Her Name Was Sharolid

"Abiria wote wa Maseno, Mumias, Migori, ingieni kwa hii basi ya Kisumu. Hakuna basi ingine inakuja, hii ndiyo itawapeleka". The obviously Luo voice rang over the microphone. I’m allowed to say that. Mimi ni mmoja wao as I came to realize sometime around the last general elections. The announcements were followed by a string of other efforts at humour. "Tafadhali usikubali kukula chakula kutoka kwa mwenye humjui barabarani. Mtu akitaka kukupatia sambusa hata kama uko na njaa aje, usikubali. Unaeza kuamkia Sambia." Yes Sambia, the country somewhere in Central Africa.

See a week ago, my grandmother had called me and given me the description of the 20 year old who'd be sharing my house for a while. I was told to look out for a slender girl, with lines braided towards the back, wearing a purple skirt suit and carrying nothing. “Dana, onge gima oting’o?” (Grandma, carrying nothing?). Yes, carrying nothing. Apparently her ‘husband’ had discovered that she had acquired a city job and being against her leaving, he’d grabbed her bag, and she’d only just managed to jump onto a matatu for the trip to the bus stop in Busia. She was coming on the Busia bus. Easy Coach. She'd be arriving at 4pm. I needed to be there because she had never been to Nairobi. Never been to Nairobi? I'll take her!!! I can mould her into anything I want her to be, I can get her to become the best in the business. The endless possibilities. She never would need days off. She had no family to visit. And the biggest one, all she had asked for as her monthly wages was 2k. Two thousand Kenyan shillings. Heck! I gave her a welcome to Nairobi raise on the spot. “Nitakulipa 2,5." Two thousand five hundred shillings. As I planned the vain expenditure I’d incur with the extra cash I was now saving from my house help salary budget line. I like that. I like her. And her Never-been-to-Nairobi. And so I picked her up.

"Gosh, don't be a victim like me!" Then they burst into their peals of laughter AGAIN. "Me I was used and then dumped. The stress!  You’re not seeing the way I've lost weight. I'm looking nice ya?" said the thinner taller one. I'll call her Dama. She looks like a Damaris. "Enyewe you look hot, your so thin." replied the shorter chubbier one called Shiro. She talked like a Shiro. She picks up her phone and checks her text messages impatiently. "Nowadays I'm wiser. Me I've found a bank. I'm going to milk him for everything he has. No more dating losers." I wondered if there was anywhere else I could have stood in the expansive bus park. Why on earth was I torturing myself with Dama and Shiro. But I couldn't budge. I stood still, and so did time. I wanted the jang’o guy to say it. Just say it. Add the bad jokes, but for crying out loud, just SAY IT! “Gosh how long have you been around? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” Dama replied sweetly, “Aki sweetie si you just know the way I am. Sipendagi kusema.” And yes, they laughed again. A happy duo these two were.

Allow me to take you back a little. See I had this other househelp called Sarah. Well that's what we thought she was called, but really her name was Serapia Pascal Mlanga. She was my high maintenance expatriate househelp from Tanzania. She was the best. I thought. She could whip up some mean herbal chapatis and mandazis. She was easy on the eyes, and my baby absolutely adored her. When I got home from work, I was greeted with a polite curtsy, “Shikamoo Mama Nia”. She was sent straight from Househelp’s Paradise and I loved her to bits!! Still I blame her. I blame her for Nia's perfect Swahili and two words of English. I also blame her for making my child one of those estate children. You know the ones everyone knows. The barber, the charcoal guy, the kiosk guy, the bamba50 guy. See, I discovered that Serapia had fixed her eyes on the textile industry and was only just transitioning in the domestic world. And in my absence she had been hawking lesos door to door, Nia in tow, all over the estate. So sadly, the herbal chapatis and Serapia had to go.

But back to now. "Now why isn't this guy replying. He is supposed to Mpesa me some cash. I gave him some fake story about how I need 2K pronto for some college thing." Insert Hi5's and more laughter here. "But today I'm going to kunywa till I drop!!!" Laughter again. Dama seems to admire Shiro's sneaky gold digging ways. I'm looking at both of them and wondering almost out loud, "Who is your mother?!!!". Shiro continued, “Unajua niliamua kuachana na Jeff kwanini? Imagine he used to share with his mother everything. Imagine ata ma sisters wake walikuwa wanajua everything about us.” “Acha!” That was me in my head. But Dama’s answer couldn’t have been more predictable, “Anaezaje kufanya hivyo, kwani what’s wrong with men nowadays?” And on and on they went about these men nowadays and their shortcomings.

So back to that day, the Busia bus came, and I picked up my cornrowed purple-suited unbagged girl-child and we drove home. Then came the interview. “Uko na miaka ngapi?” She was 20. Wow! I did the math. She could give me uninterrupted years of hard labour for another 10 years. “Umesoma?” She had somad till Form Two. Good, so she could read the menus and chore schedules I had painstakingly prepared on Excel the day before. “Umewahi kufanya kazi na mtoto?” And the answer came, “Pia mimi niko na mtoto wa 3 years.” Drat. I had to recalculate. Now she’d need Christmas off to go and see her child. Instead of accompanying us on a trip to the Coast, where I’d relax and she’d work, chasing after my spirited toddler. Sigh. Maybe if I gave her 3K she wouldn’t need to go see her child? You think? And then we got home. And then the games began. "Mama Nia, unawasha hii aje?" That was the gas cooker. "Mama Nia, unatumia hii aje?" That was the toilet. "Mama Nia, unafungua hii aje?" That was the tap. "Mama Nia, unafunga hii aje?" That was a diaper. "Mama Nia, hii ni nini?" That's the television. "Mama Nia, hii kitu ni ya nini?" Thats the iron. I had to remind myself, that eventually it would pay off to have a loyal, never-been-to-Nairobi househelp. It will be fine, it will be fine.

"Abiria wote wa Kisumu, Maseno, Mumia, basi ndio hii." The voice rang over the microphone again. Scaring me back into reality. "Sharo, usijali. Tukishamalizana na hii mambo ya harusi, tutakupigia urudi." I lied. It was just one in the string of lies I had told that evening.

We had been doing the "hii ni nini?" routine for about 4 days now, and it was becoming apparent that my bid to develop Loyal Househelp 2.0 was failing. My patience had run out and I'd had it with eating boiled sukuma wiki. I wanted my herbal chapatis and chinese rice. But not with Serapia the Hawker. There had to be another way. Maybe I could take my purple-suited girl to cooking class. But then we'd still have to overcome the flushing the toilet part. That morning, my 8am sleep was interrupted by Nia's screams of "Moto! Moto!" I jumped out of my bed and ran to her direction. No, not a fire. Boiling hot water, and Nia in it, apparently taking a bath.

And that was it. Hours later Nia was safely on her way to Grandma's, and I sat down with HB and delivered the news. "Sharo, tumeamua tukuachishe kazi. Tuko na mambo mingi sasa za harusi, na Nia ameenda kuishi na Nyanyake, kwa hivyo hatukuhitaji. Panga vitu vyako, tukupeleke kwa basi." Her countenance changed in a split second. I didn't know what to expect. "Sasa nitapanga nini, na sikukuja na kitu?"

"Basi ya Kakamega, abiria wanaoenda Kakamega, saa mbili basi yenu ndio hii" rang the now familiar Jang’o voice. I swiftly made for the bus with her in tow. Forgotten are the stories of Dama & Shiro. She was first on the queue, and I was happy. They checked her ticket and she boarded. I told her I'd call to make sure she'd arrived safely. I lied. Again.

Her name was Sharolid.