#blanketsandbulls

The bodaboda had hardly come to a halt when the yelling began.
“You! What are you doing?!! What is this?? What rubbish is this on my veranda???!!”

Someone was lying under a blanket on the porch which was littered with papers torn from exercise books, pieces of broken yellow plastic, and sand from the nearby sandpit which the builders had been using to renovate the chipped floor in another house.

Ma Lihanna practically sprang from the motorcycle, charging for the being on her porch, oblivious to the fact that her short skirt had ridden up her thighs. She kicked at the dog-eaten, (very) dodgy-looking, stained piece of foam that had once served as somebody’s mattress, most probably picked off the dump as it waited for the rubbish truck to come. She was so disgusted that the words failed to come. “How…? You… Where…? Just wait for me!!”

The boda man looked on in shock as Ma Lihanna yanked the blue woolly blanket off and tossed it into the air. It was Lihanna under there. She had somehow fallen asleep amidst all the noise. She wore a very startled look at being woken up so rudely in this afternoon heat. It was not nighttime after all. Why was her mother home this early? Her startled look was one of “I’m in a pot of hot soup. REALLY hot soup!”

The little children who had been playing and singing around the veranda, and who had greatly contributed to the chaos melted out of the gate at lightning speed.

“Tell me, what is the meaning of this you stupid girl!”  What is your blanket doing outside here? Is this where it belongs?!! I swear you will see me today!! What is this?” she screamed.

The boda man started feebly, “Nyabo ssente zange…” He was not waiting here to witness bloodshed committed by this woman with whom, minutes before, he had been making small talk about the unpredictable weather and the dust, but who had been suddenly transformed into this raging bull, foaming at the mouth over a child lying on her porch. No, he wouldn't wait.

Somehow she heard him over her yelling, whipped out her purse and thrust him some notes. Lihanna was already on her feet, pulling at the mess, and trying to make it disappear somehow.

The boda revved off and Ma Lihanna pulled at the handle of the front door, which opens rather noisily. Lihanna grabbed at the blanket and quickly disappeared into the house. Probably to put it back onto the bed.

The next few minutes became a mix of frenzied adult yelling and a child’s cries. Sounds of a slipper connecting with something, someone making to flee, and being threatened that if she ran, then she could stay out forever. “Where is your sister??!!” Ma Lihanna roared.

Little Sister had crept onto the veranda, terrified, and trying her best not to let her Sunday best shoes make any noise as she cleared what was left of the clutter. For her, the pot of soup would be at boiling point because she had taken her sheets out as well. She crept to the back gate to see if she could sneak in. It was locked.

In this state of rage, even as a good neighbor, it would be almost impossible to approach Ma Lihanna and plead for the girls.

I turned up the volume of Botched on E.

#thenewhire

 Ma Lihanna’s new maid starts all her sentences with “You”. “You gendi betthe" (You go and bathe), “You stop shoutingi”, “You oni the TV” (You switch on the TV), and things like that. And she has done another murder on Lihanna’s name because it is now a mix between Riona, Leona, and Fiona.

She must have been around for a couple of weeks now. Ma Lihanna mentioned to me three weeks ago that she was bringing a new girl after a temporary lull. (There was an unfortunate incident, a VERY unfortunate incident, involving the last maid, hence my short-term silence on the goings-on in this residence). 

The new maid has a baby voice. I hope I can do the audio just so you know how she sounds. To be honest, whenever I tried out that voice last evening, I doubled up, because mine came out sounding so funny. She’s a nice sort, it seems and even when the kids really s-t-r-e-t-c-h her patience, she shouts only a little bit. Last Monday, she was playing a Catholic service on her phone radio in their backyard, and praying along to the Mirembe Marias. 

But she couldn't pray along last evening, because her wards- Lihanna and her younger sister- were in rowdy mode. Full of beans, jumping beans. I think they had beans for lunch at school, but really bad beans, because they were so unruly. I could them yelling from the high command center that is my bedroom. 

Someone had thrown her schoolbag by the door and was shouting “No! No!” to all requests to pick it up. In between there were some howls- it must have been Lihanna because the voice sounded bigger. Then when it was time to “Gendi betthe” (Go and bathe), someone started protesting that she wanted to use the shower and the maid was saying, “No, you use the bensin!” and then more yowling. 
Of course the mother in me leaped to my feet, I was about to walk round to their house and tell them to “do as you are told and go to bed!” but I held back and let Maid take charge. After all, she's being paid. 

