FGM through the Eyes of Waris Dirie: The Story (part 5)
Catch the Fourth Part of the story here
So I set out to find a job. I stopped at a construction site and convinced the man in charge that I could carry sand and mix as well as the men.
The next morning my career as a construction worker began. It was horrible. I carried backbreaking loads of sand all day and developed enormous blisters on my hands. Everyone thought I would quit, but I stuck it out for a month. By then I had saved $60, which I sent to Mama through an acquaintance, but she never saw a penny of it!
I had started cleaning house for my aunt again when one day Mohammed Chama Farah, the Somali ambassador in London, arrived. He was married to yet another aunt, my mother's sister Maruim.
As I dusted my way around the next room, I overheard him say he needed to find a servant before beginning his four-year diplomatic appointment in London. This was my opportunity.
I called Aunt Saliru aside. “Please ask him if I can be his maid.”
She walked back into the other room, sat beside her brother-in-law and said quietly, “Why don't you take her? She really is a good cleaner.”
Auntie called me, and I leapt through the door. I stood with my feather duster in hand, smacking gum. The ambassador frowned.
I turned to Auntie. “Tell him I'm the best.”
“Waris, shhh!” To my uncle she said, “She’s young. She’ll be okay.”
Uncle Mohammed sat still for a moment, looking at me with disgust. “Okay. Be here tomorrow afternoon. We’ll go to London.”
London! I didn’t know where it was, but I knew it was very far away, and far away was where I wanted to be. I was on fire with excitement.
The next day Uncle Mohammed picked me up and gave me my passport. I looked at it in wonder, the first paper with my name on it. I hugged Auntie Sahru and waved farewell.
Maid in London
As the driver eased the car out of the airport and into the London morning traffic, I was overcome by such a sad, lonely feeling, in this completely foreign place, with nothing but white, sickly faces around me.
Snow was turning the sidewalks white as we glided through a posh residential section. When we stopped in front of my uncle’s home, I stared in astonishment. The ambassador's residence was a four-story mansion.
We walked to the front door and entered. Auntie Maruim greeted me in the foyer.
“Come in,” she said coolly. “Close the door.”
I had planned to rush to her and hug her, but something about the way she stood there in her stylish Western clothes, her hands pressed together, made me freeze in the doorway.
“First I'd like to show you around and explain your duties.”
“Oh,” I said quietly, feeling the last spark of energy leave my body after the long night. “Auntie, I'm very tired. I want to lie down. Can I please go to sleep?”
Aunt Maruim took me into her room. The four-poster was the size of my family's entire hut. I climbed under the covers. I had never felt anything so soft and heavenly in my life, and I fell asleep as if I were falling down a long black tunnel.
The following morning I was wandering through the house when she found me.
“Good. You're up. Let's go to the kitchen, and I can show you what you'll be doing.”
I followed in a daze. The room gleamed with blue ceramic tiles and creamy-white cabinets. A six-burner stove dominated the center. Auntie opened and slammed drawers, calling out, “And here are the utensils, the cutlery, the linens.” I had no idea what she was talking about.
“At six-thirty each morning you'll serve your uncle's breakfast: herbal tea and two poached eggs. I'd like my coffee in my room at seven. Then you'll make pancakes for the children; they eat at eight sharp. After breakfast…”
“Auntie, who's going to teach me these things? What's pancakes?”
She stared at me with a sort of panicky look. Exhaling slowly, she said, “I'll do these things for the first time, Waris. Watch closely. Listen and learn.”
I nodded.
I had mastered the routine after the first week and followed it every day for the next four years. For a girl who had never been aware of time, I learned to watch the clock closely — and live by it!
After breakfast I cleaned the kitchen, my aunt’s room and her bathroom. Then I worked through each room of the house, dusting, mopping, scrubbing and polishing my way up all four floors. I kept working until I fell into bed around mid-night.
I never had a day off.
Throughout Africa it’s common for more affluent family members to take in the children of their poor relations, and those children work in return for their upkeep. Sometimes the relatives educate the children and treat them like one of their own. Obviously, my aunt and uncle had more important issues on their minds.
