‘My sponsor family . . . my Madame.’
‘You got that right. So eat her food, sister.’
‘Eat her food? That sounds dangerous.’
‘Listen up . . . life or death? Simple choice . . . eat her food or starve to death, which is it?’
‘I’d prefer not to slowly starve to death. It’s not a good death. What can I eat? Madame checks the garbage every day.’
‘Easy. Tomatoes, bananas, apples, cucumber, olives, carrot . . . fast, cheap, no skin except for bananas . . . you can chuck skins down the toilet. They won’t miss them, no aroma . . . but don’t touch oranges . . . they’re dangerous . . . easy give-away.’
‘Mmm . . . okay . . .’
‘Cram olives into your mouth any time you can . . . spit the pits through the window . . . and cook a potato . . . five minutes in the microwave, she’s your baby.’
‘But what about the potato skin?’
‘Eat it! Just clean and cook and eat! But remember to open the window . . . potatoes have a smell. Don’t bother with rice . . . takes too long. And forget about meat or fish . . . they’re watching all that quality stuff.’
‘So I can’t boil up a pot of doro wat,’ I say, beginning to salivate.
‘That, my sweet sister, is completely out of the question,’ Beti says, giggling.
I laugh. It feels good letting that go.
‘Eat in the bathroom, lock the door. If anyone returns, you’re taking a pee . . . they can’t see you. Tomatoes are the best . . . with salt . . . no peel or core.’
‘Oh Beti, thank you . . .’
‘Drink their milk . . . just add water to top it up afterwards . . .’
I hear the key in the door.
‘Got to go!’ I whisper, hanging up.
Shafeek has ‘forgotten his papers’ again. He walks into the lounge and finds me on hands and knees, frantically shining a single floor tile for no particular reason.
‘Meron, what are you doing?’ he says, gazing at my lips. They are wet with saliva.
‘Cleaning, Mister.’
‘I forgot my papers again . . .’ Shafeek trails off, his head spinning around as he seeks evidence of some illicit activity, as Madame demands of him.
‘Can I get you anything, Mister?’
‘Er . . . no . . .’ he mutters, lifting up two cushions to check if I’ve stashed anything underneath them. He plays with them absent-mindedly, bashing them together and tossing one at my head, then the other.
‘It’s good to have a bit of fun sometimes . . . right, Hammerhead?’ he sniggers.
Shafeek is not cute when he’s pretending to laugh. I prefer him sad or asleep or speaking seriously to other lawyers on the phone. I love that.
‘Er, yes, Mister.’ I keep my Hammerhead down.
‘I’m going now.’
‘Bye, Mister . . . again.’
He’s out. I sprint into the kitchen to prepare an ‘illegal’ snack. Two tomatoes are inside me while waiting for a small microwaved potato. Hot in my hand, I dunk it in cold water and rush towards the bathroom, but the brilliant yellowness of ripe bananas seduces me from a bowl in the small salon. I’ve been on my feet since 5am with only the breakfast of a humming bird to sustain me. Tomatoes, potato, banana . . . all in my hands and stomach. Ha!
Clickety-click, Shafeek! He’s coming through the door again, and I’m suddenly sprinting. I dash into the bathroom.
‘Meron! What are you doing?’ he shouts gruffly at my back.
But he’s too late. I’m inside, locking the door. I now have to swallow hard on potato and banana. Come on, gulp them down. The potato is too hot but I bundle it into my throat. A full stomach is worth the scorched mouth and the lip ulcers. In with the banana now. Ram it in!
‘Meron!’ he shouts again, smacking on the bathroom door, trying to open it.
Momentarily, I pull barely chewed food from my mouth and reply.
‘I’m going to the toilet, Mister. I can’t stop myself.’
I fling the banana skin down the pan, the banana now in my stomach, now untouchable. It’s my banana. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ah, yes, sweet delirium on a stolen banana. The banana is so perfect: it couldn’t be invented by man in a factory. It’s so obvious that God makes them.
