I wait on my stool while he eats in front of the television in ‘my’ salon. I nod asleep every few seconds. But I have to wait: dirty plates don’t wash themselves at three in the morning, and Shafeek likes using plates. He has more plates than food.
‘Hungry, Meron?’ he asks.
‘Yes, Mister, very hungry.’
‘Why? Don’t you eat enough? We’ve got a fridge full of food.’
I stay silent. It’s a statement not a question, and even if it is a question, I cannot answer it without implicating his mother’s meanness.
‘Chicken leg?’ he asks.
‘Yes, please.’
Shafeek tosses it across. I ravage the leg in seconds, then start on the bones. In Addis, many crack open sheep bones to scoff the soft marrow inside. Me? I’m a chicken bone girl, breaking them open between my teeth to suck out the rich core. I do this without thinking. Shafeek stops watching television.
‘Is that normal?’ he asks on the first occasion.
‘Yes, very normal for me, Mister,’ I reply as splinters of thin bone tumble from my mouth.
‘Your eyes look even bigger when you’re chewing bones.’
I laugh. My body is emitting a joyous sound. I feel guilty.‘Thank you, Mister . . . I’m enjoying this . . . with you.’
‘What are you doing?’ Madame demands suddenly, in her scarlet silk gown.
‘Mother, you aren’t feeding her. She’s eating chicken bones like a dog.’
I laugh again.
‘Right. I’ll see if I can find a collection of old bones for her tomorrow,’ she mutters sarcastically.
‘I think you’ve got a few, Mum,’ slurs Shafeek, still a little drunk.
Madame pauses. I duck quickly onto my mattress with my own tired bones hanging together under a stocking of skin. As I drift back to sleep, I hear Madame scolding Shafeek in the hall:
‘When will you get married and give me some rest? Your age is going fast . . . it’ll be too late soon . . . it’s your turn to find a woman, have a child and leave my house!’
Shafeek needs a wife and a baby. This cues my usual dream: I marry Shafeek and dine on his bones, leaving me unsure if I am pregnant, or bloated on his bone marrow, or my stomach is distended from hunger. I awake with the blanket in my mouth and an appetite that an entire carcass could not sate.
5am, seventh day. New career as a downtrodden maid continues unabated. Only 814 days to go. No word from my mother yet. It feels like a year since I saw her. She was right to mourn me early. But a second mourning might just kill her: the first was hard enough.
The Last Photograph
Only a month after my swimming success in the Ghion pool, it was Nati’s fourth birthday. My father ordered a family photo to celebrate the day: we were rich enough to pay a professional photographer for such an event, but Dad’s health could not be bought. Bed-ridden with a chest infection, he was racked with vicious chills, an escalating fever and an alarming difficulty in breathing. Each time he wheezed, I thought a locomotive was scraping through the station’s points as it switched onto a corroded siding. His barrel of a chest pumped away like fire bellows and generated a thirst on him that demanded a large jug of water be filled every half an hour, the drinking followed by crippling bouts of hiccups.
The friendly doctor had visited us two hours earlier and said, ‘He’ll be fine.’ Doctors in Addis never told their patients the bad news: it didn’t help anyone to know the worst, and anticipated death had a negative effect on the demand for expensive medical treatment. Doctors had to earn a living.
My mother was dressing us in our best clothes when the iron knocker clanged on the back gate.
‘Doctor’s already been. Too early for the photographer,’ she muttered.
‘Almaze is going to the gate, Mum,’ I said.
A minute later, she hurried back.
‘Tadelle to see Master . . .’
‘Why? What’s he doing here again? He knows Lemma’s sick,’ said Mum.
‘I don’t know . . . he with a woman.’
‘Woman? Okay, get on with your work, I’ll see them.’
My mother sighed and headed for the gate. I ran behind her, the way I did when Dad’s sleek grey diesel train pulled in, horn blasting, our gate flying open to cheer in its arrival, only fifty metres away.
‘Hello? What do you want?’ demanded Mum at the closed gates.
