- Previously on The Girl Child Has Seen Days…. The Kyayisewas have decided that they have to fire GC after she threw Edith’s clothes in the garbage. But GC doesn’t know this. She clocked out and went out partying before the news could be delivered. Now it is time to face the boss…
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The sun was just rising over Bweyogerere when GC got home. Her taxi rolled to a stop outside the gate of Eastwood Close and out she stepped, looking as ragged and dishevelled as you are supposed to look after a crazy night out. She had her shoes in her hand and her phone crooked to her shoulder. She tapped at the gate, as she spoke on the phone.
GC: You’re calling to find out what? If I got home okay? Yeah, I’m home, yeah. But now delete my number. What? No, delete it. What do you mean why? I don’t have to explain myself to you, we are not dating. I just told you to delete my number. Does that sound like dating to you? No, first of all, never ask a woman why she doesn’t like you, some of my sisters will not hesitate, they will just tell you and your self-esteem won’t handle it.
She looked at the gate. It was still closed. She wriggled the lock to the little door that gates have in their centre, the pedestrian entry. It was shut. It was obvious nobody was going to open it.
Some people see problems in life, some see opportunities to forge their own solutions. GC, being the latter, proceeded to climb over the gate.
She dropped into the compound and crooked the phone back to her shoulder.
GC: No, trust me, Derrick, just delete and move on with your life. Also chew some gum once in a while. Just some parting advice. Mints. Okay. Mwah. Byeee.
Into the compound she strolled, and up to the Kyayisewa house, which she didn’t know would soon be her place of employment no more.
She unlocked the door, entered the house, and headed straight to the kitchen. Time to change into her uniform. That meant wrapping a leso round her outfit and a headscarf over her hair. That was sufficient uniform, she felt. Then she made breakfast. When it was done, she could finally allow herself to be exhausted. She laid the table, and staggered to her quarters to get some sleep.
When Mabel and Papso woke up, they found the table laden and ready. The aroma of mudalasini and kabalagala filled the room, strands of scent weaving around the smell of fresh, strong, coffee. Mixed smells incited mixed feelings. They were sad as they ate.
Mabel: This kab is so good. Sniff sniff
Papso: I know! It's the best I have ever had. Boo hoo.
Mabel: It's so soft and the edges are so crunchy. Sniff, sniff.
Papso: Don’t cry, Mebsy bebz. Bass bass.
Mabel: I will miss it so much.
Papso: So will I, but we have to be strong.
We have to be strong. For the children.
Mabel blew her nose on the edge of her nightie and then wiped her eyes with the other edge.
Papso: You can do this, buchi. Be strong.
Mabel: What do you mean, I can do this?
Papso: Me I am going to work. You are the one who has to fire her.
Mabel took a minute.
Mabel: Have another Cabble Lager.
He took another bite of kabalagala. Then, when he was distracted, she dashed to the front door and locked it.
Mabel: Since when? You are the one to fire her.
Papso: Why does it have to be me?
Mabel: Be a man! It’s the man of the house who fires the staff!
Papso: No! I am a feminist! I don’t believe in gender roles.
Mabel: That’s your excuse every time you don’t want to do something!
Papso: YOu why are you so conflict-averse?
Mabel: How can you call me conflict-averse when I’m in the middle of arguing with you? You do the firing! So do the firing!
GC: Who’s getting fired? The Askari? Wamma fire him. The guy was even sleeping when I got back this morning. Imagine.
They turned to see GC standing in the hallway that lead to the kitchen. Mabel looked furtively around the room. She never appreciated the architecture of this building more than she did that morning when she saw the other hallway leading out of the dining room to the stairs. Mabel dashed out, leaving Papso there alone.
Papso: Um… hi. Good morning. Did you sleep well?
GC: If you are asking what I did last night, Boss, I will just stop you there. We have to establish boundaries. No asking me what I do in my free time.
Papso steeled himself.
Papso: So, madam, or young lady or… I don’t know your name. But …
GC just proceeded from the hallway to the dining room. She had a tray with her.
GC: Clear boundaries are necessary, Boss. We can’t have you thinking that you can take liberties with the maid. I have heard about you Kampala men, especially the ones from Bweyogerere and Kireka, and perhaps a bit of Naalya. You tend to think you can have your way with the maid.
Papso: Actually, I have to talk to you…
On the tray was a bowl of omelette. A bowl, not a plate. A bowl, which means business. And the omelette was not just steaming and gleaming, it was colourful. There were three colours of pepper in it, as well as what looked like slices of sausage.
GC: You men, no offence, like telling the new maid that you will fire her if she doesn’t give in to your predatory whims. By the way, I hope you are not lactose intolerant, because this is a cheese omelette.
Papso: I’m not lactose intolerant, madam.
His eyes had grown bigger, and his nostrils flared as they, both the eyes and the nostrils, followed the tray to the table.
He had to gulp to avoid salivating onto his shirt.
GC: Okay. Then enjoy.
She laid it on the table and then, as if Papso had not been completely lobotomised by the food, also added a little jug of honey. Honey for the kabalagala. Papso’s mind was taken over by the anticipation of the food.