‘Meron!’ he shouts again. ‘Come here, now! Or I’ll kill you, wallahi!’I believe him. I panic and flush the toilet hard. The last vestiges of potato leave my mouth. But the flush is too fierce, splashing the banana skin out of the bowl onto the floor, just the way Abdul tugs on it every morning. I toss the skin back in. Go down! Go down! I pull on the flush again: nothing happens. Come on, toilet, refill yourself! Refill!
‘Meron!’ he growls, thrashing the door handle pointlessly.
Shafeek is working himself into a frenzy, which is not very helpful. I try the flush again. This time gently. Please, please take my banana skin, otherwise I’ll have to eat it. The innards of the toilet rumble and whoosh. Away it goes. Thank you, God! He makes them and He takes them.
I glance at myself in the mirror, checking for food around the mouth. I’m clean.
Outside, Shafeek looks at me hard. He’s flustered, but I’ve seen worse in my sixteen years.
‘I don’t believe you,’ he snorts, pushing past me into the bathroom.
I shrug my shoulders and continue back to the lounge for resumption of work while Shafeek noses around. He finds nothing.
‘Oh, I forgot my papers again,’ he declares belatedly, and heads off to work.
Nothing more is said. No evidence, no case. The banana is safely sitting and digesting away in my gut, secure from its rightful owners.
The same evening, Madame approaches me.
‘Meron, you eat one banana today, yes?’
‘No, Madame,’ I gulp.
‘I know you did.’
She seems certain. How can she be so certain? There were so many bananas this morning.
‘I definitely did not,’ I maintain, stony-faced.
Madame sighs irritably.
‘I thought you will be good servant, but you are not. I see you took one . . . stalk is fresh and white . . . was you . . . admit it!’
‘Not me, Madame,’ I mumble, edging away from her as quickly as possible.
‘You liar! And thief!’ she yells at me, her face suddenly pink with rage.
I am not sure what to say or what to expect as Madame strides towards me.
A piercing shriek rings out through the apartment. It’s Mustafa. He’s fallen onto a metal drawer handle and cut his forehead. Blood is pouring out. Poor little Mustafa.
‘Mama! Mama!’ screams Nuria hysterically.
Madame is immediately distracted.
In the tumult, I walk.
Later, Mustafa has two stitches on his head. It is almost as though he took the fall for me.
Two days later, I’m entranced by those delicious vivid crescents once more. I break off another perfect banana: a comfortable fit between palm and fingers, as if designed specifically to sit in my hand. There are ten on the bunch – now less one – and two old stalks turned black with age. The fresh pale green stalk staring back at me is the issue.
I pick up Madame’s superior lighter – polished heavy grey stone with chrome striker – which is sitting just a short stretch away. I ignite it and hold the flame against the exposed stalk for a few seconds. It quickly blackens. Madame now has three black stalks to look at. But maybe she counts them every morning?
Later, she comes back to me on that very point.
‘Meron, you stealing another banana.’
‘Not me, Madame,’ I lie.
‘Why you lying? I know you did.’
‘I didn’t, Madame.’
‘You come here.’
She leads me into the lounge and sits me down on the floor, in front of the tele
vision. Perhaps we will watch some TV together and relax a little. At last, some Madame–servant bonding, without Nazia butting in.
She flicks on the DVD player. Great, a movie! The vast screen is filled by a blurry black and white picture. All I can see is a skinny black girl in a revolting maid’s uniform standing next to some bananas. She pulls one off and eats it. Seconds later, she holds a stone lighter to the stalk. Nice lighter. The girl is me. I’m a film star.
‘Oh yes! You’re right. I remember . . . I did eat a banana, Madame. I was so desperately hungry.’
She has left me very little room for fabrication.
‘What you doing here, Meron? Where you learning things like that, burning a banana stalk to look black? Why you not stay in Addis Ababa and do good things with this mind you got? What you doing in my home, causing me problems, wasting my time, spending my money . . . Allah! Why you here?’
The volume has increased: her words are coming faster. Her left eyebrow is arched. A single arched eyebrow concerns me: it suggests imbalance within.
‘I don’t know . . . I’m just here, Madame.’
I don’t have a considered answer at my fingertips. Does she want my entire life story?