During the summer of 1983, when I was about 16, Uncle Mohammed’s sister died and her little daughter, Sophie, came to live with us. My uncle enrolled her in All Souls Church of England Primary School, and my morning routine then included walking Sophie to school.
On one of the first mornings, as we strolled, I saw a strange man staring at me. He was white, around 40 and had a ponytail. He had brought his daughter to the school. He didn’t hide the fact that he was staring.
After I left Sophie at the door, he walked toward me and started speaking. Since I didn’t speak English, I had no idea what he was saying. Frightened, I ran home.
From then on, each time I saw him at the school, he simply smiled politely and went on about his business. Then one day he walked up and handed me a card. I tucked it in my pocket and watched as he turned to walk away.
When I got home, I showed the card to one of Auntie Maruim’s daughters. “What does it say?”
“It says he’s a photographer.”
I saw that my cousin wanted to get back to the book she was reading, so I hid the card in my room. Some little voice told me to hang on to it.
When Uncle Mohammed’s term was coming to an end, he announced the family would be going home. I wasn’t excited about returning to Somalia. I wanted to go home wealthy and successful, but I had saved only a pittance from my main’s wages. My dream was to make enough money to buy my mother a house, and to accomplish this, I felt I should stay in England. How I would manage this, I didn’t know. But I had faith.
Uncle Mohammed advised us all of the date we were leaving, and of the need to make sure our passports were in order. I promptly sealed mine in a plastic bag, buried it in the garden and announced I couldn’t find it. My plan was simple enough: if I didn’t have a passport, they couldn't take me back. Uncle smelled something rotten, but I said, “Just leave me here. I’ll be fine.”
Until the morning of departure, I hadn’t really believed that they would leave me all alone. But they did. I stood on the sidewalk, waved good-bye and watched the car until it was out of sight. I was scared and had to fight an overwhelming feeling of panic.
I picked up my little duffel, slung it over my shoulder, unearthed my passport and headed down the street, smiling.
It Continues…
So I set out to find a job. I stopped at a construction site and convinced the man in charge that I could carry sand and mix as well as the men.
The next morning my career as a construction worker began. It was horrible. I carried backbreaking loads of sand all day and developed enormous blisters on my hands. Everyone thought I would quit, but I stuck it out for a month. By then I had saved $60, which I sent to Mama through an acquaintance, but she never saw a penny of it!
I had started cleaning house for my aunt again when one day Mohammed Chama Farah, the Somali ambassador in London, arrived. He was married to yet another aunt, my mother's sister Maruim.
As I dusted my way around the next room, I overheard him say he needed to find a servant before beginning his four-year diplomatic appointment in London. This was my opportunity.
I called Aunt Saliru aside. “Please ask him if I can be his maid.”
She walked back into the other room, sat beside her brother-in-law and said quietly, “Why don't you take her? She really is a good cleaner.”
Auntie called me, and I leapt through the door. I stood with my feather duster in hand, smacking gum. The ambassador frowned.
I turned to Auntie. “Tell him I'm the best.”
“Waris, shhh!” To my uncle she said, “She’s young. She’ll be okay.”
Uncle Mohammed sat still for a moment, looking at me with disgust. “Okay. Be here tomorrow afternoon. We’ll go to London.”
London! I didn’t know where it was, but I knew it was very far away, and far away was where I wanted to be. I was on fire with excitement.
The next day Uncle Mohammed picked me up and gave me my passport. I looked at it in wonder, the first paper with my name on it. I hugged Auntie Sahru and waved farewell.
Maid in London
As the driver eased the car out of the airport and into the London morning traffic, I was overcome by such a sad, lonely feeling, in this completely foreign place, with nothing but white, sickly faces around me.
Snow was turning the sidewalks white as we glided through a posh residential section. When we stopped in front of my uncle’s home, I stared in astonishment. The ambassador's residence was a four-story mansion.
We walked to the front door and entered. Auntie Maruim greeted me in the foyer.
