There is a gleam of light for the kids now. They are happy and slightly livened up by that tinge of hope, even as Okechukwu’s fragile body continues to shiver with cold.
Eleven
The next day, Mama Ngozi comes to Lady D.’s house for further discussions. The same evening, after all introductions and clarifications have been made, Cynthia and Okechukwu are willing to go home with Mama Ngozi. They are going to live with Mama Ngozi’s family and “assist” her with the house chores, as Mama Ngozi puts it.
As they drive to her Isolo home, which is quite a journey, it is all silence in the army green Mercedes Benz. Though greatly relieved by this gesture, the kids are uneasy all the time and are uncertain of their fate. Mama Ngozi is sober and in deep thought as she drives. Her home in Isolo, which is in a special reserve and is a well maintained neighborhood, will take a while to reach.
When Lady D. noted that Mama Ngozi did not have any help at this time, it is not as if she could not afford helps. She can, as much as she cares to. In fact, altogether Mama Ngozi has grappled with seven house helpers so far. She can afford as much aids as she wishes, and she needs them, too, because she is not a particularly meticulous woman who can do excellent housekeeping.
From the time she had her first baby, Ngozi, Mama Ngozi has employed the services of many young men and women—named Anna, Emmanuel, Charity, Tony, Martha, Agnes, and lately Sebastian—as house help at various times. What actually happened with the seven is simply various levels of incompatibility.
To start with, the house help has to drop whatever unpronounceable native name they come with and take up a new English name to suit Mama Ngozi’s preference. She does not want to have to “bite off her tongue” in an attempt to pronounce the name of a common maid, as she explains it. Her mind is washed with a poor servility to the English ways, which she erroneously considers superior to the African style. This is Mama Ngozi’s person, style, and rule. And she likes to rule. Her house help, being mere servants, are but purchases she can afford to do with as she pleases, and so she will give them whatever name and treat them however she desires.
Mama Ngozi is completely bossy and can be a hard-driving boss. The seven former servants all suffered one form of maltreatment or the other. But of course, they are the ones that perceive Mama Ngozi as not so wonderful.
Ask Mama Ngozi for her opinion, and she will probably go on and to illustrate how good she has been to them. She is likely not going to miss the common condescending phrase of having “picked them up from the gutters, brush and clean them”, only for their response to be ingratitude. This is her own opinion of herself, and this is how she sees it.
But in fairness and understanding, it would do to describe Mama Ngozi’s character a little farther.
She is one such person who hinges her core existence and value on money. She thinks—not consciously though, and never intending to hurt anybody—that money is everything, so she believes even if she steps on, tramples, or throws anybody about, as far as her money is involved, the person need not complain. Anyone who complains of pains or smothering in her hands is surely ungrateful and not seeing the favors or privileges she has laid for them.
Due to the popular poverty of the mind that dwindles contentment, occasioned mostly by deprived sentiments regarding self, money, and willpower; riches are only seen in a few hands. Woe betides the unfortunate fellow that does not have what it takes to accumulate money, because not many will want to pity somebody living in self-pity and financial weakness. Mama Ngozi knows this and does not at all find anything funny in poverty. Neither would she take it easy on anyone without a great means of livelihood. She knows very well that money is not found in many hands that desire to rule it, so she likes to rule her own money and her world on her own terms.
Human slavery is still abolished in the records, and freedom for all has been declared, but the classes of rich and poor remains. Mama Ngozi likes class a lot, enjoying it like nothing else. She firmly believes she can only get richer and never poorer. Such is the mindset that formed her, and she brings it to play most times in her relationships, especially with people of lesser wealth and financial prowess.
The strange, secret euphoria of bullying still remains in the dark side of the heart, largely exploited by some rich and powerful in society in display of financial power, because money wields a lot of power. Even though Mama Ngozi or her husband might not bid for slaves in any public market if given the opportunity—and she being such a “practicing” Christian, greatly honored in the church in virtue of her financial-cum-spiritual influence and contributions—it is rather a disharmony of character to note that she pays little or no attention to how her glorious luxury affects others within her personal relationships.
