An open letter to Lenox Lizwi Mhlanga

Maid's Uniform

 Lenox Lizwi Mhlanga

Dear Lenox,

I read one of your articles, “Where have the good maids gone?” with great excitement because the plight of maids in Zimbabwe is one of my most researched topics. Instead of answering your article, I decided to send you a related topic that is in my book “Meme no cry.”

With regards,

Nomazulu Thata

From my daughter: Zothile

I was born in Bulilimamangwe in 1955. I managed to pass Standard Six well with Division Two. I did not have the money to continue with my secondary education. I stayed at home doing nothing until I asked my parents if I could go to town to Bulawayo to look for a job.

The only job that was appropriate for me was as a maid and to work for the white families in whites-only suburbs. It was the beginning of 1971, and I was 16 years old. The reason was that if one got such a job, one got accommodation to stay at the place of work. You were then not a burden to anyone.

Relatives were that kind back then, to keep one for long period of time even if one was working. Space was scarce with African town homes having two to three bedrooms. So, keeping relatives was a huge challenge for them. If I was working for white people, I was alright. I had my fixed working hours and was always free from Saturday afternoon until Monday morning. I managed to maintain a culture of going to church as I was always free on Sundays anyway.

Come 1980, there was independence in Zimbabwe. My white masters just could not stand a black government. So, they packed and left for Australia. I found myself looking for another place of work, purposefully avoiding Africans (blacks) as employers. I had heard how mean they were and how degrading it was to work for them in their homes.

The middle-class African society was growing, and they were relocating to once whites-only suburbs and adopting the culture of domestic servitude to their way of life. They were imitating their former white masters.

I managed always to get a white family to work for and I was happy and felt very lucky and safe. I was told by my friends about the disadvantages of working for a black family. The long hours of work, from 5 O’clock in the morning to 11 O’clock in the evening. Having too many people in the home, and laundry washing that had no end until the weekend.

There is no Saturday break at 2 O’clock and if you are not lucky you would be told to work on Sunday as well. It was 24/7 job with far less pay than what the whites would pay us. That was common practice and most servants who worked for fellow blacks complained about the same thing all the time. It was more of a master and slave relationship, so they said.

When my white employer decided to relocate to the United Kingdom, since they did not want to stay in Zimbabwe anymore, I cried. I was aware that the next thing was to get a job from a black family! I was already warned about how poor the conditions of work were in a black family.

I tried to find out if I could get another job different from that of being a domestic service, but it was not possible. I bit the bullet and took to the inevitable, a black employer in the Khumalo area of Bulawayo.

Let me tell you that we are the very least in the society, the slaves of the twentieth century in Zimbabwe. There is slavery practised in Zimbabwe to this date. It is practised under the nose of the laws in the country.

Think of any other trade: that of prostitutes, street cleaners, or gardeners, all these trades are far better than ours with no comparisons. We are just slaves in this country, treated as if we are the last pieces of dirt by our employers and their children too.

This slavery is not perpetrated by the white population but by the same Africans, our brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles. The white colonialists introduced the profession and the blacks took over from them. And yet they have become worse employers than the colonialists. The situations we experience where we work are horrendous to say the least. They are worse!

When you hear them calling us, sisi or mainini, you would think it is with respect. No! It is actually a demarcation they make between me and the rest of the family. It is the mockery of the respect the title uSisi or mainini is supposed to convey. It is so demeaning and only synonymous to “slave” or being less than human.

In the white homes where we worked, they at least called us by our first names. We had uniforms too, two or three pairs. The working times were defined, meaning that we even had a break for lunch.

White families were and still are nucleated. It was the father, wife and two children to look after. They remunerated us a living wage. Coming to work for a black family, my own people, means looking after the extended household of up to seven, 10 to 12 people, with small children and babies to boot!

To cope with the work, one needs to start very early. I wake up at 5:30 in the morning and go to bed at 11:00 in the evening. I sometimes eat the leftovers when I am clearing the dishes at the washing sink. I must remember to throw some bread in my mouth and continue working.

It means cleaning the house, while at the same time looking after children and babies. Because the mother would have gone to work. It means washing for the whole family, washing that would be done manually as there is no washing machine like with white families.

After washing, I get into the kitchen and start cooking as the employers would be coming for lunch. I serve them the lunch and make sure the children have eaten as well. When I start ironing in the afternoon, a baby would be on my back as she or he cannot not sleep alone on its bed.

I do not finish the ironing in the afternoon as I must break to start cooking for the evening meal. I would be asked how the baby is as I am responsible for its well being, whether he sick or not. When they arrive in the evening after work I collect the grocery from the car, and put everything in its correct place.

I would then make tea for the mother and father and start preparing the evening meal. That would go on until 8:00 in the evening. When the small children have gone to sleep, I wash dishes and finish up the ironing left over from the afternoon lot.

There would be numerous other responsibilities I would be called to attend to in the evening. It is the smile on my face that would determine if I am a good servant or not. I eat last in this home and it’s mostly leftovers from their tables. There is no defined plate of food for me. To do so would be to put me as an equal human being with them which they think I am not. It would be the food I would have cooked passionately with my hands that I do not have the equal right to eat.

-To be continued next week.
Research work done by Nomazulu Thatha comparing her notes with her daughter Zothile

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