Suppertime. “You harryap and finish yuwa food!” (Hurry up and finish your food!) That elicited a choir of cries. 

I think they must have gone to bed at about 10pm or thereabouts because their shouts were still audible when Agataliiko Nfuufu started. Then I zoned out to watch the funny stories, with the head of the Abasamize falling headlong into an open grave when shots rang out as they fought over one of their dead members.

#themoneyandtheman

As you alight from the taxi on a particularly bad weather day, with the sky looking dark and angry, your phone rings. It is one of your neighbors, Ma Lihanna. The line keeps breaking and you call her back. She says her father is very sick in hospital but you can’t hear much after that. You tell her to wait as you’ll be home in a few minutes.

Just as the first fat drops of rain start falling, you dash over to her house. She lets you in. The first thing you notice is her very short black floral print dress which shows her thighs to the fullest. She’s wearing layers of brown powder, her eyebrows have been pencilled over, and her lips are dripping with a red substance.

Ma Lihanna says her father lives in Kigali and has suddenly taken ill, so she has to take him some money. You feel bad for him, and for her, and you ask what exactly the matter is. She doesn't really know. All the while, your eyes are fixed on the drawings on her face, and she titters and averts her gaze.

She says she needs 300,000 shillings. Y’know she has just paid school fees, house rent and bought supplies for the home and has practically no money left. And she has to travel to Mbarara as well. Her brown traveling bag sitting in the sofa, packed and ready for the trip.

You start to buy time, telling her about the shitty weather because you need time to process her tall request. And how you will omba for your money back because she quarrels about everything from the neighbor’s kids playing near her house, the estate manager knocking on her door when she’s still sleeping at 10am, to bodaboda men who bring her back in the wee hours but are not patient enough to wait until the maid has opened the front door. So… what will happen when you want your money back? That titter again.

In that flicker of a second, it hits you that she might be lying to you. Just. Maybe.

Anyway, truth is, you don't have that much money lying around. You say you can try to raise 100,000 shillings. She eagerly replies that it’s okay. Anything will do.

But the reality in your bag shows that you have only 40,000 shilling to spare. You knock on her door. She has changed into a red number, longer this time, and a shiny sweater. You convey the message. An unhappy look sweeps over her face, but only for a moment. She grabs at the money. It will do, she says desperately, leaving you wondering about how fast she has downgraded her needs. Less than quarter of the loaf she asked for, is better than no bread?

As you make to leave, you hear the unmistakable sound of a man’s laugh. It comes from the regions of the bedrooms.

You don't even feel the rain soak you as you walk back to your house deep in thought.

#somethinginthewater

There must something in the water that the Lihanna brigade is drinking these days.
Because for the past two weeks, they have been very noisy, restless, worked up. I don't see them, I hear them. Over the wall that separates our houses.
Last night was the limit. I marched to their house and demanded that they keep down their din. I’d had it. Someone, Lihanna’s older sister, she’s about eight, was bawling her lungs out. The night was quiet, and then all of a sudden the racket started. The child was crying, the new maid was telling her to keep it down, Lihanna was yelling. Oh God!
I put my Bible down. “God, help me to be patient. And tolerant,” I prayed fervently.
The din crescendoed to something else. This time I could make out the maid shouting, “You go to sleep! You go to sleep!”
But the child was having none of it.
And I was also having none of it. It was so irritating. I didn't look for my nightgown. I just marched out of my gate and into theirs.

Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! On their front door. “Shut up and go to bed!” I yelled from outside.
The silence died down immediately, like somebody had turned it off.
“Shut up and go to bed!”

Rihanna flung open the curtains of the front window and peered out. The sitting room was bathed in a ghostly blue light. Lihanna Younger and the maid were standing near the door to the corridor, frozen like statues. My screams must have frightened them.

“Go to bed!” I demanded in my most menacing tone.
“Yes, you go to bed!” the maid echoed in her baby-like voice.

Lihanna let go of the curtain and it swished back into place.