This is who Mama Ngozi is, and whoever comes to live with her family usually has a unique but similar story to tell. Stories differ only in personal interpretation and language. Two of the ex-house helpers, Tony and Charity, are quite outspoken and usually have a field day of open discussion any time they can steal an opportunity. These two are quite different from the rest.
Their employments were within the period Mama Ngozi had her last baby; Charity came before Tony. But they did not quite last two years in their jobs. Tony was the cook, and Charity was the housekeeper at the time. Charity is a Ghanaian and speaks the regular, effortful Queen’s English in her Ghanaian accent, while Tony, a half-baked Nigerian in terms of his level of education, speaks frequently in the typical local Pidgin English. Both are Mama Ngozi’s best records because of their demonstrated sensibility.
Charity, an immigrant living in Nigeria with her husband and kids at the time, found official employment at Mama Ngozi’s via an earlier application she made. She received wages on a weekly basis. Tony, on the other hand, was merely recommended by some acquaintance needing help. He had been employed on a pity-pack, was less educated, and was thus paid a lot less than Charity. His unfortunately, was more a weekly tip-off than a wage. However, both were very committed to their duties.
On one Sunday afternoon, about two months before their individual resignations, they had a rather thought-provoking argument. This was about five years ago, when Ngozi was six years old.
Mama Ngozi, with her husband and kids, had gone out earlier in the day. It was to be a casual relaxation outing to an amusement park. They do that often, both for themselves and for their kids, who always request outings to the parks. Sundays are usually the only day her husband is available for such an excursion.
That day, Tony and Charity were feeling lucky to be alone in the house, as was often possible only from time to time. It was indeed a little time of freedom.
Tony wanted to see a program on the large screen TV in the living room with this given opportunity, but to his disappointment, Charity quickly reminded him that he was still the servant, even in the absence of their employers, and he was not allowed to enjoy such a luxury in the house. She said that half-jokingly and half-seriously, but she surely made her point.
Tony would not take that response from her. His reaction to Charity’s reprimand was surprisingly fervent, in a bid to defend and utilize his rarely given chance of liberty. He retorted sharply, promptly telling Charity not to censor him. Charity returned his fervor accordingly, telling him not to be a pretender that behaved well only under supervision; they both knew the rules of the house, after all.
But this afternoon, Charity’s action, rather pointlessly in her opinion, upset Tony despite the fact that they have always known and lived by the rules of the house, which most have not been so favorable toward them.
In the heat of his provocation, Tony outlandishly went into a terrible outburst that was rather uncalled for in Charity’s opinion, still lamenting his bad luck in having come from a poor home. Charity was not finding it palatable at all, and before long a serious debate ensued between them. They rigmarole almost through every part of the hous
e in their arguments. Charity would give a contrary view to Tony’s argument, and Tony would chase after her in his usual character of wanting to maximize audience and attention. To keep one thing or the other in her housekeeping activities, she would walk into a room working and talking at the same time, and Tony would just follow, defending his argument. From the living room, they moved to the children’s rooms to the verandah, downstairs to the basement, and now back upstairs in the kitchen, which seemed to be where they were finally settling for their last bits.
In reply to Tony’s fuss, Charity said, “But would you blame anyone for being rich? What stops you from being rich, too? Wouldn’t you rather allow somebody to enjoy their wealth in peace, without having to remind them that there are others like you who wouldn’t even find half a decent meal in a whole year? As if you want them to feel guilty of their wealth, which they acquired by their devoted work!” Making accurate that the “but”, “stops”, “allow”, “somebody”, “others” and “acquired” in her lines are well-pronounced by her Ghanaian habit as ‘bat’, ‘staps’, ‘ellaw’, sambady’, ‘athers’ and ‘ecquired’. She bit at him angrily with her words, irritated by Tony’s reaction and stressing her own opinion passionately, paying little regard to his eruptive fuss.
