So, it’s this baby next door to my apartment. I’ve only seen the child once, but have been disgusted by his presence since the first day of my arrival. It’s not that I don’t like children–that’s very far from the truth. I don’t like certain children, specifically those who are determined to wake me up in the middle of the night with their constant wailing. Despite my disdain, he and I have developed an intimate relationship. Over-hearing his tantrums has given me the ability to determine his never-ending wants and needs by the intonation, volume, and length of his crying. In my sleep-deprived delirium, I almost banged on his parents’ door twice. Once to beat his ass, and the other to rock him to sleep. I first laid eyes on this little terror a few days ago, and although fully capable of walking, he was being held by his adolescent nanny.
The omnipresence of servants is a British custom, bequeathed from Nigeria’s colonial days. It’s not only foreign, but makes me incredibly uncomfortable. I’m constantly committing some ridiculous blunder like sitting in the front seat beside the driver or going into the kitchen to make my own tea. People simply shake their heads in dismay at my complete lack of grace when being waited on hand and foot. Since I’ve been in Nigeria, I’ve successfully fetched my own water, washed and ironed my own clothes, walked to work in the rain, cooked my own food, brushed my own teeth, and wiped my own behind. Many Nigerians cannot say the same (well, I’m exaggerating about brushing their teeth and wiping their behinds–I hope). To my astonishment, the presence of servants means someone is always waiting to complete menial tasks on your behalf! For example, my well-intentioned and poorly funded NGO has two custodians/maids, three nannies, and a driver. Their responsibilities are complex as they have the joy of engaging in their primary duties, as well as being at the staff’s beck and call. Most importantly, these middle-aged men and women arrive at least one full hour before everyone else. It appears that anticipating the whims of twenty-five able-bodied adults is time consuming.
I’m staging a protest against this colonial residue. Although alone in my activism, I’m afraid that accepting this type of cultural privilege will render me helpless. In principle, I’m also opposed to demanding my elders to do things for me that I’m capable of doing for myself. It’s both disrespectful and elitist. Almost every matriarch in my family served as a maid, cook, and caretaker. Their perseverance elevated my generation out of the oppressor’s homes, and into colleges, careers, and unlimited opportunities. Looking into the eyes of the Nigerian “help”, I don’t see the underclass of this society, but my grandmothers’ toil and my great-aunts’ tribulations.
As I was writing this post, my co-worker walked in with her baby and nanny. A child herself, she looks helpless, but stares at the baby with adoration in her eyes. I wonder if she sees a life she will never live, dreams she will never fulfill. I wonder if she is my grandmother 50 years ago. I timidly smile at her, praying for her release from servitude.
