Agnes is the lady who comes around every Tuesday to do our housework and make sure the house I share with a housemate, D-dog, doesn’t deteriorate to hygiene levels below that of an Eastern Cape farm’s pigsty. I think I have fallen for her and it took her being away for three months or so for me to realise just how much I really need her in my life for eternity.
You see, Agnes was away on maternity leave for what seemed like an eternity of hell to me. Her impending and extended absence came as a surprise to me when she told me on the day that was to be her last at work for a while – yes, I did not know Agnes was pregnant, but you will come to understand how I am so unaware of such things about a person I claim to hold so dear.
Agnes and I have the perfect relationship; it is similar to the relationship so vividly immortalised by John Keats in his Ode on a Grecian Urn, which is one of my favourite poems of all time. The beginning is especially relevant to the context of our perfect relationship:
“Thou still unravished bride of quietness!
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time”
Well not maybe exactly, but you get my slow drift. Our relationship is perfect in its anti-relationshipness. Agnes and I do not have any of the obstacles normally associated with a typical romantic relationship. Agnes and I do not have the hurdles of having to like each other or talk or even see each other.
Our interaction is awesome in its non-interactiveness; the day she was going to come to work for the first time I remember I had butterflies in my stomach when I woke up. What would she look like? Would I like her? Would she like me? Will we get along? Will she think I’m funny? Will she burn my vests when she ironed them? You know, all the concerns of a new engagement, a blind date if you will.
So I was pleasantly surprised when she took the lead in our relationship, probably something about having a very strong mother that to me a woman taking control of things just seems right and then my role, as was my fathers, would be to see how far I can push my boundaries before the knobkerrie and spear combo comes out from under the bed (happy memories of childhood, excuse the digression).
Eggy, as I so affectionately refer to her behind her back, took charge of the situation immediately when we met. She walked into the house, paid me no mind and took no notice of what I was saying and just sat on the couch silently as we had our first “conversation” at the end of which I handed her the key and the payment for the day. The only thing she said was that she would keep the key so I won’t have to wait for her every Tuesday and I should just leave the money on the counter every morning. The next time I spoke to her was the day she told me of her maternity leave, eleven months later.
On that first day when I came back from work, I was almost in tears at the sight that greeted me. The last time I had seen a house so well-kept was my mother’s house at about 12.50 on a Saturday afternoon when we lived in a four-room house in D Section Kwa-Mashu. I remember my mother and my sister would spend all of Saturday morning cleaning and the house was at the height of its majesty at about that time. Then we would be allowed into the kitchen at about 1pm for lunch, and then the house reverted to a near pit as we systematically undid all of their hard work. Someone usually cried after that and it was usually me if my sister aimed well enough and landed one of her shoes on my back as I ran out the house after refusing to tidy up after myself after lunch.
Eggy is THAT good, she does the best cleaning, washing, folding, tidying job I have ever seen since Mom. Still mesmerised by the down stairs, I went upstairs to find my bedroom in a state it had never been in before, it was as if a ruler was used to fold everything just right and my wardrobe was spectacular, every shirt, every pair of pants and every T-shirt was crisp and seemed to be in a part of the wardrobe that it was made to be in. My love for Eggy was sealed though when the next morning, after the shower, boxers, roll-on and vest ritual, when I was folding out my socks and found that they were the right way around, ready for me to simply slip them on. I cried that morning as I realised that I had just found “The One”.
So Eggy got a sizeable raise after just one day of work and we have been together ever since, accept for the horrible three months when she was away having her baby. Those were possibly the hardest months I have had in Johannesburg so far. The house was a mess and I had to take my washing to the laundry, my bed was never made and cruelly, those ladies at the laundromat never folded my socks the right way around.
I dreamt of having Eggy back every single day and sometimes even cried a little about it between beers and when I absolutely had to wash the dishes because they were starting to morph into a life form with a rather nasty attitude. The lady who attempted to fill Eggy’s shoes only came for two occasions and never returned after that and without a word either, I don’t blame her. She probably felt the disappointment in the soul of the house as she could never replace our Eggy, no one probably could. And that lady used to call and talk to me which was just foreign to me, Eggy never speaks to me, actively pretends I do not exist even when I am standing mere metres away from her – it is better that way, it is perfect.
So Eggy is back now, all is well and compared to all the trouble I have been through in the past few months, this feels like bliss. I think a nice fat bonus is in order for her next month – to show my undying affection for her, I am quite possibly in love with her.
I rest,
The Sumo
This almost brought tears to my eyes. I still clean my house and despite my best heroics(if we can call my pathetic attempt at cleaning that), the house still looks the same even after that. Can I please borrow Egy?
WONDERFUL!!!!!
the hardest part of my breakup from my ex is that his cousin would no longer be cleaning my house. [yes, i had two teenage boys in my house, who wanted allowances, but still....]
god, you could eat off the floors when she cleaned in the house. [i think i might have actually done so, to be honest.]
it’s a shame i don’t have her number and my ex’s other relatives refuse to speak to me. i would totally still have her here cleaning my house twice a week. she is totally awes.
That was very entertaining and well written.
Beautiful piece of writing. I too feel a little teary now.
i could not help thinking of my brother, you sunded so much like him… that was an awesome article! I must say i wish i could have your Eggy, luckily am a girl but i could use that kind of help… i like the fact that you appreciate her!
amazingly, there are those of us who will look down on domestics. shame on them
Marry her you fool!