With a similar passion, Tony threw back at her, “I no blame them o. Abeg no talk say me I dey blame Madam or Oga o! Na me do myself?” he asked rhetorically. “Na me say make I be poor like this? No be me o, Madam Charity, no be me! This one wey you wan’ be my small madam this afternoon, come dey talk to me like this, abeg o.” He stopped briefly, throwing his two arms apart in a dramatic pleading gesture. “Madam Charity na poverty wey carry me put for my Mama Belle o! You hear am? Na poverty! Them come born me for inside the poverty like that, and on top of that, come call me Ubiam!” he explained bitterly. “How you come take dey blame me like this? I no blame anybody abeg! Na poverty wey I dey blame.” He finished mournfully.
But Charity would not join in his pity-party. She objected still and continued in her characteristic, well-punctuated accent. “They didn’t cause it, did they? Inequality is inevitable, but you choose where or what to be. After all, it is all the same world, same life, same environment, and same opportunity for everyone. Yet some come out rich and grow richer, while some come out poor and get even poorer. I don’t understand why you are lamenting and calling yourself poor. You should be content with what you have.” She sermonized superlatively, sounding so unperturbed.
But Tony attacked her again, highly embittered even more by her obvious lack of physical aggression. “Na you dey talk to me like this abi na wetin? Wetin dey worry you sef? If ‘im be say you dey fine, wetin’ you come dey do for this house so tey you no wan walka go see your pikin’ them wey dey your house dey wait for you?” He asked this very angrily and with the intention of diminishing her usual impeccability, snubbing her superior demeanor. He didn’t like the position she was taking in this argument.
But Charity continued with her opinion, not minding Tony’s taunt. She spoke very freely and easily, having her emphatic accent well punctuated as always, especially around her accent of “am’, “not”, “that”, “much”, “job”, “happy” and “become”, which are produced as ‘em’,’nat’, ‘thet’, ‘mach’, ‘jab’, ‘heppy’ and ‘becam’. Her accent is more to Tony’s further dismay of his academic status, it seemed, even without her slightly being aware of it. She was only speaking in her natural way.
“I am only here temporarily to support my family, and I am not complaining. You know that much, because very soon I am going to quit this for a better job. But if you are not happy with yourself, why didn’t you become rich, if you say you are poor? Is it that you are too lazy to work, or that you are not smart enough?” She poked at him with that last question, being certain that the question would upset him all the more—and it did. But she continued. “Perhaps you are not even interested in the so-called riches and wealth, which explains why you are not thinking about how to get out of your self-acclaimed poverty. Why even complain like this?”
At this, Tony got so mad at her and defended himself even more loudly. “I don’ tell you before, say no be me do am. Wetin’ be your own sef? Wetin’ I do say I come this world dey suffer like this? Na me do myself? Charity, no dey talk to me like that o!” he warned. “I no like am at all the way you dey talk like this, as if say you no understand. Na me tell myself make I no go school? Na me say make my mama and papa wey dey village no get money? No dey talk like that to me abeg. I take God name dey beg you.”
But Charity still would not give up or mind his outcry. She went on with her argument, trying hard to convince and correct Tony, who to her was unnecessarily antagonistic because of his fate. “In that case, and since you don’t want me to tell you the truth, I should go and finish my work in the living room. Don’t follow me again, please; because it seems to me that you like poverty. That’s why you are defending it, isn’t it? Poverty must be glorious, indeed! That’s why you like it,” she said sarcastically and mockingly. “I am tired of this conversation in fact, but before I go, just know that poverty is a simple choice, possibly made even in satisfaction by some people! If you like, call yourself poor. I am not poor at all. I am simply not as wealthy as some people are now, and I am working here to support my family and myself. I am content, knowing that I have to do my best to become better. Would you blame somebody for her choice if she refuses to work hard? And would you blame someone else for another person’s choice?” She concluded another round of sermon, and with a touch of her own emotions this time, giving no damn to Tony’s pettiness and leaving him speechless.
