That was the tight corner Ma Lihanna’s maid was caught up in when I delivered the wash that had flown over her wall and into the Mansion’s backyard.
The neighborhood is usually quiet on Mondays because all the kids have gone to school. I’m off work, so its cleaning up, brushing, sweeping, mopping, washing - everything.
As I took my washing out, I realized that Lihanna’s PE t-shirt and a nightie had landed in my backyard. I told myself that I would return to owner later.
And so when I was done, I walked over to Ma Lihanna’s house. The gate was slightly open and so was the front door. No loud music. Just the TV with some translated ki-Filipino at a low volume. And some muffled giggles.
I knocked lightly and before Ma Lihanna's maid could answer, I drew the door open and stepped in. Like a good neighbour. My eyes landed on a male face. A Sudan boy. In a red shirt. The Sudan boy was sitting with half his bottom on the chair, leaning forward. He started when he saw me.
Ma Lihanna’s maid was sunken deep into the sofa near the door. She is of slight build so I hadn't first seen her. She was facing the TV, giggling. She turned her head sharply when she saw me and leapt out of the chair. In her haste, the maroon T-shirt she was holding to her chest fell away and her huge breasts were sprawled out. “Oh Mama!!!” she yelped, as she bent to pick the discarded piece of cloth to re-hide her modesty.
She was wearing a mini skater skirt, with the zip halfway done. I didn't want to look at her. I wanted to throw Lihanna’s PE t-shirt and nightie at her and get the hell out. But I couldn’t. I shifted my gaze to the chair. Her huge white bra was sitting there. I knew I had interrupted a session. I had barged in on something about to go down.
She snatched the clothes from me and dashed off to the bedroom shrieking loudly, while I stood there like a fish out of water, transfixed in one place. Then I heard the door slam.
The Sudan boy was in a fix. He stared at the floor for all the time I was there.
credit: www.madanque.com
The whole scenario was too much for me. I left without a word.
I wondered what language they had been speaking. Language of love? Or lust perhaps. Because Ma Lihanna’s maid, who is from West Nile, cannot speak a word of English. And the Sudans only speak their language. Nuer or Dinka. I remembered that I had seen Sudan boy lurking around the estate some days earlier. His short chin and all. He was always in that red shirt. With white on the shoulders, like a cowboy's shirt. Had he been on the prowl? Had I now snatched his prey, his mealie-meal, just as he was about to pounce?
It was just as our dear Lord Mayor had put it. In flagrante delicto.
No comments:
Post a Comment