Title Page
A Wildly Provocative Novel by
ZUKISWA WANNER
The Madams
KWELA BOOKS
Dedication
To Vusi Vokwana, sister, friend and comrade in the struggle for life. And for my literary fathers: Doc Bikitsha, Lewis Nkosi and ZB Molefe – thanks for pushing.
Prologue
I love my life.
I love my cute, smart-ass five-year-old son, Hintsa.
I love his witty, beer-gut-lugging father and my significant other, Mandla.
I love my supportive, though sometimes misguided, girlfriends, Nosizwe and Lauren.
I love my job with its business travel perks and the day-to-day challenge it offers on ‘how to look busy’. But, there are times . . . There are times like now when I get, to paraphrase The Unofficial Woman’s Handbook, sick and tired of being sick and tired.
I am tired of having to be a Superslave at the office, a Supermom to my son and a Superslut to my man. I am tired of the fact that if I so much as indicate that I need ‘Me’ time, I have somehow fallen short of the high standards set for me as a modern woman.
I am admitting defeat to my hectic schedule. I am giving in to something I thought I would never do. I’m going to hire a maid.
There, Mother, I’ve said it. My late mother must be laughing in her grave. I told her that she was pretentious for having a maid when I was growing up. I always maintained that having a maid is really about playing ‘madam’. A woman should be able to take care of herself and her own without bringing a stranger into the family. But I have failed to do that without stressing myself out.
Makhulu keeps telling me how happy we sistahs should be that we are living in the age of the liberated woman where we can do what we want. But are we really liberated?
At least in her day the gender roles were clearly defined. Man went to work and brought back money for rent, fees and clothing and woman tended house and her thirty-metre square vegetable patch. Sure, unlike me, that woman did not have a choice about whether to be a professional woman or a housewife, but that choice enslaves my generation because we are still expected to play the traditional roles to perfection. I do not know why my makhulu said this to me in any event, because neither she nor my maternal grandmother fits into the ‘traditional’ box.
It is a sad reality that in South Africa my ‘womanity’ is still defined by how well I cook and clean and there is still a high-held belief that, should I choose to leave my job, I could do ‘other things’ (never mind that I am paying half the mortgage!). I am fortunate in that Mandla is a ‘renaissance man’ who shares the housework and helps care for Hintsa. Unfortunately, this is only true when none of his relatives or his macho, mooching friends from ekasi are visiting. When they are around, I have to play my ‘womanly role’ of cooking, cleaning and going to buy beer for ‘the boyz’. I have to clean up any beer they’ve spilt and disappear to read Hintsa a bedtime story. I hate that Mandla and I have to do this role playing for an audience we do not even like, but as he says, ‘You don’t want them to say you gave me korobela do you?’ Frankly, when my hands feel as if they are not part of my body from chopping vegetables, cooking and washing dishes, I really couldn’t care less, but I understand his point . . . because I know our people.
So I don my Superwoman cape. And what a heavy cape it can be when a laid-back weekend is unceremoniously interrupted by these teflon-coated scavengers who, should we ever – God forbid – hit a rough spot, will give no practical assistance whatsoever. I do not want to get so stressed at trying to play all my roles perfectly that I end up being the one that is used as an example among my peers: ‘Girl chill, you don’t want to end up like Thandi.’ Hence the maid.
Not only does getting a maid make me feel very bourgeois, but it also makes me feel like I am exploiting another individual. I have no problem telling my PA she has taken minutes as if she dropped out in Grade Four, but the thought of asking somebody to ‘trust pink to get the stains out’ on my whites, or have another woman touching my bras . . . it gnaws at my social conscience.
One of My Girls, Lauren, has tried to convince me that I have a screwed up mentality for thinking that way. ‘Ours is a capitalist nation, my darling,’ she intones, ‘and you’ll just have to live with the pecking order. In any case you will see how good it is to have a maid the moment you employ one. My MaRosie knows the children better than me. In fact, the first word my babies said was, “Rosie”.’
Personally, I don’t think that’s a very plausible reason for getting a maid. Besides, I can’t believe Lauren would actually say that with pride. But then she is white. In the black community it would be a crying shame to admit that your child’s first word was ‘Tata’, let alone that she called out to the maid first.
My other Girlfriend, Nosizwe, is on the point of convincing me, though. Her excuse for getting a maid, besides needing a nanny for her husband’s bastard children, is the high unemployment rate. She says she’s ‘doing her bit, with her measly pay’ for the economy. That lightens the load on my conscience.
This being the case, my boardroom mind is getting into gear and I am beginning to wonder if a maid’s salary counts for tax breaks?
‘Sorry, ma’am. SARS says you don’t qualify for a tax break because you earn too much,’ my long-suffering PA informs me.
‘So how much would I have to earn to qualify?’
She laughs. ‘Way below what you are used to.’
‘Less than your pay?’
‘Way less . . . It seems you have to be in the three grand or less bracket,’ she answers.
Sad that I don’t qualify for tax breaks, but tragic that there are people in that income bracket who need maids. If my life was not such a busy one, I would run for presidential office on the ticket of ‘Free Maids for the Working Poor’ – paid for out of state coffers, of course.
So, now that I have surrendered and have seen the need for a maid, I need a plan of action.
There is a halfway house for reformed female convicts not far from my home. I have done some voluntary admin work over there and donate clothes whenever I update my wardrobe. It may be the only halfway house with ex-cons who dress in Prada, worn once, because Nosizwe – aka ‘The Clothes Horse’ – also donates there. I’m thinking of offering one of the ‘inmates’ a job. That way, I’ll be getting the help I need while ensuring that an employably-challenged individual has an income, and my conscience will not be overburdened by bourgeois guilt.
In spite of my wish to assist in the reduction of unemployment, I am not going to hire a black woman. This is not so much because I do not believe in ‘sister power’, but because I have a short fuse. Should I bring my office personality home, I would feel less guilty lashing out at a white person than a black person. Racist, you want to call me. I probably am, but there is one in all of us. If you are going to be honest, how many times have you, in the comfort of your own race, made a generalised statement about someone of another race when they have failed to meet your exacting standards?
So I’m going to be honest and tell you that I simply do not have it in me to insult a ‘sister’ in my