Tony, whose argument was suddenly weakened by her sense of exactness and the combination of her deep words and sincerity, found himself sounding less defensive now. But he said in redirection, still defending himself and still lamenting, “I no blame you. my sister o! In fact, I no blame anybody. I hear you well-well, and you get point for that your talk.” He was a bit calmer this time as he explained, “The thing be just say me I don’ suffer well-well for this world and inside this poverty!” He now took a brief moment of dramatic wobbles in his native dialect to express his grief magnanimously. All to himself. Then he looked at Charity collectedly and started again. “Poverty wicked well-well!” He wailed, passing his own final verdict on the menace. “Na him I dey blame no be you, so make you no vex.” He pleaded after a little time of calm, trying not to let Charity leave him in annoyance. “I no like ‘pavety,’ abeg!” He mimicked Charity’s accent of the word. “I will always ‘wek hed,’” he explained further, as if that was the main subject. To that, a terse smile escaped Charity’ set lips.
Tony could be comical sometimes, even in between tears. But now he promised himself silently to improve on being hardworking. He liked Charity, who always told him reality as she saw it, in her very characteristic way of saying exactly what she meant. Even though she could be sarcastic most times, she was also his only real friend and companion around here in his present job.
Charity finally calmed down as well and no longer moved to leave. Tony added, “You know say I like you, Madam Charity, I no go lie. Na ‘im make me dey tell you the thing as it dey pain me so. No be you do am at all. My own name Ubiam, even come bad well-well, pass everything so tey ‘im com make Madam change am sharp-sharp!” He said this bitterly. Then he took another brief but dramatic second to mimic Mama Ngozi, as he remembered how she had changed his name to Tony.
Charity could not help but laugh out uncontrollably at his fine attempt to appear haughty like Mama Ngozi.
But then, after a while of allowing their body-rattling laughter to settle, Charity reminded him that her own name was changed, too. Picking on a generality of Mama Ngozi’s style and actions, Charity advised Tony not to complain much, since he was not alone in the inglorious fate. She had come to the house bearing the name Ekuwa, one of the unique, native Ghanaian names for people born on a Wedn
esday. But now she has been christened Charity by Mama Ngozi, making her suspend the use of her birth name, despite whatever meaning or sentimental attachment she may have had for it.
Tony said, “Anyway, I know say you get point. You get point well-well for that your talk. I go try make I no go dey complain like that again. But the problem be say, many people dey poor for this my country. The thing tire me come dey vex me well-well. The thing dey pain me well-well!” he drawled. Then he stirred his body weakly toward the far corner of the kitchen where there was an adjoining dining table, surrounded by its accompanying chairs. Both the table and chairs were elegant pieces of beautiful art crafts, made of tasteful and obviously expensive combination of the finest wood, linen, and woolen materials—the top trend in vogue at the time. Taking a moment to lower himself on one of the chairs, Tony analyzed his thoughts once again. “Well, me I learn something from your talk.” Then, he slowly drifted into a deeper thought for a brief moment, after which he looked at Charity appreciatively.
“But you dey hard my sister o. Haba! How come you dey talk like say you no get problem? I wonder o! You strong pass me o, because the truth be say the thing dey pain me well-well. Im dey pain me well-well, so tey I dey even hate my mama and papa sef, for bringing me to this world just to dey suffer-suffer!” He confided to her, admiring her strong determination. Tony was evidently unhappy with himself, and it did not escape Charity’s notice.
But not yet done with what she had for him, she still went on to buttress her points, refusing to soften up for him. Compelled by the object of her speech, Charity glided across the kitchen toward Tony at the dining table in the same manner a metal attracts magnets. “The problem is that you complain too much, Tony. You want everybody to pity you just because you say you are poor. This is self-indulgence, my dear.” She admonished him very gently, being careful now to soften the tone of her voice. Looking at him now, Charity could see that Tony was truly battling with himself and his status in life. He seemed to be feeling very sad about it, and Charity was instantly moved with a familiar concern for him. She added in a more conciliatory manner this time, “We all know that things are hard, and not many people are born with silver spoons. If not, I would probably not be here. But it is not the best to ignore yourself or what you can do to make yourself and your condition better, or to keep expecting hope from where there is no hope. You would only be wasting your time, and it won’t make you any happier. Okay now, if nobody is going to pity you, if nobody is going to care for you, then care for yourself! Love yourself, Tony. Love yourself first, so you can do what you’ve got to do!”
One Love, Many Tears Page 11