Imagine this. You are an averagely beautiful woman, and God fearing. You hit the gym every evening after work — which is why you get home at midnight.
You have a good job and a salary that reads like a telephone number. You spin a serious car, bought by your own money. And then there is your good man, your husband. And yes, two children.
But then tragedy pays your well-toned body a visit, in the person of your house help, the one you brought to the city just the other day from some bushy village in Kakamega. You cannot recollect the name of the village because it sounds like a polling station.
The other bad news, but which you can live with after considering a few other factors, is the curvaceous nature of your barely literate house help.
The good news however, is that this shapely girl does not know much, judging by her shabby dressing and barely coherent way of speaking, which is why you actually picked her for the job.
Your husband, like most city men, has no say when it comes to picking a house help. Still, you will carefully ask him, “Sweetie, do you like her, can she serve as well?”
Your good husband, like any other Nairobi man, will offer a resounding NO for an answer — when he actually means YES.
It helps that the innocent girl cannot even hold a pen; leave alone write her name properly. The only thing this poor soul owns is her national identity card, her rusty handbag and her beauty, which will be revealed once she begins to learn the ways of the white man under your roof.
To show her that you are the woman of the house, you will roar in the house and order her around like kanjo. You will often educate her on how not to dress especially when Baba Boy is in the house. You will then disappear to Kikomba market to buy her an overall and a maternity dress. You will also buy her that annoying headgear won mostly by village magicians. In short, you are recreating this 24-year-old village beauty into a cucu.
Meanwhile, you will be busy wearing knee-high miniskirts and over-the-top jewellery to advertise your authority in the house. Unknown to you, this village girl knows how to treat a man, traditionally.
She will walk to the seating room, in your presence, go down on her knees and ask Baba Boy if he would want to have a bath. Of course the only time a city woman will go down to her knees is when she accidentally trips on the fridge as she scampers for the remote control. She wants to watch Leonard and Natalie exchanging saliva at 8.pm.
Surprised, Baba Boy will look at Mama Boy to confirm if she really heard that – the last time you asked him if he wanted to take a bath, Kenya still had the old constitution. So he will fold his newspaper, clear his throat then nod to the affirmative.
“How would you like your water sir? Do you want it boiled, fried or cooked?” Nekesa will ask, still on her knees — that’s how she was taught in the village.
“I like it fried,” Baba Boy will answer, confused.
Nekesa will rush to the kitchen boil the water; add three tablespoons of olive oil, two table spoons of salt and mild pepper. She will then taste the water to make sure it is at the right temperature and pressure — the right amount of everything. Of course she does not want to scold her master’s skin.
Mama Boy, meanwhile, will be fuming on her lap top, and sending updates to her cycle of friends in the social media.
Unknown to Nekesa, she will be jobless the next day? Now that’s harsh.
But then tragedy pays your well-toned body a visit, in the person of your house help, the one you brought to the city just the other day from some bushy village in Kakamega. You cannot recollect the name of the village because it sounds like a polling station.
The other bad news, but which you can live with after considering a few other factors, is the curvaceous nature of your barely literate house help.
The good news however, is that this shapely girl does not know much, judging by her shabby dressing and barely coherent way of speaking, which is why you actually picked her for the job.
Your husband, like most city men, has no say when it comes to picking a house help. Still, you will carefully ask him, “Sweetie, do you like her, can she serve as well?”
Your good husband, like any other Nairobi man, will offer a resounding NO for an answer — when he actually means YES.
It helps that the innocent girl cannot even hold a pen; leave alone write her name properly. The only thing this poor soul owns is her national identity card, her rusty handbag and her beauty, which will be revealed once she begins to learn the ways of the white man under your roof.
To show her that you are the woman of the house, you will roar in the house and order her around like kanjo. You will often educate her on how not to dress especially when Baba Boy is in the house. You will then disappear to Kikomba market to buy her an overall and a maternity dress. You will also buy her that annoying headgear won mostly by village magicians. In short, you are recreating this 24-year-old village beauty into a cucu.
Meanwhile, you will be busy wearing knee-high miniskirts and over-the-top jewellery to advertise your authority in the house. Unknown to you, this village girl knows how to treat a man, traditionally.
She will walk to the seating room, in your presence, go down on her knees and ask Baba Boy if he would want to have a bath. Of course the only time a city woman will go down to her knees is when she accidentally trips on the fridge as she scampers for the remote control. She wants to watch Leonard and Natalie exchanging saliva at 8.pm.
Surprised, Baba Boy will look at Mama Boy to confirm if she really heard that – the last time you asked him if he wanted to take a bath, Kenya still had the old constitution. So he will fold his newspaper, clear his throat then nod to the affirmative.
“How would you like your water sir? Do you want it boiled, fried or cooked?” Nekesa will ask, still on her knees — that’s how she was taught in the village.
“I like it fried,” Baba Boy will answer, confused.
Nekesa will rush to the kitchen boil the water; add three tablespoons of olive oil, two table spoons of salt and mild pepper. She will then taste the water to make sure it is at the right temperature and pressure — the right amount of everything. Of course she does not want to scold her master’s skin.
Mama Boy, meanwhile, will be fuming on her lap top, and sending updates to her cycle of friends in the social media.
Unknown to Nekesa, she will be jobless the next day? Now that’s harsh.
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