa’s pre-school.

I love Mondays, I really do, because they hold the promise of a fresh start. However, this was not the case today. On arrival at the office my useless deputy had bungled the budget I am supposed to submit to the DG by tomorrow for our annual financial report. I was stuck with doing all the facts and figures, in addition to rushing to Ubuntu Kraal at lunchtime to ensure that the logistics for the four-day conference starting the next day would run smoothly and guarantee us more American conferences in future. At the end of the day, I carried my work home on a laptop so I could complete and email the budget before I went to bed.

As if that were not bad enough, my bloody maid showed that she is total trailer trash and unused to cleaning floor tiles. Despite my having Cobra One-Step in the cleaning cabinet, she had mopped the floors with water and soap, leaving streaks all over. To add salt to the wound, she took it upon herself to be ‘helpful’ by making supper. The supper comprised boiled ribs (who the hell boils ribs?) swimming in water and oil, with tomatoes, onions and green pepper for company. The starch component was half-cooked rice. Did this woman think my family was gonna eat this? I take my food very seriously (my bum did not get this big from nothing). I get extra-annoyed when a meal is badly prepared, which accounts for why I don’t often eat at other people’s houses.

I knew she meant well but, having already had a sucky day, I could not find it in me to be diplomatic and went to bang on her door. She opened the door still wearing the pink two-piece work uniform that I had bought her. I started on a polite note, asking her how her day was. ‘Oh, very nice,’ she gushed. ‘I met MaRosie next door and she said she will take me to see Pertunia and we can go for tea over there.’

Ja ja ja. I didn’t want a blow-by-blow account of her day, I just wanted her not to mess up my house. So I thanked her for making dinner, told her that was not one of her duties since Mandla and I preferred to cook for ourselves, and that anyway I had brought Chinese home. ‘I have left the food for you, why don’t you come by and get it so you won’t need to cook tomorrow?’ I added, thinking to myself that my maid almost made Siz seem like a good cook. Almost, but not quite. Why couldn’t she be more like Pertunia, who was as gourmet a chef as a maid can ever be?

When she came into the house to get her boiled ribs and half-cooked rice, I gave her blow-by-blow instructions on how to mop the floor. Can you believe having to teach a thirty-five-year-old woman such a fundamental? Damn, and I thought madamhood was going to be easy. Men never seem to straighten maids out in any home situation, and this always makes madams look like queen bitches. It makes me wonder, are maids a male conspiracy to destroy female camaraderie?