‍10. THE BAD MOTHER

I worked for this single mother. She lived in Syokimau. She was about twenty-seven, dated a white man and had a five-year-old daughter from a previous relationship. The boyfriend, if we can call him that, was a fifty-eight-year-old American whose presence filled the whole house even though he was barely around. This lady, Edith, was like the rest of her friends, who I came to learn were all dating older white men. She had no job, but she took her beauty as seriously as a full-time job. Her life revolved around salons, beauty parlours, wigs, shopping, and sexy talking to her “husband” in the evening. I know it sounds like I cared about how she lived her life. I didn’t.

I was there for little Juanita, a lovely, silent girl, who was an absolute angel. She existed in the house more like an accessory in her mother’s life than an actual child. Quiet and reserved, she knew where her boundaries lay with her mother, and she observed them diligently. She did not touch her mom’s phone or make a sound when her mom was on the phone with Mark, her boyfriend.

She kept to her room when the girls were over, which was often, and she had to be dressed up almost all the time. Edith’s life had little tolerance for anything aesthetically unpleasing. Her house, a three-bedroom with its own compound, was all soft greens and white, with a palette that matched from the drapes to the curtains. My job was to keep the whites white and the greens fresh.

She paid well. She gave me my freedoms as long as I understood my duties, which I did. She was barely around to care about the nitty-gritty of home care or motherhood. Juanita was my responsibility, fully. I got her ready for school, an expensive international school, signed the diary, helped with her homework, went to PTA meetings, and even took her for her medical checks. I read her bedtime stories, made sure she ate, took her to her weekly salon appointments, and even shopped for her clothes.

Sometimes, when she was tipsy, Edith would demand that I wake Juanita up so they could bond. She would demand I set up the living room for movie night, and it did not matter if it was a school night. Juanita would scramble out of bed, thrilled to spend time with her mother, dress up in matching pyjamas, and snuggle up on the sofa. I would take “unaware” videos of them for Edith’s Instagram, and after getting her shot, she would either pass out on the sofa or get lost on her phone, leaving Juanita to watch the movie alone.

Edith drank. She drank a lot. She drank when she was happy, with friends, when she was getting ready to go outside, and every evening, to wind down. She drank even more when she was upset. During these times, she would break down and cry in the living room, and I had to collect her from the floor many times to take her to bed. Juanita would peep through her door sometimes, as her mother sobbed drunkenly because of something Mark had not done, or had done.

I tried my best to reassure both mother and daughter during these moments. In the morning, Edith would clean herself up as if she were not the same woman who had ugly-cried all over the house, give me money to buy myself something cute, and leave with her friends.

Edith believed in money and all it could buy. She gave me more when she yelled at me and threw plates against the wall. She gave me a raise when I complained that I was barely getting any off days. She gave me even more to take Juanita out for her birthdays or on special days.

She bought Juanita things to keep her occupied. She had all the latest toys, including a PS5 that she barely used. When Edith was upset, she would shop and shop. On the days Mark was around, the doorbell was a choir of deliveries. It was how they loved each other.

I worked there for two years, then Mark died. It was in September of 2024. He was on a flight to Mexico for a business trip when he had a heart attack on the plane. He was dead by the time they touched down in MEX, as I heard Edith wailing on the phone. She was inconsolable. She bawled like a child, drinking everything she could lay her hands on.

I tried to take the bottles from her, but she hissed and snarled like a wild animal till I gave up. For the first time, I met her brother and her sister. Her brother, a serious-looking lawyer, held his nose at the mess she was in and told her she needed to go to therapy. Her sister was concerned only with Juanita and scolded her for neglecting the child. Edith just listened to them, wrapped in a throw blanket, staring blankly in front of her, still drunk. When they left, she called me into her room.

“Go get me a bottle of Tanqueray,” she croaked.

“Would you like to eat first?” I tried. “I made soup.”

“No.”

I knew better than to fight with her. I went to the cabinet and got her the bottle she had asked for. When I handed it over, she looked up and said, “Mark was the only person who ever loved me. And he is gone.”

“Juanita loves you,” I pointed out.

“She needs me. Everyone needs me. But Mark was the only person who let me need him instead.” She started to weep. I sat on the bed and patted her leg.

“We are here for you, Edith,” I assured her.

“Close the door behind you.” She nodded in dismissal.

I left, closing the door as instructed. She did not call for me all day, and I stayed away from her room. During dinner, I knocked on her door, asking whether she’d like to eat, but there was no answer. I assumed she was asleep or had passed out. So I let her be. That night, Juanita refused to sleep in her room and came to snuggle in my bed. In the morning, I got her ready for school and saw her off to the bus. I made Edith an omelette and freshly squeezed orange juice, knocked on her door and called out. There was no answer. I opened it. It was pitch black; the blackout curtains were drawn shut.

“Edith,” I whispered. She hated being called Mama Juanita. It smelt like a brewery in the room. “I brought you food, please.”

I reached for the bedside lamp, not wanting to shock her with the main light, and placed the tray on the bedside table. I could see the outline of her body in the blankets.

“I am drawing the curtains. Life has to move on,” I said, risking her anger. I drew the curtains and the sun flooded the room.

“Wake up, Edith. Eat and shower. I will clean your room.”

I drew the covers off her head. She was on her side, without a bonnet. Her hair, a pure human-hair wig, was covering her beautiful, soft face like a doll's. I pulled the covers lower, and that’s when the sight shot into my eyes. Blood! Blood was everywhere. It was dark red, caked on the navy-blue cotton sheets and mattress. Her hands, limp and lifeless, opened in ghastly cuts, and on the bed was a shard of the Tanqueray bottle that she had used to slash her wrists.

I couldn’t move for what felt like an eternity! I stood there, and it was not until I heard neighbours banging on the door that I realised I had been screaming all along. She was dead by the time they called an ambulance. She had been dead a long time. Her sister and brother came and took over the house, rummaging through her bedroom. 

“How much money did she owe you?” The sister asked.

“Just this month. She always paid on time.” I could barely speak. “What will happen to Juanita?”

“I will take her with me. She deserves a mother who cares. You even care for her more than that selfish woman. I can’t believe she just left her child like this over a sugar daddy,” she spat. “Anyway, I wish you the best out there. Please pack as soon as possible so we can lock this house up before we leave.”

When Juanita’s school bus pulled up at the gate, I was standing there with my bags, too exhausted by the day even to fight as the child clung to me while in tears, begging me not to go.  I got into a taxi and went to town, where I caught the first bus to Uganda, back to my mother. I have never visited Kenya again, and I can only pray that the poor girl is in a better place now.

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This and other fascinating stories are contained in "How to Fire Your Househelp and Other Stories" by Betty Kilonzo.

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