My experiences with domestic workers

Finding the right domestic worker is very hard.  I’ve had about 7 between 2006 and now. I have seen it all! It’s not easy to just take a stranger that you know nothing about into your home and live with them. I guess it’s also not easy on helpers to just find themselves in the middle of strangers and trying to fit in. My first helper seemed to be OK and we were together for about two years. When she left that’s when I realised how generous she was to neighbours with details of our lives, most of them fake.  She almost died in the house while aborting and we had to part ways. Then I decided it was safer to find an older woman because older women are reputed to be more stable and caring. Bad mistake! That woman was scary! She just fell short of spanking me and sending me to run errands for her. She was always angry and every time I was around her, I felt like apologising for something.  She would refuse to sit on the couch, preferring the floor, and slept on the floor as well. It was scary to leave her with my baby.  We parted ways again, and I was even terrified to tell her not to come back. After that I said no, I should get a very young girl I can manage, and my mother-in-law found one for me. She would go to her room and sit in the dark. I asked her why, and she said ndinoona zvekuona zviye murima (my sight is perfect in the dark!) I started getting scared again. Every time she ironed, she burned something. One day a glass lid broke into the relish and she just cooked the meat with the glass. We parted ways again. I started wondering if I was a bad person. The rest weren’t that bad but just didn’t last. And when my lifestyle allowed, I just did everything by myself.

The one that I have now has been with us since July 2014, that’s 3 years, 3 months and counting. That’s the longest I’ve stayed with a helper. People either say oh you’re lucky you got a perfect one, or you must be very patient! I don’t think you ever get a perfect helper. No one is perfect. I think I’ve grown from my experiences with helpers. My helper can’t cook to save her life. I do all the cooking every day! She can’t even clean very well and half the time I end up redoing chores behind her back because I know she would really have tried. Despite all her shortcomings, she has a heart of gold. She looks after my children like they are her own. With the little money we can afford to pay her, she buys chips for the kids when she’s coming home from the weekend. Twice she’s bought earrings for Rudairo; she’s like her personal doll and she loves dressing her up. She knows I love avocados and lemons, so when she finds people selling, she buys for me and when I try to refund, she says no, it’s a present (my eyes are welling up now). When I’m stressed about something, she gets stressed too, even though she doesn’t say much because we have a language barrier. I buy or bake cake for her birthday too as we do for all family members. You can’t treat someone who has been under your roof for three years as an outsider. One day a child scratched Rudairo badly at school. When we got home, Rudairo ran to hug her and cried. She saw the ugly scratch and cried too.  Earlier this month she lost her father. We sat, wept together, and she even asked me to help her choose a coffin. It was a little chilling but it had to be done. Burial here usually happens a week or more after death, so she had to be away for more than a week. She asked to come during that week to help with laundry. I said I would manage but I was actually really struggling and she knew too; my hands are always full. Laundry day I only managed to do it halfway before I had to go out for my other obligations. I came back to find her hanging the clothes after finishing up the washing. After that, she went back to her home.

I’m just very grateful that we found each other. She’s 4 years younger than me, and is exactly 2 weeks younger than my sister Susan, so she’s like a young sister to me. She’s the only aunt my children really know since I’m far from my three sisters. Every Sunday around 5pm my children will just be lurking at the gate, waiting for her. If she’s late, I see them getting stressed. Her work isn’t perfect, but whose is? I struggle with meeting my deadlines too. If you look past the imperfections, and she has quite a few, there’s usually a gem somewhere in everybody.   I always worry what will happen to her should we leave Swaziland, will she be ok? Will we be OK?

My travel journal

How I dealt with burnout

I suffered from severe burnout for several months, felt I needed to step away from my surroundings a bit, but kept procrastinating. Slowly, everything started to get really loud and amplified, including the children. It took a concerted effort to not lash out, and smile instead, at my daughter when she was teasing and being playful. When my son got flappy, as he always does, I’d get into a complete tailspin. Work that I would normally accomplish in under an hour was now taking me three painful days.  There are times when I would sit by my computer to type and my mind would just be blank for hours. I could not even blog! I even thought of going to get a few tattoos, thinking it would help lift my mood. I knew I had to get away, and that also was a difficult decision to make because I don’t like being away from my children. We have a very strong bond. I realised, though, that I couldn’t be a good mum if I continued to stay and allow depression to set in.