Probably the best piece of writing I’ve enjoyed for a while. Rings a bell with all of us, bachelors.
This reminds me of ‘magical-Evelyn’ who did the housekeeping for us for 18 years after we were married. Initially she came just once a week and we loved coming home after work on Tuesday.
My husband once commented that in a perfect world Evelyn would move in and I would come for conjugal visits once a week, but we won’t go there …!
Since emigrating we do our own housework, but we will never be in her league.
sweet
What a perfect description of the way I used to feel every Christmas when I lived in Jhb and Monica used to ‘go home’ to the Transkei to see her children. She lived at someone else’s home and only worked for me once a week, but omigosh, she meant the world to me! The evenings that I would stand (for an entire six weeks) doing the ironing with sweat (not perspiration, or glow) dripping down my face. Miss her? I used to pine for her! And we still talk about the quality of her perfection.
At least now, I just check the days of the public holidays. We can do two weeks while Cornelia is away, spending Christmas in the same home she lives in year-round, with a family that actually knows her!
Hi Sumo
I live in England and such a luxuary does not exist.We,in Sa have the best “home” support available anywhere in the world.When I lived in SA my family and I had the most fantastic person working for us.Sadly,we had to part company when
Although we still yearn to live in SA comments from the ANCYL, the ANC Vets Association and the rampant crime have put any decision on hold.
Mannn… awesome writting. I know excaclty what you mean, my does get into such unexplainable state. Thanks to God’s wonderful species “Women”, what would we be without them.
If someone calls men pigs, I would object loudly but silently be saying “yeah, you should see my bedroom”.
I checked your name twice just to confirm that you are not my cousin…. Your story is very similar…. and she loves her helper to bits – though she has only seen her a couple of times. They communicate by post-it.& she is also giving her a fat big bonus as well & the stuff for the new baby[helper's].
awesome…awesome..awesome!!
Exactly how I used to feel about my “mama beauty”!! The women was heaven sent! until… (sob..sob).. until her silent departure!
As for Donald in England just pretend that stuff is non-existance and come back home sir.Sdumo,Aggy is so good to you man.She reminds me of my granny who used to be adored by her white masters during her days.That woman was good at what she does man,i know this because 99.99% of the clothes we used to wear for christmas were gifts from her mistress.My granny can clean,iron and fold your clothes like never before.Mine were such examples.Sadly now she could no longer do that,she’s old,grumpy and complains just about anything that walks on earth,from the youth losing maaners and dressng like pigeons to the small pension she gets and worse still she chows it all by herself,but never stop complaining.Anyway sdumo take care of Agnes my man,but warn her never to become like my granny,ok.
@Sumo
I beg to spoil this party.This Eggy,where does she live?In a shack or four roomed matchbox.How does she travel to and from your pig-sty turned clean house?Is she married?How many children does she have and what are their names?How many other mouths does she have to feed from the wages you give her?Is she registered for UIF at the Dept of LABOUR?Does she have matric?If not,has she been encouraged to take ABET classes which will ultimately open other Skills Development and Training oppportunitites and thus making her employable in either public or corporate sectors?
You see,what I’m trying to bring forth is that you sound like the new middle class that seek to perpertuate the status quo.Poor,Black majority to service rich,Black/White minority.If we continue at this level,SA will have a bloody revolution without leadership and coupled with misdirected anger.
Poor Eggy is probably content with what she is earning simply because her life rotates around domestic chores for other people.If she did not go through what the past offered her,maybe YOU would have told a different story.Just imagine if Eggy was your mother.
@ the rest of the bloggers on this page,shame on you for not being dialectically materialistic about this topic.You give the Sumo all the kudos for having written an article which smacks of class discrimination.Good luck.
How the hell to reply after Phemelo’s scathing attempt?
The funny thing, Phumelo, is that some ppl actually do prefer to do housework. Not because they don’t have matric, but bc they love doing it. That’s rather their choice, don’t you think?
I grew up with Joyce, Doily for me, and even stranger than that – my dad (staunch Old Regime fabric) bought her a flat, fully furnished and Doily even moved with us after the WC bit. She didn’t have any family other than us, those pitiful white folk who had her stuck in Apartheid. Yes, shame on us indeed.
When we are blessed to have someone like Eggy or Doily in our lives, we thank them like we’d thank anyone else. If you don’t.. well, then maybe you should clean houses for a living.
chica
@Liz MacLeod
Please spare us your classier than thou attitude.There is no one who wants to wake up everyday and look forward to picking up after anyone’s dirt.I mean where have you seen even in caste societie ppeople doing that?Bo poor Eggy have to wash smelly socks,underwears and even some times used condoms.Let’s not forget the slaving in the kitchen and later critised for the badly prepared food.
Please Liz,if you want to defend Sumo’s article,rather try to answer questions posted like who are her children.Forget the husband cause in some cases he is always away.
*bite me*
If Eggy has to wash dirty condoms it would explain a whole whack of what’s up with the state of the nation, Phemelo.
@Liz MacLeod
I had meant picking up used condoms.The language sometimes tumble on my mind as a write on something I am very passionate about.
I think I am wasting my time here because you all think alike.Black/White-petty bourgeois-elite-who-think-poor-must-pick-up-their-dirt.I feel like I am preaching to the not-converted and thus rest my case.
This is a wild stab in the dark in the hope that Phemelo still checks on this blog.
Phemelo how is The Sumo knowing Eggy’s kids name going to improve her social standing or is that going to put in her plate. I seriously don’t follow your logic or lack there of.