GC: So, you wanted to talk to me about something?
Papso was not able to answer. He certainly was not able to pronounce the words “you are fired” because, at that moment, his mouth was full of cheese omelette with sukuma wiki and four different peppers. He just smiled.
Papso: Mwffff.
GC: Enjoy your breakfast. If Madam wants more, I made plenty.
And GC turned to return to the kitchen.
Mabel had not fled too far out of the room. She had dashed out of the room and hid round the corner to listen. When GC left, Mabel strode back into the dining room, frown on her face, scowl under the frown, hands balled into fists on her hips.
Mabel: Really? Really, dude? You call that firing? Is that how you fire people? By sitting there drooling at their eggs? I am appalled. I am shocked.
Papso: Mwwffff.
He was still eating omelette. He had two spoonfuls in his mouth. The omelette was too good to eat with a fork. A spoon delivered more quantity and, with food that good, you have to maximise delivery.
Mabel: I heard everything! Or rather I heard nothing. Nothing like the word fire. Not even a single letter of it. What are you, an AI? As in you can't perform a simple task? Papso, it is not hard. Just squeeze your mouth and say Yoooo, then widen it and say aaaaah, then pull back the lips and say fffff, and then open again for aaaaa…
While Mabel ranted, Papso had picked up another spoon. He dug into the eggs and scooped up a shovel-full, careful to grab a nice gob of cheese and a bit of sausage, then, just at the right moment, when her mouth was open for the right syllable, he poked the spoon in.
And once the food was inside…
Mabel: Mmmmmmm?
And then her face changed. From the furious grimace to a bright glow of sudden joy.
Mabel: Mmmmm!!
One wasn’t enough. She chewed. Her jaw circled. Her eyes grew wide. And she reiterated the above. With emphasis this time.
Mabel: Mmmmmmmmmm!!
Papso: So, you were saying?
Mabel: Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!!!
Papso: Before that?
Mabel swallowed the eggs and sat down. She grabbed the spoon from Papso’s hand and dug into the bowl for another bite. She mmmmmed one more time.
Papso: You were saying?
Mabel: You know what? I think we should not be too hasty. I mean, firing someone is a bit harsh. It is her first offence, after all. And she is straight from the village, you know? She does not know our city ways. We should not be too hasty.
Papso picked up a kabalagala and poured some honey over it. Mabel liked the way it looked. Fresh kabs with fresh honey. She helped herself.
Mabel: Firing is too much. We should consider some other form of discipline.
She took a bite of the kabalagala. Papso scooped some egg and placed it on his own kabalaga. Then he placed another kab on top and now he had an egg sandwich with kabs. Mabel watched him bite. It looked as delicious as it sounds. She grabbed it from him and took a bite for herself. Another mmmmmmm ensued, followed by…
Mabel: I'm sure we can have a word with her and iron this out. Just a talk is all we need.
Papso passed her the teapot. She poured out a cup.
Papso: Yeah. We just have to talk to her.
Mabel: In fact, if you really look at it from an unbiased perspective…
Papso: We have to be unbiased.
Mabel: Exactly. From an unbiased perspective, that daughter of yours is probably the one who provoked Joyce. You know how she is.
Papso: The maid’s name is Joyce?
Mabel: Edith is a spoiled brat. She deserved it. Mbu bringing her clothes to be washed by our maid. Let her get her own maid. Empty nest means empty nest.
Meanwhile, elsewhere in the house, GC was on the phone.
GC: Hello, Edwin?
Edwin: Hi GC.
GC: Meanwhile your parents think my name is Joyce. Yet I told them I was GC.
Edwin: You can’t blame them. It’s your accent.
GC: You guys are so racist.
Edwin: For real, until I saw how your number was registered, I also thought it was Joyce.
GC: Kale you pronounce Matthew Maconaghey correctly but you can’t support local culture?
Edwin: Makuni who? What is that?
GC: Good. Anyway, I was calling to tell you I have finished your laundry.
Edwin: You are the best. I am never going to pronounce an American name correctly again in honour of you.
GC: Some names are okay. Like Kamala and Obama. But not Tulampu.
Edwin: Tulambu Donadi? I will never. I will even join his social media company and tweet him just to spell his name wrongly.
GC: It’s “spell his name wrong.”
Edwin: Hah! Caught you! Don’t be racist! I’m speaking Ugandan English.
GC: Even in Ugandan English it is spell his name wrong. Ugandan English has grammar also. It’s not for talking anyhowly.
She was right, by the way. But let’s continue the story.
GC: Should I keep the clothes here until you come to pick them up, or should I send them?
Edwin: How will you send them?
GC: I own a couple of bodas here in Bweyogere. I can send one of them.
Edwin: You own bodas?
GC: I’m a hustler, Edwin. I am the hustlingest hustler in Bweyos. I am going to send you the number of one of my boda pilots. Her name is Pesh. You will give her directions.
And GC’s job was saved and secure. For now. Edith was still going to prove to be an even greater problem. She was not a graceful loser.
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