I was anxious for the weekend to come quickly. I was already tired; tired of begging on the streets, tired of sleeping in open car parks and garages. Honestly, there was little difference between me and the beggars by the roadside. The only thing was that I still had a small hope left inside me.
No one knew my story. Not even the man who had given me the house address. To him, I was just another struggling woman looking for work.
I trekked for long hours that day, stopping every now and then to ask for directions. My slippers were almost worn out, and my legs ached badly. But I kept moving. I had no transport fare, so trekking was my only option.
When I finally got there, I realized it was a classic quarter, one of those areas where the houses are so big and polished that you feel poor just standing near the gate. It was obviously a place inhabited by rich people.
I stood quietly at the gate and rang the bell.
The gateman opened and looked at me from head to toe before asking, "Who are you looking for here?"
"I am here to see…" I paused and quickly brought out the card I was given. There was no name on it, just a number and the words M.J Limited written boldly.
"I am looking for M.J," I said.
"Did She know that you are coming?" he asked.
"I was asked to come here because I am looking for a job."
"You mean to say you are the new housemaid? You are looking for house girl work?" he said in a shocking way and I accepted.
"Exactly."
He stared at me again, probably wondering who would recommend someone looking like me. Then he went inside the compound and upstairs.
I stood outside under the hot sun for almost twenty minutes. Sweat was rolling down my back. Who was I to complain? Who would listen? I had no choice but to wait.
Finally, he returned and said, "Follow me."
I followed him quietly into a luxurious, flashy living room. The kind of living room you see in magazines. Everything was shining—glass tables, big television, expensive curtains.
Then I saw her.
A lady sat elegantly on a large chair. She looked sophisticated, a little older but still very beautiful. She wore glasses and peeped at me from above them, scanning me from head to toe.
"Yes," she said carelessly, "what are you looking for?"
"For the job, madam," I replied softly.
As I lifted my eyes to glance around the room, something froze my breath.
On the wall—among the framed pictures—was the face of my husband.
The same man who deceived me with marriage. The same man who sold my properties and disappeared. The same man who left me stranded.
I stood still. My heart began to beat loudly in my chest.
"Which job?" the madam repeated.
"Housemaid," I answered, still staring at the picture.
"And who told you I was looking for a housemaid?"
"I met him on the street, madam. He was driving a black car. The car parked inside this compound."
"I see."
She picked up her phone and made a call.
"Cheri," she said when the person answered. "Did you send someone here to look for a job?"
She paused.
"Yes… the one standing in front of me."
Then she added, "You didn't tell me she would look this rough. I didn't tell you I was looking for a mad woman or beggar to work in my house go"
I felt heat rush to my face.
From the phone, I could hear a faint male voice trying to explain. The madam sighed.
"You know I don't like stress," she continued. "But since you recommended her, let me see what I can do."
She ended the call and looked at me again.
I suddenly became aware of myself, my gown, the same one I had worn for almost a month without proper washing. Water had barely touched it. I could smell my own sweat mixed with dust from the road. I felt ashamed, but at the same time, I was angry.
She had no right to judge me without hearing my story.
Still, I kept quiet.
I had to endure it.
I needed answers.
Tara, that was my husband's name. Full name, Taraman. "Let God forgive," that was what his name meant. But forgiveness was not easy when the wound was still fresh.
The picture on the wall looked recent. He was smiling that same charming smile he used to deceive me. I knew that smile too well.
I would have walked out because of the way she spoke to me. But that picture kept me rooted to the spot.
What was his picture doing in this house?
How was he connected to this woman?
If you were in my shoes, what would you do?
Almost everyone in my shoes would have stayed without asking questions. $70 USD was really small money for someone like me. Then she looked straight into my eyes and asked,
"Will you be able to work, clean the entire house, cook, do laundry and do every house chore in this house except washing my car for $70 USD?"
"I will, madam," I answered quickly.
"Will you mind your business and be submissive?"
"Yes, madam."
"Good" she called the gateman.
"Yes, ma'am," he responded immediately.
"Take her to her room and let her put on something clean and decent."
I followed the gateman quietly. My heart was beating fast, but I kept my head down. When we entered the room, I noticed slippers of different sizes arranged in one corner. Some were big, some small, some almost new, others worn out. Curiosity got the better of me.
"You are the seventh housemaid my madam is hiring," the gateman said as if reading my thoughts. "The last one only lasted three days before she was fired."
"Why was she fired?" I asked carefully.
"She was discussing and smiling with Madam's boyfriend, and madam saw her."
"She fired her just for smiling with her boyfriend?"
"Yes."
I swallowed hard. I understood immediately that I was stepping into another world, a world where the rules were strict and beyond normal understanding. Here, even a smile could cost you your job. I told myself I had to humble myself. I needed to find out who Tara was to her and why his picture was hanging boldly on the wall. My runaway husband's face staring at me from another woman's house.
That meant one thing, I must not smile at her boyfriend. But if he was the same kind and gentle man I met on the street when I was still begging for survival, then it was going to be very hard. My main concern was not even the job anymore. My issue was to understand what the picture of that wicked man was doing on her wall like a trophy.
The first day, I did not rest. Since the former housemaid left a week ago, the house was in serious disorder. There were piles of clothes, dusty shelves, stained tiles and dirty bathrooms. I scrubbed the floors until my hands hurt. I cleaned the toilets and brushed the sink until it shined. I washed her bedsheets and curtains. As if that was not enough, she still asked me to cook while she stretched comfortably on the long couch, browsing her phone and watching the TV.
"Make sure the food tastes good because my man will be coming over tonight. He needs a delicious dinner," she said lazily.
I was tired and feeling dizzy. At some point, I almost fell asleep on the kitchen floor. My legs were shaking, and my back was aching badly. But if there was one thing I was gifted in, it was cooking. As a woman who had been married before, I was the one who used to prepare meals for my runaway husband. No matter how busy I was, I always made sure his food was well cooked.
He was all bad news and part of my painful past. Yet all I had left of him was his portrait hanging proudly on another woman's wall, as if he would suddenly open the door and walk in.
After cooking, she asked me to set the table properly for her boyfriend. But before he arrived, she tasted the food. I watched her secretly from the kitchen door. She nodded her head in approval and swallowed the food with so much enjoyment written all over her face.
I was extremely tired when I finally went to my small room. My body felt heavy, but my mind refused to rest.
It was about 8:30 p.m. when her boyfriend returned from the office. She was the CEO of M.J Limited, a big company in town, so I knew whoever she was dating must be important too.
I was in my room when I heard his voice in the living room. The moment he spoke, my heart skipped. That voice sounded very familiar.
Then she invited him to the dining table.
"Sweetie, I prepared your favorite meal. Come join me at the table."
Did I just hear her correctly? She prepared his favorite meal?
I wondered, but I kept quiet. It was not my place to speak.
Then something happened when he tasted the food, something I can never forget. I had not yet seen his face, but the way he reacted after taking the first spoonful made my hands tremble.
M.J was proudly claiming she cooked the meal herself, yet I was the one who prepared everything from scratch.
And from the sound of his reaction, I knew this night was not going to end the way anyone expected.