Dunni Abisayo
Housegirl
Titilayo’s knees ached. She had been kneeling on the bathroom floor for two hours, hovering over the tub, washing Demi’s clothes. Her hands had gone pruney from being in the water so long, the skin around her nails raw and ready to break. Just as she paused, taking a few breaths, rubbing at an itch on her forehead with the inside of her elbow, she felt a presence behind her.
“Just put it in the washing machine.” Yetunde came into the bathroom, still wearing her heels from her night out, and sat on the closed toilet seat, stretching out her legs and leaning back. “She’d never know.”
Titilayo scoffed as she picked up one of the baby’s pinafores soaking in the tub and returned to scrubbing.
“Your mother? Of course she would.”
Yetunde smelled like weed and beer. Titilayo pictured her hot and sweaty in a dark club somewhere, men’s eyes and hands all over her, and irritation crept through Titilayo’s skin.
“It’s ridiculous. Buying a baby so many hand-wash-only clothes.” Yetunde slipped off her heels, flinging them across the floor. Later, Titilayo would pick them up and put them in Yetunde’s closet.
Titilayo ignored Yetunde then, not saying what she wanted to: that it was not ridiculous when you had a housegirl who would do the hand-washing for you. The entire front of her T-shirt was drenched in soapy water now, the floor by the tub wet too. It was 3 a.m., and Titilayo was exhausted.
When Demi had woken up just past midnight, crying out for her, she had been so deep in sleep that she had not heard the monitor. Demi’s mother had come down to the basement, switching on the lights. Mrs. Bolanle’s eyes were covered by huge black Chanel sunglasses like always, but her anger was clear from the hard line of her mouth, the tightness in her jaw.
“Can you not hear him crying?”
Demi’s cries howled through the monitor, filling the whole basement.
Titilayo squinted, her eyes adjusting to the harsh light, and patted around her bed for her dressing gown. As she made her way upstairs, she thought about how Mrs. Bolanle’s room was just two steps away from the nursery.
In the nursery, Demi’s face had been scrunched into a grimace, his mouth open wide and trembling as he screamed, hands balled up into little fists that he pounded against the edge of the crib. As Titilayo walked toward him, he held out his hands, his cries calming to a whimper as she took him into her arms. Kissing his wet cheeks over and over, she felt him nestle his face into the crook of her neck, almost sucking on her skin, not allowing her to get a good look at him as he clutched tight to her shoulders and back. They stayed like that for a while, Titilayo whispering into his ears, singing him a half-made-up lullaby in Yoruba.
“I get terrible migraines if I don’t sleep through the night,” a voice said. Titilayo was startled to see Mrs. Bolanle in the doorway, watching her. She assumed her madame had gone back to bed already.
“Yes ma, I am sorry. I didn’t hear him.” Titilayo responded in a hushed tone, mirroring the permanent whisper Mrs. Bolanle spoke in.
There was an empty guest bedroom right next to Demi’s nursery. Titilayo took this chance to finally suggest that maybe she start sleeping there so she could be closer to the baby., Mrs. Bolanle’s mouth drew into a straight line, her eyes furrowing.
“My husband likes to keep that room available for guests.”
In the six months since Titilayo had moved in, the family had not had any guests stay over. Titilayo had still never even met Mr. Bolanle, who spent most of the year in Lagos. She would have questioned his very existence if she did not hear Yetunde on the phone to him every few weeks, her voice sweet and giggly as she found a roundabout way to ask her father for more money.
“Yes, ma. Of course.”
Titilayo feared that she had stepped over a line. Her suspicion was confirmed when Mrs. Bolanle noticed the laundry basket in the corner and added, “Please wash that before you go back to bed. The room is smelling.” Titilayo was sure the room smelled only of vanilla incense, Sudocrem and baby oil, like it always did.
Now Titilayo drained the tub, turning the tap on to rinse the clothes one by one, wringing them in her hands, a gush then trickle of water running through her fingers as she twisted them tighter and tighter. Once she was done, she put the clothes into the bucket. Holding the handle in one hand, she stood up, finally allowing herself to look at Yetunde properly.
Yetunde’s skin was shiny and dewy, eyelids a glittery pink-gold, lips painted a deep burgundy. Her natural resting face always left her mouth slightly open, revealing the gap between her front teeth. Titilayo loved the slight imperfection of Yetunde’s teeth; there was something satisfying about it, and infuriating too, in the way it made Yetunde even more striking, like one of the models on the covers of the African American magazines Titilayo used to pore over as a child. She never forgot the strange agony she felt at their beauty, a twisted mix of envy and longing, and something close to hope.