Whichever muscle is tugging the eyebrow towards her fringe is certainly sure of itself. I fear the lever at the other end of that muscle: it is part of something unsettled, brooding, agitated, feverishly grabbing away at an eyebrow muscle as a precursor to some kind of unimaginable ire.
‘No! I not believe you . . . you steal my fruit when you feel like . . . just because we signed contract!’ gabbles Madame, now fully absorbing the atrocity that has occurred. ‘You betray me again, Meron!’
‘Er . . .’
‘Why you eat my banana?’ she screams. ‘I know you bad before you come here. Agency tell me you look like bad girl in photo . . . I say “no, no, she got good taste, her hair look good”, but now, yes, I see they completely right. You out of control! Like animal . . . why you eat my fruit? Bananas for my family, not for thief! Me-ron! Why? Why?’
The words don’t come. Madame’s trigger has been flicked, torrents of Arabic incoherence streaming from her lips. I don’t understand a single word. Exaggerated gesticulations consume her flailing arms. I’m suddenly mesmerised by her hands flying off in all directions before my eyes. She could be batting mosquitoes buzzing around our heads, but I see no insects of any description. Madame’s hair quivers in time with her body and hands. I’ve seen incredible choreography in Addis, but her wild movements without music are a triumph in the world of original dance.Her hands are flying in too close to my head: I stand back a pace or two, but she closes up on me again.
‘Talk to me! Talk! Why, Meron? Why?’
My mind seizes up. Why? This is ridiculous. One banana and our world is on the brink of collapse! I start laughing. I can’t help it.
Madame can’t believe I’m laughing at her. She’s momentarily stunned, before hard slaps land on my face. Ow! Ow! Madame’s eyeballs are set to burst open like hot popcorn on the stove. She’s singing out for Allah, the words strung together so rapidly it sounds like an exultant ululation sung at an Addis wedding. Ouch! Ouch! She’s out of control, on another emotional plane, blabbering like the possessed. This woman is mad! Her hands fire in at my face, as though swatting a defiant fly that refuses to die: there’s nothing I can do except duck and back away and shield my face from the attack.
‘No, Madame, please, please!’ I cry.
The Habesha ‘sharing food’ ethic seems so far away now. I’ve had my face slapped before in Addis, but never this torrent of blows for a miserable banana.
Madame’s explosion detonates Shafeek, still in bed. Upon hearing her livid jabbering pitch, he comes bounding into the kitchen, teeth bared. I assume he’s running to protect me.
Shafeek doesn’t stop for explanation, charging straight at me in only his briefs.
‘Shafeek! No!’ screams Nazia suddenly in the room with us.
He batters my skinny arms with his fists. I howl loudly: more from shock and disappointment than pain.
‘Leave her, Shafeek!’ urges Nazia again.
When Shafeek catches fire, the bubbly puppy turns apoplectic wolf: his stubbly cheeks purple with rage, skin instantly moist with temper sweat, voice unable to enunciate the streams of Arabic curses in a rabid wave of ranting. It’s hard to reconcile this beast with the suave young lawyer who lobs chicken bones at me behind Madame’s back. But, when these Lebanese flip, they really fly. There’s no middle setting.
‘Stop, Shafeek! Control yourself! Not this one!’ screams Nazia, but it doesn’t work.
Shafeek pummels my arms again and again until a droplet of sweat hangs from his eyebrow. He brushes off the sweat, his wild green eyes so dilated the green is reduced to nothing.
Shafeek and Madame leave me in the kitchen, sobbing on the floor, nursing the bruises, my arms now textured like fried aubergine. Nazia slips away. Who in this house is sicker in the head? I want to shout obscenities at all of them but manage only feeble burbling in Amharic. I eventually trudge to the cupboard where I store my mattress, fall to my knees and kiss my carefully folded postcard of Maryam and baby Jesus.
‘Yes, go and cry on your little picture!’ shouts Madame at my back.
Later, I survey the apartment discreetly. Small devices mounted on the walls of the two salons have red flashing lights attached. Before today, I assumed they were smoke alarms or burglar alarms or something useful, but no, Madame has surveillance cameras. I am beginning to better comprehend the concept of paranoia.