I told myself I needed to go on holiday with just my little laptop, 750-piece jigsaw puzzle, bible, crafts, favourite books, walking shoes, dumbbells,  foot spa, yeah! It looked like it would be a glorious few days. I already had a destination in mind. Then I thought how lovely it would be to go and spend time with my parents who I hadn’t seen for 8 months. I’ve gone for longer durations without seeing them, but felt it would be great to see them when my attention wasn’t divided.

TRIP TO JOHANNESBURG

I boarded a shuttle from Manzini to OR Tambo International Airport. It was my first time to sleep comfortably along that route. During my other trips to Joburg I always force myself to keep my eyes peeled in order to keep them on my husband who has a fast foot. The highway is littered with shrines for people who lost their lives on it. Many more don’t have shrines. On the last trip before this one we had actually seen a man who had just been a few minutes ahead of us being covered by a foil sheet after losing his life. That traumatised me for a few days.

THE AIRPORT

A picture I took from the viewing deck

I had a Tom Hanks in The Terminal experience at OR Tambo. I arrived at 1pm for a 6pm flight, with nothing of substance to do. I looked around in vain for fancy stationery for my penpalling hobby, had a lousy meal at Nandos, then decided to go to the viewing deck to watch planes touch down and take off. I used to bring my son to the deck and he used to enjoy it. I decided I would also bring my daughter the next time I came to Joburg. How I missed my kids and wished I could have been with them for those hours before my flightL!

The airport staff appeared to be on go slow and by boarding time, I was still at the very back of a long and winding queue. I asked to jump the queue and many people understood until I got to a very obnoxious man. He said, with unwarranted vehemence, “No, we are all waiting to go somewhere so you can’t go ahead of us. Just wait for your turn!”  He placed suitcase on one side and his wife (who had a big frame on the other). Everybody just stared at him in disbelief, because it wasn’t as if he couldn’t see the crisis at hand or he would lose his seat by allowing others to rush for their flights. When he realised how much he had overreacted and how much attention he had drawn to his ridiculous self, he started gently chatting me up and tried to explain how my plane would wait for me. I wasn’t even listening to him. When my turn came, how I tore down to the boarding gate, which appeared like kilometres away. It was my first time flying with Air Zimbabwe and had a very negative perception of them. I was convinced they would just take off without me, and without batting an eyelid. Thankfully the flight was delayed by more than 30 minutes. I had never been so delighted about a delay in my life!

HARARE

Harare has become so hostile and aggressive. If you are used to, or prefer things being orderly like myself, you will surely lose your mind. However, home is home and I was truly happy to be there. My friend picked me from the airport and as soon as I set foot outside the airport, I felt like kneeling and kissing the ground like the Pope. I just felt free, like I’d been carrying a house all along.

The Zimbabwe Republic Police are now like marauding lions on the streets, armed with their spikes and baton sticks. Police presence is supposed to instill a sense of security but I couldn’t help feeling like my life was threatened every time I saw a police officer. They are everywhere you don’t want them to be and nowhere near where you need them.  When I went to the 4^th Street informal terminus to board a bus to Rusape, touts that appeared to be high on something would descend on potential passengers like a pack of jackals and starting pulling them in different directions. There is also cheap illicit liquor available on the street and touts types must be the target market. Everyone in Harare knows about the atrocities being committed at 4^th Street terminus. People want to avoid it like the plague. I even saw a tout take money from a woman’s handbag as other touts pulled her in all directions. All the tugging might look like a competition for customers, but I suspect it’s actually a gimmick to pickpocket. Surprisingly, or not, there is never one of the thugs in uniform in sight. They’re all out there bullying and fleecing off motorists. A few days after my return to Swaziland, I heard that an old man died after an attack by the touts at 4^th Street.

THE POVERTY

I was last home in January, and it was sad to see how much things had deteriorated L in that short space of time. It appears everyone has been reduced to a vendor, and there’s barely any space left on pavements for people to walk because that’s where vendors display their wares.  The vendors and their carts have also overspilled onto the road. Their presence appears so natural like they have always been there, like their carts have every right to take half the road.

Vendors in Harare

On my way to Rusape, a deaf man got on the bus and gave people a paper with his credentials endorsed by a disability organisation to read and give him alms. I simply shook my head without even reading the paper because he reeked of alcohol. I found it quite disrespectful that he would go and splurge people’s hard-earned cash on alcohol, then come back to ask for more. He showed me a coin, indicating that’s all he was asking for. I shook my head again and his face displayed murderous rage.

