The help is away without official leave

My bank is a rubbish bank. I could leave, but I look at the other options and none inspires me to make the jump.

And that’s the thing with banks – they are like women. You could leave, but for what?

You leave one hoping to find peace and happiness with the other, only to find that the new one goes to bed with a pair of scissors under her pillow and, worse, sleep walks.

That’s a woman you don’t want to go to bed angry. Anyway, back to the reason why I am so upset with my bank: Mobile banking.

Or rather, my bank’s refusal to let me enjoy the convenience and simplicity of said mobile banking. I filled the forms ages ago.

They promised they would call me with codes and things when it was good and ready. A year later, I am still waiting.

Instead, they get these pesky guys to call me about the new, exciting products that they are offering their clients – except that these exciting products are not exciting at all because they are loans.

So anyway, I decide to pay these ‘exciting’ guys a visit and ask them whose feet I have to wash to get mobile banking.

So there I am, sitting in the customer care section, waiting for my turn. In front of me is a middle-aged lady fiddling with her phone.

Another lady spots her and walks over to say hello. It is evident from the production that ensues that they haven’t seen each other in a while.

They do the whole confusing thirty-peck thing on the cheeks. Then follow the niceties about children, hair, dress and shoes. Nobody asks about Baba Nani.

Then one of the ladies mentions, frustration palpable in her voice, that she has to run back home because her house-help hasn’t yet come back from shagz after the December holidays.

The discussion then turns into a long discourse about maids and their cheek.

It seems this is the season for house-helps to do a number on their employers. And the house-helps seem to know not only where to squeeze, but when to squeeze.

And their excuses are insulting to the intelligence. There are those who get mugged and have their phones stolen on the day of travel. Or some who said they were on their way back… two days ago.

There are those whose mothers suddenly fall ill, or whose hair wasn’t finished on time at the salon because the hairdresser went into early labour.

Or some who haven’t decided whether all those hours spent explaining why sugar and other essentials don’t last a month is worth it.

Or my favourite – the ones who find out that they are pregnant while in the village.

That said, their employers aren’t any better, calling in sick at their place of work when they are actually inspecting their chicken farm in Kitengela.

It’s the capitalist drama; when you are not screwing someone over you are the one being screwed. But house-helps take a lot of flak from their bosses, some of who are straight from hell.

They have to deal with the brats that have become our children – kids who have never heard of the word ‘respect’.

They wake up early, sleep late, and earn meagre wages which they have to split between ailing relatives, children who need school fees and a new weave so that they can look just like the boss.

So when mothers call and ask, “Kwani ulisema unakuja lini, Betty? Usipokuja leo uje na uchukue vitu zako, mimi sina wakati wa kubembeleza mtu,” they roll their eyes and go back to sifting the rice.

House helps wield silent powers in the house, not because they understand the children more than their mothers, or know the domestic politics of the house, but because they can grind everything to a halt if they decide to.