‘How is he?’ I heard from an effeminate male voice, or a masculine female voice, I couldn’t be sure. ‘He’s a very good man . . . I hope he’s not suffering . . . I can’t forget what he did for me . . .never in my life, never . . .’
I looked up at the reedy voice as the gate opened.
Tadelle immediately leant towards me to stroke my freshly plaited head.
‘Tadelle, don’t touch her! Lemma’s very ill. You can’t see him.’
‘I know I can’t . . . I wouldn’t be so insensitive . . . how could I . . . but this woman is anxious to see him . . . and with good good reason . . .’ he gabbled slightly deliriously.
Beside Tadelle stood a typical country woman in a long beige dress, white shawl and purple front-knotted headscarf, all completely unco-ordinated in both colour and pattern. Her skin had the familiar glow of a field-hand, slow-cooked during countless harvests under the Oromo sun.‘Eh? Who? Who are you? Where are you from?’ pressed Mum.
‘I’m Kebebush from Woliso.’
My father was from Woliso, a country backwater town mainly concerned with the business of roses and other exportable flowers.
‘Woliso! Why? What’s the matter? Is his mother sick?’
‘No, no, she’s fine. I think he told you about me . . . I’m Lemma’s ex-wife.’
‘Eh? Ex-wife? What are you doing here? I haven’t got time for talking to his ex-wife . . . he’s a sick man, I have to care for him . . . and it’s my son’s fourth birthday. I’ve got two other young children . . . too busy for this . . . the photographer is coming. Just go!’
Tadelle seemed perturbed by her impatient manner. His chewing speed increased from a steady grind to an urgent gnaw. The egg-like side of his face convulsed faster than my eyes could follow.
‘Go? Why? Why are you so angry? Please calm down. She’s come a long way, Werknesh . . . maybe you can give her food and drink . . . and me . . . we’re all brothers and sisters in God’s eyes, remember? Sharing the world’s riches . . . our planet spinning on mutual kindnesses . . . fellow humans toiling . . .’
‘Yes, yes, all nice words, but I’m not sure what you really want . . . or her . . .’
‘Yes, it’s such merciful coincidence,’ continued Tadelle, ‘thanks to the Lord. She was sleeping on my floor for a modest rent, selling her chicken and kale and eggs in the Merkato . . . on her monthly visit . . . and mentioned Lemma . . . Lemma! I said I worked with him on the railways but he’s sick, horribly sick, and here we are, delivered by the hand of the Lord, on urgent business . . .’
‘It’s really important I see him, before he’s taken. Let me in,’ stated Kebebush bluntly, a country woman speaking without Addis finesse.
Mum looked at both of them.
‘Go . . . a . . . way,’ she said in such a low steady voice that only an explosion could possibly follow.
Tadelle and Kebebush backed out quickly through our gate, Mum walloping it shut after them with a loud clunk.
‘Where’s the love of God in this house?’ shouted Tadelle over the gate. ‘She’s your sister, not the Devil! Are you mad? I need nourishment . . . chicken . . . chat . . . anything. Do not forsake your fellow human . . . God is watching!’
Mum stormed back into the house. I trailed in behind, grinning at Tadelle’s performance. With help from Auntie Kidist, she hurriedly prepared birthday popcorn, candles, bread and coffee ceremony around my father’s bed.
‘Now, my family . . . time f
or the special photograph,’ panted my father as the photographer arrived.
Dad’s hands were trembling. Mum was too angry to speak. Click, click, click went the camera. But bouncing on my father’s mattress, I was oblivious to the grave nature of Dad’s sickness and Mum’s quiet rage; I thought the day was great fun. Life was becoming more brilliant by the minute. How fortuitous was I!
Three days later, Dad died of pneumonia. Mum told me he had been called away to Dire Dawa for work, and wouldn’t return. Whatever the reason, God’s illogicality baffled me. Why take my father away at that time? When we loved him so much? When things were so good? What was His reasoning? Why pick on us? Why?
But the logic of a six-year-old held fast. At least we had the photo, luckily snapped just in time. Happiness conserved forever within an image, reproduced and magnified countless times in my mind. Ten years later, I lie on a mattress in Beirut, clinging to that image.
