Excuse me; please may I borrow your helper?

I used to fantasize about a domestic angel, dressed in a pretty pink uniform with big pockets filled with sweets and treats just for me. She would sing happily as she swayed her ample hips to an imaginary beat, while vacuuming room after room in our big family home. In my fantasy her name was Sophie and she loved nothing more than to wait on me hand and foot. Of course this never quite happened. Not only was our family home never quite as big as it was in my dreams, but ‘Sophie’ also never had to wait on me hand and foot, and she certainly didn’t spoil me rotten with sugary treats.

Is it just me or does it seem that white folk are just luckier than black people when it comes to finding the perfect domestic worker? This is something that has intrigued me for a while. Intrigue with a little bit of disdain of course.

Growing up I remember going to my white friend’s homes, where domestic bliss was usually accompanied by the loyal service of their Maria; the wonderful helper that happened to have been working for the family since my friend’s brother was born. This I tell you was no mean feat, especially considering that he was at the time almost finished with big school.

My family on the other hand went through about six helpers before my parents finally gave up. I can confirm that that this was rather unpleasant. I wondered for a long time why they always seemed to leave, I mean after all they were neither underpaid nor over worked. On the contrary actually, my parents being very strict and traditional didn’t believe that getting a helper meant that our days of domestic chores came to an end. So basically our helpers only really worked for my parents. They were so adamant about this, that I remember my parents often asking our ‘Sophie’ whether we ever asked her to help us with our chores, and if so, they were to be notified immediately.

Of course kids being kids, we caught on quickly that if we wanted things to be done by our ‘Sophie’ we were going to have to make it worth her while. So my siblings and I would have weekly meetings to decide whose pocket money went to which chores each week. This didn’t last very long. As soon as our helper realised that she was never going to get rich off our measly pocket money on the side, our ‘domestic bliss’ ended abruptly.

So why then did we never quite find a helper that stayed for our entire childhood? I started to think that perhaps it’s because they became too familiar with our family, so much so that they seemed to forget that they had come there to work. At my friend’s house Maria never got to eat with the family or their visitors, she stayed outside and rarely ate the same food they ate. Furthermore, she wore a uniform and always referred to the Mr and Mrs of the house as Sir and Madam. Maria even seemed to have a healthy level of ‘fear’ for my friend, this I found very strange, and especially considering that we were only 8 years old.

Ubuntu meant that in our home, all our helpers got to live inside the house with us. They ate what we ate, when we ate it. They got to watch TV with the whole family and even got whole weekends off, because as my parents often pointed out- since we didn’t have any homework to do over the weekend, there was no need for us to get help around the house either.

I had to conclude that either my parents really didn’t understand that our ‘Sophie’ was here to work for us, and as such in treating her like she was an aunt that happened to be visiting us, they spoilt her, or we really just were not looking for our Sophies in the right place and in my mind the right place meant the place where my white friends found their ‘Maria’, the type that would stay with us indefinitely. So since my parents have long thrown in the towel, I decided to pick it up and continue the search for my fantasy helper. I am just going to go about it quite differently. It is simple. To all my white friends I have just one request; please may I borrow your helper?