Yetunde’s foot had been splashed by the tub water. She lifted it off the ground and drew it up Titilayo’s leg, the tickling wet sensation causing Titilayo to shiver. With a laugh, Yetunde got up from the toilet seat.
“Go to bed. You look terrible.”
The next day, Demi woke up early like he always did, announcing himself by calling out “Titi, Titi.” When Titilayo heard his soft baby voice crackling through the static of the monitor, a warmth spread through her body. She had grown to love that sound.
She was not meant to grow attached to the children she took care of. This was a promise Titilayo always made to herself before she moved in with a new family. But as she carried Demi’s chubby body in her arms and laid him on the changing table, his tiny feet kicking in the air, round protruding belly moving up and down as he breathed, Titilayo was reminded of how she always failed to keep that promise.
Putting a dummy in Demi’s mouth to keep him distracted as she changed his nappy, Titilayo thought of his mother, who was just in the next room. In the two months since she had arrived, Titilayo had not grown any less curious about what Mrs. Bolanle did all day. Maybe she slept. That would explain the permanent haphazard state of her hair, the long ill-fitting nightgowns she always wore.
Titilayo rarely ever saw Mrs. Bolanle leave the bedroom, other than when she would appear at the doorway of the nursery or the living room to complain about the noise Demi had been making, or something else she thought Titilayo was doing wrong.
“That’s not the right way to wrap him on your back.”
Or, “The laundry basket is too full.” Even if it only had four items inside. Mrs. Bolanle would always deliver these criticisms from just outside the door, as if crossing the threshold would then make her obliged to look at her son and acknowledge him. Titilayo often wondered whether Mrs. Bolanle was like this with Yetunde as a child. The mother and daughter barely ever spoke, went whole weeks without even crossing paths. Next to each other, they could pass as sisters, which Yetunde had explained was because Mrs. Bolanle had her at eighteen years old.
“Can you imagine Daddy was nearly double her age? So gross!” Yetunde’s face had twisted with a mix of disgust and amusement. Titilayo knew that she was not meant to give her opinion at moments like these, and so she had kept her face neutral, said nothing.
It was getting too cold for Titilayo to take Demi on walks around the neighborhood like she did over the summer. So she put on a cartoon for him in the living room and they sat on the floor in front of the TV.
Demi always wanted to sit on Titilayo’s lap. He would half-twist his body toward her so one hand had access to her earlobe, which he played with absentmindedly as he kept his eyes fixed to the screen. Whenever Titilayo tried to put him down, a slow whine would draw out of his lips and build into a piercing cry that wasn’t silenced until he was back in her arms. It felt wrong to admit, but sometimes Titilayo’s pride swelled at this sound, the intensity of his attachment to her. Though Demi was needy, Titilayo was needy, too.
That night, as Titilayo was putting Demi to bed, Yetunde came to find her. She had been sleeping all day, nursing her hangover from the night before.
“Should we finish up with my wardrobe?” Yetunde asked, leaning against the edge of the door. The muscles in Yetunde’s lower leg tensed as she shifted her weight onto it. Titilayo’s eyes were drawn to the smooth hairlessness of Yetunde’s skin. She wondered how Yetunde managed to stay so groomed, her skin so flawless, all one vivid dark brown shade.
Being around Yetunde always made Titilayo more aware of her own body. She would be overcome with a familiar feeling that she was not enough in some way. Not womanly enough, or interesting enough, or beautiful enough.
For the past few weeks, when Yetunde was not out partying with friends, Titilayo had been helping her clear out and color-coordinate her walk-in wardrobe. There were rows upon rows of clothes. Designer coats and shoes. Rich silks and shiny handbags that Titilayo had only ever seen the knock-off versions of in Bodija Market back home.
Titilayo would bring items out one by one and show them to Yetunde, who would wrinkle her nose or nod her head before Titilayo either folded the item onto a neat pile on the floor or rehung it in the appropriate section. Over the weeks, Titilayo had learnt not to look at the price tags that were still attached to many of the items.
Sometimes, Yetunde would insist Titilayo try some of the clothes on if she was unsure of whether to keep them. “I want to see how it looks,” she would say, growing giddy.
This never made sense to Titilayo. Their bodies were so different: Yetunde was short and curvy, with wide hips and large breasts, while Titilayo was tall, thin, and flat-chested. Back home everyone had always called her lepashandi, insisting she needed more meat on her bones.