I recall Psalms 39:5: ‘Behold, thou hast made my days a few handbreaths, and my lifetime is as nothing in thy sight. Surely every man stands as a mere breath!’
If life is a mere breath, why would anyone blow it away on the obsessive and time-consuming details of mistrust and miserliness? Today, I envy Madame’s life a little less. Any hint of human warmth is detected on a surveillance camera and instantly slapped out. Shafeek, the Little Boy, is simply following his mother’s orders: I refuse to believe he would choose to viciously attack someone over a simple banana, but she . . . she deserves to lose everything within that mere breath. Surely that is God’s will: reduce her, strip her, humble her, torment her until she can see death as the only possible escape.
I picture Madame in the place of my mother ten years ago. If only! Such imaginary delights are as good as perfectly ripe bananas snapped off, skinned and savoured, all undetected by surveillance cameras. Go on, God, put her there, reduce her.
Crossing the Bridge
For my first six years, I had taken God’s loving presence for granted, and my mother’s even more so. Most six-year-olds do. In my mother, all I had observed was a ceaseless image of benevolence, radiance and sheer happiness. With my father’s death, her face physically altered overnight, with tears streaming through all waking hours. The previous mould of constant joy had been remodelled into a permanent mask of tragedy with two ladybird wings fixed beneath the eyebrows, black blobs sat upon bright scarlet bulbs: her bloodshot eyeballs.
Three days after his death, when she checked our bank balance, tragedy embraced dread. Under Lemma’s name, Mum found zero birr. Lemma’s famous generosity was regrettable in a country where hardship breeds shamelessness. Acquaintances had sucked him dry through their bald requests: multifarious in excuse, uniform in motive. Many of these purported friends were not even poor, taking his money as a straight gift without obligation to repay. Thankfully, a small government pension for widows of railway workers would save us from total misery, while the villa had to be relinquished immediately.
The day we moved, my mother stood on the patio of our villa, surrounded by a throng of friends huffing and heaving with the furniture: I looked hard at her for the first time in my life. I saw someone yearning to be elsewhere: to be with Dad, in Dire Dawa ‘on business’, as Mum continued to maintain.
‘Meron, hold your brothers’ hands!’ she shouted through the melee.
‘Why?’ I replied.
‘We’re walking to the new house . . . it’s not far, but I have to watch everything. Be a good big sister, okay?’
I could see her point. A villa-full of quite reasonable possessions was to be transported by foot to the new home by around twenty helpers. They would be parading our best pieces to the many impoverished souls along the way, most of the destitute reclining on the old iron footbridge and the dusty tracks separating my idyllic childhood villa and a new slum home. My father’s death meant we had to move half a kilometre to the other side of the tracks into a squalid straggle of a neighbourhood bearing no resemblance to our former residence. There was a high chance of theft along the route, or one of our ‘friends’ slipping away with whatever was in their hands. My mother kept those ladybird eyes on the essentials: beds, mattresses, cooking utensils, plates, coffee ceremony paraphernalia and us.
As I watched our furniture being marched across the bridge in full public view, subjected to a barrage of begging and ridicule, I was too young to see the procession for what it really meant for my mother: a profound public humiliation. Racked with endemic jealousy, the general public of Addis delighted in the degradation of those richer than themselves. Our downfall from villa to the wrong side of the tracks was a special day for them. My mother couldn’t afford to pay for transportation or discretion. Her pride would have taken a battering. Yes, you deserve this, my Madame! I wish this for you!
I held Henok’s hand tightly. He was weak and controllable. Nati at four years old was already beyond hand-holding. He had barely surrendered a tear when first tasting Ethiopia’s searing berbere spice as a one-year-old, cheered on by his proud father, and he had hardly cried since then. As soon as he could walk, he chased stray dogs from our entrance. He punched rats with his semi-formed fists. He tried to outsprint aeroplanes passing overhead. When Dad had beaten him as a three-year-old, Nati laughed into his father’s face. And today, why would he want to walk with his sister? Nati made the fifteen-minute journey slouched on a sofa between two toiling gentlemen forced to stop every twenty metres to wipe the sweat from their brows. Nati travelled first class.
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