In these strange surroundings, a new perspective occurs to me: if he hadn’t died, I wouldn’t be in Lebanon today. That is certain. I wouldn’t be the person I am today. As always, God must have had His reasons, yet to be revealed.
True Nature of my Hosts (730 days left)
I exchanged Addis for Beirut but I cannot say I am really here. It is a peculiar world, floating high above a land I expect never to enter or explore or enjoy. Sweeping the dust off the balcony every morning, I can see the city where the dust originates, but I cannot touch that place. Dirt accumulates beneath my fingernails quickly: the discarded dead cells of living beings, from a distant planet. We do not interact, Beirut and I: Beirut means nothing to me. I, in turn, mean nothing to Beirut. Within Beirut, I am an ant, if anything at all.
The third month in Beirut crawls past, ant-like, mostly on my hands and knees. Mum, you always talked about His reasons and His reasoning but I am overdue an explanation. What am I doing here?
After the first three probationary months, finishing tomorrow, I will be contractually bound without a let-out clause. At least the money will be accumulating. Yes, the money. Did I really come here just for that? Why did I have to see Selam that day? Did she go through this to look like that? How many Habesha girls have made the same mistake? This is madness. It cannot be part of God’s plan. I am confounded.
Beti said things might worsen the moment the contract is signed. ‘They take advantage, sister, if you’re not strong,’ she said on the flight. And I’m not ‘strong’. I’ve withered substantially. My head hangs naturally now. I look at people’s shoes first and then the floor they are walking on. Those shoes need polishing and that floor wants mopping, before the vicious white socks come round again. The hanging head is reminiscent of my mother when she mourns: we have the same faulty hinge in our necks that works loose in the face of misery. But my hinge is threatening to give way altogether. If I hold out my hands, maybe I’ll catch my own head. And Broken Neck has earned precisely nothing so far.
‘Meron, come here now! Checking your weight.’
Go and weigh yourself.
‘Fifty kilos . . . you lost eight kilos in three months. Must feel much better now.’
‘I get really hungry . . .’ I start weakly.
‘I only thinking of you, Meron,’ says Madame. I very much doubt she ever thinks of me.
‘Thank you, Madame,’ I say, watching her eat a bowl of rice and stale salad in the kitchen. When alone, she eats plain food that excites nobody, except possibly me.
‘We only have fantastic food one or two times a week . . . Friday and Sunday, fish and lamb . . . Never waste money on fancy food for yourself, Meron,’ she says. ‘Just eat enough to keep going. You need stay thin so you can work well. Look at me! I eat same as you. My body good and very beautiful . . . no?’
‘Yes, Madame, it is.’
It really is. She is a woman in her fifties with a pair of high-bouncing basketballs for buttocks. I can’t deny that. Her body is much better than Mum’s.
‘Fancy food is like fancy clothes . . . bring out when have guests, not waste on yourself or your family. Show guests great food and great clothes, and they believing you always live like king and . . .’ She pauses as Nazia enters the kitchen.
‘Meron!’ shouts Madame suddenly. ‘Why you staring at me, again? Go and clean Mister Abdul’s bathroom . . . he come home soon!’
Nazia looks at me until I slope away. This happens often now. Glints of Madame’s humanity interrupted: she reverts back to the tyrant act, the act Nazia expects of her. What is this?
The phone rings. Nuria is in hospital for the birth of her second baby. It might be Hassan calling with news of the birth. Nazia runs to answer it in the small salon, but she always runs to the house phone. Is it possible that she has somebody?
‘Hello?’ she says, followed by a stunned pause. ‘You want to speak to Meron? Why? Who’s calling? What do you want?’
She repeats everything slowly. It has to be from Ethiopia. I jog towards the salon. Three months since I left Addis and my mother must be desperate for contact by now, assuming the letters haven’t arrived. Could it be her? My heart pounds against my ribcage as if trying to escape.
‘How did you get this number?’ demands Nazia into the phone.
I stand in front of her patiently. Nazia clutches the phone tightly. My right hand is suspended in mid-air stubbornly, the way beggars’ hands hang in the air for years and years outside Addis churches.