At first, Titilayo tried to protest. But then Yetunde would get that determined look in her eye, the one that reminded Titilayo so much of Demi. Then Titilayo knew that there was no point in saying no, that she wouldn’t be allowed to go to sleep until Yetunde got her way.
They were finally finished organizing the room and dozens of full black bags sat on the floor that Titilayo would drop off at the charity shop the next day.
“You should take something.” Yetunde said.
“Oh, thank you, but that’s OK. I don’t need anything.”
Yetunde ignored this, bending down to pick out a long, low-cut dress from one of the piles. It was ice blue and silky. “This would look amazing on you.”
Titilayo knew it was ridiculous, impractical to even try on. She had nowhere to wear the dress. But still she took off her faded baggy jumper and joggers. She pretended she was unfazed about being naked in front of Yetunde, that her heart was not beating out of her chest as she dropped her bra to the floor.
The silk caressed her skin as she slipped it on, and Titilayo couldn’t help but run her fingers over it, against her stomach and thighs. She had never felt anything so rich and smooth.
But when she turned to look at her reflection in the mirror, Titilayo felt foolish again. The dress sagged. It didn’t cling to her body in the ways she imagined it would cling to Yetunde’s. When Yetunde did not say anything for a moment, Titilayo was even more embarrassed and felt desperate to get the dress off. As she was about to turn away from the mirror, Yetunde held her shoulders, gripping them with a force that was almost painful.
“You have to keep it.” Yetunde reached down again, this time to pick up a cropped fur coat that she hung over Titilayo’s shoulders. “And this.” The coat was dark brown and did not go with the dress at all. It felt foreign and heavy on Titilayo’s shoulders. Looking at herself in the mirror, Titilayo felt like a child playing dress-up. But she forced a smile.
“Thank you.”
A week later, Titilayo was laying on her bed, playing Snake on her Nokia, when she heard footsteps coming down the basement stairs. She had not seen Yetunde since the last day of the wardrobe clear-out. But now Yetunde was there in front of her, looking so much younger, her face completely bare, bright and damp as if she had just washed it. Titilayo could see the outline of Yetunde’s breasts in her oversized t-shirt, her nipples poking through the thin cotton.
“Are you OK?” Titilayo asked, pushing herself off the bed. It felt strange to see Yetunde down here.
“Could you help me cornrow my hair?”
Titilayo nodded and followed Yetunde upstairs. A part of her wondered whether Yetunde had thought about her during the past week, if Yetunde had missed her too.
“Sit on the bed.” Yetunde said. “I’ll sit on the floor.”
And so Titilayo sat on the edge of the bed with Yetunde on the floor between her legs. With a slim comb, she parted Yetunde’s hair, combing the short tufts. She dipped her fingers into the thick shea butter Yetunde had given her and rubbed it into Yetunde’s scalp, then braided each thin section tight. Titilayo worked silently. Yetunde was quiet, too. It stayed that way for twenty minutes or so. All they could hear were Titilayo’s fingers moving through Yetunde’s hair and the ticking clock on the wall. Then Titilayo must have pulled too hard, because Yetunde winced and grabbed hold of the upper part of Titilayo’s leg, her fingers digging into the flesh.
“Sorry,” Titilayo whispered. Yetunde did not say anything, but she did not remove her hand, either. The thick silence resumed, and Titilayo found herself braiding slower, half-distracted by the feel of Yetunde’s hand gripping her calf. She tried hard not to move any other part of her body besides her hands. A sore dryness built in her throat, which she did not dare relieve by swallowing or wetting her lips. Cramps rose in her back and neck but Titilayo embraced them, as if she would be rewarded for this bodily sacrifice. When she finished the last cornrow, she said under her breath, “That’s it.” Then the spell was broken. Yetunde moved her hand away and stood up from the floor. Titilayo’s thighs grew cool as the heat from Yetunde’s body left them.
Yetunde looked at herself in the mirror, running her fingers across her baby hairs and the taut skin of her hairline. Titilayo wanted to ask if she had braided it too tight, but felt that the silence was meant to be preserved. She watched Yetunde close the bedroom door. The click of the lock was a confirmation, the sound of a prayer being answered.