The din started again in the morning. It was not yet even 5am. I know their mother is not at home because she cannot stand that kind of rubbish. She would have given them a proper reason to cry. Something must be wrong. This is just not comfortable.

#yougandibetthi!

Yougandibetthi!

That’s the indication that Ma Lihanna has a new maid.

I ponder for a while, then understand her statement to mean, “You go and bathe!”. But the way she joins the words together makes it sound like a completely foreign language. Lihanna and her older sister are being ultra-obstinate this evening.
I guess that’s how they treat all their new maids (two so far, since this year started) making them yell and beg them to do everything. From waking up, to eating their breakfast or supper, to ‘betthingi', sleeping. Then there are the tantrums! Tebaagala kugambwaako. They do not want to be chided for anything. And it might not even be chiding- even telling someone to “gandibeethi” can elicit loud howls, fits, rolling on the ground. How these kids get so spoiled when their mother is never around beats my understanding.

The new maid’s voice is baby-like. Very girlish. I have no idea what she looks like, but the tone strikes me as young. I wonder if the girls will respect her.

I also wonder what the LCs will say in case she’s underage… Y’know I have this other neighbor who loves to mind other people’s business- she could, just might, go to the LCs (y’know her and Ma Lihanna don’t kulima kambugu - they don’t see eye to eye). And she has told me before about how Ma Lihanna’s children have big tummies. Mbu their stomachs are African-elastic, and that they devour everything in sight- like locusts- mangoes, bananas, ffene, they could even do grass, when the going gets tough. And mbu they like crying over nothing. That they can wail and whimper and bawl  for no reason. Of course I never believe her, because she says anything and everything about anybody and everybody.

I mean, she said the old man in the third house from the gate had syphillis. How did she know? Did she give it to him? Then she said that my immediate neighbor was a kidnapper. Oh God, I didn't sleep that night. And her husband endorsed the lie.

Anyway, I’m digressing. We’re talking about the new maid at Ma Lihanna’s. I know she had another one before this one- after the one who brought the chinless Sudan boy into the house. I hear something bad happened to that maid and she had to leave immediately.

Oh, why doesn't this woman have any luck with maids?

#inflagrantedelicto

Our dear Lord Mayor called it “In Flagrante Delicto”.
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.

#fraudimaidi

The neighbor’s maid has several gifts and abilities....

“Mama Lihanna (I think the name is Rihanna), tuli wano, twasuze mu nzikiza. Anti amasanyalazze gaaweddewo” (Mama Lihanna, we spent the night in the dark because the electricity got finished- direct translation). I guess what she meant to say was that they had run out of tokens.

Mama Lihanna, a single mother is usually away for a week or two at a time. She’s a sales agent for lipsticks, nail-polish and skin-lightening lotions, and travels as far as Rwanda and South Sudan sometimes. 

I’m off work on Mondays so I was in the kitchen washing up in the morning, when I heard the maid over the wall in their backyard, talking to Mama Lihanna. 

Her baby voice was at full throttle. Y’know how when girls want to be too girlish, or to appear helpless? Yes, they speak in that that high pitched little baby-girl voice. 

My ears are still sharp. I could hear the TV. It was tuned to some ki-Phillipino on Bukedde TV. But here was this girl brazenly lying to her boss that they had spent the night in the dark.

I turned off the tap and listened, my hands still in the soapy water. 

Silence. I think Mama Lihanna was promising to send her some cash through mobile money.
Then the little girl’s voice came into play again. “I-ye Mama Lihanna. Kale Mama Lihanna. Weebale nnyo Mama Lihanna. Kan’gendeyo nzifune.”Conversation closed. 

Then I heard her slippers go back into the house.

A few seconds ticked by. Suddenly the volume of the TV was raised by a number of decibels and VJ Junior was back in action. “Amugambye ‘naawe baby, tugende tulye ku laifu. Laba fala ono!’ ”
 
Somewhere behind VJ Junior, I heard Rema’s Fire Tonight” ring-tone. I guessed the maid's friend was calling because her voice suddenly returned to normal. 

“Hallo? Hooo! Munnange mukwano, agenda kuweereza ssente, era nja kulaba ku wiikendi!!!”. (My dear friend, she’s sending some money. I’ll see you on the weekend.)

You know how when you hear Mama Lihanna’s maid 'frauding' her boss?