His Village Househelp

CHAPTER 1: From Port Harcourt With One Bag The Port Harcourt motor park smelled of smoke, fuel, sweat, and goodbyes. That particular smell — of burnt engine oil mixing with fried akara — was the smell Amara Tamuno had known all her life. But today, it smelled different. Today, it smelled like fear. Amara held her mother's hand tight. Too tight. Her mother, Grace, had become so thin that her favorite Ankara wrapper now hung loose on her body, folding twice where it used to stretch. "Mama, I will send money," Amara whispered, trying not to cry in front of all the shouting conductors. "The doctor said two hundred thousand and you will be fine. Just the operation. I will send it once I reach Lagos." Grace coughed. A deep, painful cough that shook her whole body. She smiled with cracked lips and touched Amara's cheek. "Amara, my first-class daughter," she said in Ikwerre-accented English. "No go shame us for Lagos o. Work hard. No follow bad friends. And..." She looked around quickly, then pressed a folded, sweaty letter into Amara's palm. The paper was old, soft from being held too many times. "If you see this man... tell him your mama still dey wait. Tell him Grace never marry another man." Amara opened it. One name was written in faded blue ink. Chief Jonathan Okoro. Lagos. No address. No phone number. Just a name. "Who is he, Mama?" "Your... just keep am. If God wants, you go see am." The God Is Good Motors bus honked loud. GBIM! The driver shouted, "Lagos! Lagos! Last seat!" Amara's heart jumped. She picked her one Ghana-must-go bag. It was not heavy. Inside it, her whole 23 years of life: two old gowns, one bathroom slippers that had cut at the side, her WAEC certificate carefully wrapped in nylon — the certificate with 8 A's that had made the whole Rumuokoro community clap for her — a small, tight knot of dry banga spice and beletete leaves her late grandma Comfort gave her before she died, and the letter. She entered the bus. Eight hours later, Lagos swallowed her whole. It was not a city. It was a monster with light. Horns everywhere. People shouting. Air condition that was not air. She had never seen so many cars. The paper the agent gave her said: No. 14, Pinnock Beach Estate Road, Banana Island, Ikoyi. House of Chief Okoro. She expected a house. What she saw was a gate. A huge, black, automatic gate that could swallow three buses at once. Two policemen with guns stood outside. Inside, she could see white lights everywhere. "Who you be? Who you dey find for here?" The gateman shouted, holding a big stick. Amara adjusted her slippers, which were now full of dust. "Househelp. New househelp from Success Agency, Agent. My name na Amara Tamuno. From Port Harcourt." The gateman laughed. "Househelp? For this house? This kind slippers?" But he opened the small door anyway. Inside, the mansion was cold. Not cold from AC — cold from money. Everything was white. White sofas that looked like they had never been sat on. White marble floor so clean Amara could see her own face inside it. White lights that were too bright. The air smelled like perfume that cost more than her mother's hospital bill. She stood at the edge of the parlor, afraid her dusty slippers would dirty the white floor. She held her Ghana-must-go bag tight to her chest, like a shield. And then he came downstairs. He wore black. Black kaftan, but designer. Tall. Shoulders wide. Face like someone carved from stone in the cold season. Eyes that had not smiled in years. Hair cut low, beard trimmed perfectly. He was holding a phone and shouting at someone. "—I don't care if the board is crying. I said sack him! That contract is rubbish!" Then he saw her. He stopped mid-staircase. He looked at her from head to toe. Slowly. At her dusty hair. At her faded gown. At her slippers. At the Ghana-must-go bag that was leaking small red banga spice. "God," he said to his PA, a serious woman in suit standing behind him, "Is this what Success Agency calls a househelp in 2026? She looks like she just trekked from the farm in Bayelsa. Does she even know what a gas cooker is? Or will she set my house on fire?" The PA chuckled. Amara's heart burned hot. Shame and anger mixed inside her like hot soup. She wanted to shout. She wanted to open her bag and throw her WAEC certificate with 8 A's at his face and say, "I was the best student in Rivers State! I can speak English better than you and your PA combined if I want!" She wanted to tell him she scored 298 in JAMB but had no money for university. But her mother's hospital bill flashed in her head. Two hundred thousand naira. "Yes sir," she whispered, looking down. Her voice was small. "I sabi cook, I sabi clean. I go work well." "Good," he said, already turning away, already forgetting her face. "Then start by cleaning that kitchen you will soon dirty. And Mabel will show you the BQ. Don't touch anything expensive. Everything in this house is more expensive than your whole village." He walked away. The smell of his expensive perfume stayed. Amara stood there, biting her lip so hard she tasted blood, to not cry. She would not cry in this white mansion. Then a soft sound came from the corner of the parlor. An old woman in a wheelchair rolled out from the shadows. She wore expensive lace, gold wrapper, but her eyes were not Lagos eyes. Her eyes were village eyes. Kind. Deep. Wrinkled from years of smiling. "So you are Amara Tamuno?" Her voice was soft but strong, like an old chief. "From Port Harcourt? Granddaughter of Comfort?" Amara froze. Cold entered her spine. "Yes ma. How... how you know my grandmama name?" The old woman smiled. A long, deep smile that showed missing tooth at the side. "I know that face anywhere. Those small brown eyes that disappear when you smile. You look exactly like your grandmother when she was 20. Before her teeth fell. Before money came and separated us." "You know my grandmama?" Amara stepped closer, forgetting the white floor. "I and Comfort fetched water together in Buguma in 1978. Same bucket. Same wrapper. Same dreams. Before I married Chief Okoro, senior. Before all this mansion. She was my best friend." She looked at Xavier who was now far inside his office, then back at Amara, then said something, loud enough for the whole mansion to hear, loud enough for the PA, for the gateman outside, for the ghost of her late husband. "Xavier! This is the girl you will marry!" The plastic plate Amara was holding for the kitchen — the plate the PA had given her — slipped from her hand and shattered on the white marble floor. GBAM! A thousand pieces of white plastic on white marble. Xavier turned. Slowly. His stone face now had something else. Confusion. Shock. "What did you say, Grandma?”