Titilayo’s body tensed as she watched Yetunde walk towards her and stop just inches away. Yetunde used her knees to part Titilayo’s legs open, slipping her hand under Titilayo’s shirt. Titilayo’s breath hitched at the cold fingers brushing against her stomach. There was something almost cruel about the brightness of the lights, the way it so mercilessly exposed Titilayo’s body as Yetunde lifted the shirt over Titilayo’s head. But then Yetunde removed her own shirt as well, her full breasts spilling out, and the plain hunger in Yetunde’s eyes made Titilayo forget the shyness she had felt just moments ago. For the first time, she allowed herself to acknowledge the feverish longing she had always felt in Yetunde’s presence, that she had been waiting for this since they first met. When Yetunde finally leaned over, their breasts brushing against each other’s, a shiver ran through Titilayo’s body.
She closed her eyes just before their lips met.
Titilayo woke up the next day in Yetunde’s bed alone. Tasting her stale breath, she went into Yetunde’s bathroom and took the toothpaste by the sink. She squeezed a line onto her finger and used it to scrub her gums before leaning over to rinse out her mouth. When she looked up, she saw the reflection of Yetunde standing in the doorway.
“Morning,” Yetunde said. Titilayo’s mouth was still full of minty water. She spat it out, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Good morning.” It came out wrong, too formal. Titilayo felt a wave of anger then, at herself mostly, but at Yetunde, too.
Yetunde stepped inside. Reaching out for her toothbrush in a pot by the sink, she said, “You can use mine.”
Titilayo shook her head. “I can brush my teeth properly downstairs.” “But I want you to.” Yetunde was holding out the toothbrush now, and Titilayo had no choice but to take it. Once she had applied the toothpaste to the brush, she slowly lifted it to her mouth. In silence, the two of them watched each other in the mirror as Titilayo brushed her teeth. She did not do it with half as much vigor as she usually would, making slow soft circles around the insides of her mouth, as if she did not want to leave too much of her saliva, of herself, behind on the brush.
When she was finally done, and had rinsed her mouth again, she stood still as if waiting for a cue or instruction from Yetunde.
But then they heard Demi’s voice cry out, and Titilayo released a breath she did not realize she had been holding. All of sudden she was tired. She felt desperate to sleep for a very long time.
At the landing, Mrs. Bolanle was standing just outside her bedroom door. Titilayo willed herself to stay calm as she said, “Good morning ma.”
Mrs. Bolanle did not say a word. But Titilayo felt herself being looked up and down, even with her boss’ sunglasses on. The baby’s cries grew louder, but no one moved. Then Yetunde was there, beside Titilayo, and the three women stood in the corridor watching each other, none of them acknowledging Demi’s screams.
“The baby,” Titilayo said after a moment. Neither Yetunde nor her mother responded. Titilayo avoided their eyes as she went into the nursery.
Scooping Demi up into her arms, she put her finger in his mouth. He was starting to teethe and was always looking for something to gnaw away at with his tender gums.
“Don’t do that.” Mrs. Bolanle’s voice was sharp. She was at the door, just outside. “It’s not hygienic.”
Titilayo was so startled that she pulled her finger away as if it had just been burnt, bumping the baby’s upper gum and lip hard. He began to cry again. Titilayo saw Yetunde walk past the door behind Mrs. Bolanle, but Yetunde did not turn to look at her.
“You should have his breakfast ready before he wakes up,” Mrs. Bolanle said.
“Yes, ma.”
Mrs. Bolanle opened her mouth to say something else but then stopped herself, letting out a sigh that was barely audible over the baby. Mrs. Bolanle turned away, and just before leaving, said over her shoulder, “Hoover this place. It’s filthy.”
* * *
Three days later, the arrival of two guests was announced by the click-clack of heels and the scent of expensive perfume. The girls came behind Yetunde into the living room. All Titilayo could think was that they looked plastic. It wasn’t just their silky lace front wigs, or the heaps of makeup thickly pasted onto their faces, or the long pink rhinestone-encrusted acrylics glued onto each of their nails. There was also something plastic in the way these girls carried and moved their bodies. How they strutted into the room. Their superficial girlish coos as they noticed Demi on Titilayo’s back, coming over to pinch his cheeks and never once acknowledging her. Around them, Yetunde seemed to become plastic too, a layer of artifice coating her every word and action.
The taller yellow-skinned girl said to the air next to Titi, “Aw, I want to hold him.”
Titilayo unbound Demi from her back and handed him over.
As she stood pressed against the wall on the other side of the room, it surprised Titilayo how difficult she found it to take her eyes off the girls. It was the air they carried themselves with. So unbothered. That total ease of the rich. It filled Titilayo with longing.