It is a common occurrence for beggars to bum a ride on public transport, collect some change, get off on one station, and find another bus to continue the cycle. No sooner than the first beggar has alighted than the next one gets on the bus and starts singing pitiful church hymns that tug at your heartstrings and make you want to dig deep into your pockets. However, even if you are a compassionate passenger, there are instances when you have to tighten your fists. It’s impossible to save everyone. On my way to Harare an emaciated man also got on the bus, and a few minutes out of Rusape, he stood up and started narrating how he had been a bus driver but had had to quit working after he was diagnosed with cancer. He asked for money to be able to feed his family and moved from the front of the bus to the back with an open palm, collecting coins. He even gave out his phone number, citing that he was aware of the cash crisis so those without hard cash could do mobile transfers. There I was sitting with my sunglasses and bright lipstick. When he got to me, he must have thought he had hit the jackpot because he lifted the leg of his trousers and announced, “Honaiwo zvakaita gumbo rangu izvi,” (Look at what has become of my leg.)  I quickly closed my eyes inside the sunglasses and never saw a thing. While I understood his plight, I didn’t think it was necessary for him to shock people into donating. I actually thought it was unfair and a little aggressive.

HOME IS WHERE THE LOVE IS

One of the sausage and cheese eating dogs, Rusty

While standing somewhere with my two friends, a kombi which was parked near us wouldn’t start. Two men that were in it requested a push. My friends laughed at their audacity to ask ladies for a push, but the men were really desperate. I said, “Absolutely!” and helped push the vehicle. They managed to drive off. My friends were laughing at me and I didn’t care. I was just so happy to be home I didn’t know what to do with myself. 

I was surrounded by so much love from my parents, friends, and total strangers, I felt like singing, “Love is all around me” by Wet Wet Wet. I wished I had a huge jar to can all that love to then take in small doses upon my return to the lacklustre life here.  One woman I sat next to on the bus bought about 20 mint sweets. She gave me 10. I was surprised because I’m not used to such gestures from strangers. When I reached my destination and she was still proceeding, I remembered to say thank you again for the sweets. There was never a dull day for a whole week. Friends visited, I visited some and treasured every moment, though I unfortunately had to come back without seeing some people I would have loved to see too because of limited time. Even my parents’ big dogs went crazy with joy when they saw me. They are heavy, yet they like standing on their two legs for hugs. One can easily fall from their weight. They eat lots of meat, sausages, cheese, and all the good food you can think off. My father heads out to OK supermarket every morning around 6 to collect leftovers from the restaurant. He had many stories to tell about the people that he meets there while queuing for dog food. Some of the people actually take the food home to eat. There was also talk of stray cats also hovering for the same.

My parents and friends overfed me! There was always good food being sourced every day and I couldn’t say no.

My father makes the best Maputi nzungu combo ever!

They would have been offended and I also didn’t want to miss out on food that wasn’t readily available in Swaziland. I ate magogoya, maputi, mawuyu, masawu, and drank maheu. I even managed to smuggle all those things and more back to Swaziland for my family. My special diet went out the window. My friends took me out and I ate everything I wasn’t supposed to eat. When they were done feeding me, they gave me gifts. I got lots of homemade peanut butter from a childhood friend and a cutlery set from another. People were tripping over themselves trying to make me happy, and I lapped it all up!  I possibly gained two or more kilogrammes in one week, but it would have been worth it. I didn’t weigh myself upon returning because I wasn’t going to allow a scale to ruin my precious moments at home. I do hope that one day I will also be able to treat my friends as they treated me.  I didn’t even tell them about the burnout I’d suffered but they somehow just managed to help get rid of it. A holiday at a resort would not have made me feel as good as those people made me.For a whole week I woke up late and did absolutely nothing but talk, eat, cook sometimes, and walk a little. It was lovely. When my parents spoke to me, I would listen attentively, knowing I’d miss these real conversations. It also was a window to their everyday life. I even swapped cross stitch patterns with my mom. When my week was up, I left home feeling rejuvenated and ready to trample snakes and scorpions. Air Zimbabwe allows 40kg baggage. I had about 45kgs of treats I wouldn’t find in Swaziland. Fortunately I got to the airport early and was able to weigh my luggage well in advance of check-in. I shoved the excess 5kg into my large handbag and felt like my own hero!