‘Just tell me, why are you calling?’ Nazia continues. ‘She’s not here anyway . . . Meron’s gone.’
She smacks down the phone hard enough to shatter it.
‘Who was that? Who’s this guy trying to contact you?’ she asks furiously.
I stay silent. Maybe Nati, but how would he get this number?
‘I’m telling my mother about this,’ she continues.
‘You can,’ I say, faking nonchalance.
I don’t want Nazia glorying in my distress. But equally, I hate festering anger. I run immediately to confront Madame before Nazia can get to her.
‘Madame, Nazia stopped me from speaking to an Ethiopian friend . . . she hung up! It’s not fair!’
Madame tries hard to reconcile her environment. It is her kitchen in her apartment and her servant is speaking to her like an equal.
‘What? Ta gueule!’ she exclaims.‘You’re not treating me like a person!’ I continue, ignoring her order to shut up, and switching to Arabic.
Three months and I’m practically fluent. Nobody seems to have noticed. I speak to Madame in Arabic and she insists on replying in flawed English, as if unable to accept my mastery of her language.
‘Allah! Why you think you here, Meron . . . for me to serve you? You not paid to sit and enjoy my apartment and use my telephone. You are servant! You forget this?’
‘No, Madame.’
If only Shafeek was here to protect me.
‘So clean bathroom, then you clean balcony again . . . there are coffee stains, as usual . . . they never seem to go.’
Spilt black coffee on the pink-hued stones leaves marks like the oil stains I used to see on La Gare’s workshop floor. I remember those splashes of black tar like old friends: evidence of human endeavour. They never disappeared and nobody ever tried to clean them. But Madame hates all stains. For her, other people are stains waiting to happen. I roll my eyes unapologetically at her.
‘And tidy your face . . . now!’ she screeches.
Nazia grins, her braces glint. But I stand my ground. There are too many injustices being heaped on me.
‘Madame, I’ve had no reply to my letters to Ethiopia . . . eight sent since I arrived . . . and nothing from my mother . . .’
All eight letters I have handwritten and passed to Madame. Admittedly, the Ethiopian postal system is run along the same lines as the lottery, with just a few lucky winners each week. But I can’t help wondering if the eight le
tters didn’t even reach the hands of the Beirut Post Office.
‘Eh? Why you telling me? I not run postal service for you. Go and do some work or we sending you home like letters, before contract signing . . . tomorrow!’
I keep quiet. God, I need that money: to provide some flimsy rationale for all this. I cannot afford outrage. Things will get better, I’m sure. They have to. They have to.
*
Next day, the contract is signed and we are into a two-year term. I feel like it’s an achievement: I have done hard labour for three months on zero pay. Today, the money flows in. At three dollars per day, it’s more of a gradual moistening than a flash-flood, but nonetheless I want to share this news with someone.
I call Beti when the apartment is vacated. Her number is local: Madame can’t detect the call.
‘Beti? Is that you?’
‘Meron? Meron! I been trying to contact you for three months, sister! Yesterday, a friend called your place, Habesha guy, said you’d gone. I been worrying so much! You didn’t come to any Sunday services. I heard nothing from you. What’s up, girl?’
‘We signed the two-year contract today, but Beti, I think they’re starving me to death . . . I’m hungry all the time, I get no rest, they scream at me . . .’
‘I hear you, sister . . . that’s our life in an Arab country . . . but the men try to touch you, you gotta cry and wail till they’re gone. They hate histrionics. You can act, can’t you?’
‘Yes, Beti, I can act and I can lie. But I’m weak. Beti, I need food.’
‘You losing weight fast then?’
‘I get their three-day-old food and rubbery rice. Bread is turning green or it’s so hard I have to dunk it in tea to get my teeth into it . . . and fresh fruit? Forget about it. Madame has me on the scales every few days and now it’s dropping off. I probably look like a mop . . . I’m too scared to look in the mirror.’
‘Relax, sister, relax. Let me ask you something . . . the responsibility for your welfare rests upon whom?’
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