“Come in,” she said coolly. “Close the door.”
I had planned to rush to her and hug her, but something about the way she stood there in her stylish Western clothes, her hands pressed together, made me freeze in the doorway.
“First I'd like to show you around and explain your duties.”
“Oh,” I said quietly, feeling the last spark of energy leave my body after the long night. “Auntie, I'm very tired. I want to lie down. Can I please go to sleep?”
Aunt Maruim took me into her room. The four-poster was the size of my family's entire hut. I climbed under the covers. I had never felt anything so soft and heavenly in my life, and I fell asleep as if I were falling down a long black tunnel.
The following morning I was wandering through the house when she found me.
“Good. You're up. Let's go to the kitchen, and I can show you what you'll be doing.”
I followed in a daze. The room gleamed with blue ceramic tiles and creamy-white cabinets. A six-burner stove dominated the center. Auntie opened and slammed drawers, calling out, “And here are the utensils, the cutlery, the linens.” I had no idea what she was talking about.
“At six-thirty each morning you'll serve your uncle's breakfast: herbal tea and two poached eggs. I'd like my coffee in my room at seven. Then you'll make pancakes for the children; they eat at eight sharp. After breakfast…”
“Auntie, who's going to teach me these things? What's pancakes?”
She stared at me with a sort of panicky look. Exhaling slowly, she said, “I'll do these things for the first time, Waris. Watch closely. Listen and learn.”
I nodded.
I had mastered the routine after the first week and followed it every day for the next four years. For a girl who had never been aware of time, I learned to watch the clock closely — and live by it!
After breakfast I cleaned the kitchen, my aunt’s room and her bathroom. Then I worked through each room of the house, dusting, mopping, scrubbing and polishing my way up all four floors. I kept working until I fell into bed around mid-night.
I never had a day off.
Throughout Africa it’s common for more affluent family members to take in the children of their poor relations, and those children work in return for their upkeep. Sometimes the relatives educate the children and treat them like one of their own. Obviously, my aunt and uncle had more important issues on their minds.
During the summer of 1983, when I was about 16, Uncle Mohammed’s sister died and her little daughter, Sophie, came to live with us. My uncle enrolled her in All Souls Church of England Primary School, and my morning routine then included walking Sophie to school.
On one of the first mornings, as we strolled, I saw a strange man staring at me. He was white, around 40 and had a ponytail. He had brought his daughter to the school. He didn’t hide the fact that he was staring.
After I left Sophie at the door, he walked toward me and started speaking. Since I didn’t speak English, I had no idea what he was saying. Frightened, I ran home.
From then on, each time I saw him at the school, he simply smiled politely and went on about his business. Then one day he walked up and handed me a card. I tucked it in my pocket and watched as he turned to walk away.
When I got home, I showed the card to one of Auntie Maruim’s daughters. “What does it say?”
“It says he’s a photographer.”
I saw that my cousin wanted to get back to the book she was reading, so I hid the card in my room. Some little voice told me to hang on to it.
When Uncle Mohammed’s term was coming to an end, he announced the family would be going home. I wasn’t excited about returning to Somalia. I wanted to go home wealthy and successful, but I had saved only a pittance from my main’s wages. My dream was to make enough money to buy my mother a house, and to accomplish this, I felt I should stay in England. How I would manage this, I didn’t know. But I had faith.
Uncle Mohammed advised us all of the date we were leaving, and of the need to make sure our passports were in order. I promptly sealed mine in a plastic bag, buried it in the garden and announced I couldn’t find it. My plan was simple enough: if I didn’t have a passport, they couldn't take me back. Uncle smelled something rotten, but I said, “Just leave me here. I’ll be fine.”
Until the morning of departure, I hadn’t really believed that they would leave me all alone. But they did. I stood on the sidewalk, waved good-bye and watched the car until it was out of sight. I was scared and had to fight an overwhelming feeling of panic.
I picked up my little duffel, slung it over my shoulder, unearthed my passport and headed down the street, smiling.
It Continues…
posted by ritch at
4:40 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home