A competition of sorts was taking place. The girls talked about everything and nothing: their university exam results, upcoming trips to Cannes, the boys they were talking to, their most recent splurges in Harrods. But something told Titilayo that these girls did not really like each other, that they were merely keeping each other around to prove something or hang onto something essential, and it satisfied Titilayo to see this.
The tall yellow-skinned friend, Mimi, was holding Demi, bouncing him up and down on her thighs, his squeals of delight growing louder and louder every time he went back up into the air. Soon enough the girls would grow bored of him. Only then would they remember Titilayo was in the room.
The girls had that British-American twang that all the rich Nigerians who grew up in Lagos seemed to adopt. Jarringly overenunciating their words like the middle-aged Nollywood actors Titilayo and her cousins in Ibadan made fun of.
As Mimi crossed her legs, the slit in her skirt opened to reveal scars, dozens of them, mostly likely from childhood mosquito bites. Small, dark, circular marks that had not faded with time, even more distinct against her otherwise yellow skin. Titilayo had scars just like them, though at that moment they were covered by her baggy leggings. She was taken aback by the delight that settled over her as she looked at these scars on Mimi’s legs, seeing something of herself in them.
Mimi noticed Titilayo staring, and though Titilayo looked away quickly, it was too late. She had seen the flash of discomfort on Mimi’s face, quickly followed by irritation, then anger. Mimi pulled the slit of her skirt closed, holding it between her knees in an awkward and uncomfortable position. “I’m thirsty,” Mimi said in Titilayo’s direction, not quite making eye contact. Titilayo did not give any indication she heard her.
“Oh,” Yetunde said, turning to Titilayo. “Do you mind getting Mimi something to drink?” This was the first time they had spoken to each other since that morning on the landing with Mrs. Bolanle.
“What would you like?” Titilayo asked, pushing herself off the wall and stepping toward them. They were all looking at her now other than Demi, who was distracted by the other friend’s car keys. He shook them in his hands, laughing at the jangling sound they made. Titilayo suddenly felt self-conscious of her faded clothes and bare feet, the chipped polish she had applied on her toenails months ago.
“I would love coconut water, if you have any.”
They did not. Titilayo explained this, adding, “But we have apple, orange, Coke, Fanta, Sprite, sparkling water . . .” But she could tell from the insincere sorrow on Mimi’s face that none of the options she listed would be adequate.
Mimi said because of her allergies, she had to be really careful about what she ate and drank. Titilayo wanted to ask if Mimi was also allergic to still water.
Mimi turned toward Yetunde. “There’s a newsagent just down the road, no?”
Yetunde looked at Titilayo with a question in her face that was more of an instruction, and Titilayo felt a quiet rage build inside of her. It continued to build as she walked to the newsagent, bought coconut water, and then returned to the house. As she poured the coconut water into a glass for Mimi, she was overcome by a desire to tip the carton over Mimi’s £800 wig.
Returning to her position at the back of the room, Titilayo allowed herself to focus just on Yetunde and pretend that the other two girls were not there. Watching Yetunde’s mouth move as she told a story, Titilayo decided she did not like the red lipstick Yetunde had chosen today. Yetunde’s plump bottom lip was naturally a bright pink, contrasting with her dark upper lip and skin. But today, Yetunde’s whole mouth was blood-red. Titilayo imagined going over to Yetunde, pulling her sleeve over her thumb and rubbing it against Yetunde’s lips. Wiping all that carnage away.
Yetunde must have felt Titilayo staring, because she turned to look at her. Suddenly the air grew warm. Titilayo was struck by how she could feel both tenderness and repulsion at the same time, how they really were not so far from one another.
In that moment, Titilayo wanted to rip off her clothes, or her skin. To bend her body over and scream out loud. Of course, she could not do any of those things. All she had were these brief few moments, when Yetunde’s attention was still on her, to say what she needed to. Even then, she could only use her eyes. And even then, Yetunde would only see what Yetunde wanted to.
Yetunde looked away.
Later that night, Titilayo was in the laundry area of the basement, folding the clothes she had just washed and dried. It was only when Yetunde came downstairs that Titilayo realized she had been waiting for her.
“Hey,” Yetunde said, leaning against the washing machine, smiling, as if they had not spent the last three days avoiding each other.
“I’m sorry about Mimi and Derin. They can be … a lot.” Her smile widened, taking a mischievous shape, but for once this did not kindle longing in Titilayo’s belly. Now, the curve of Yetunde’s full lips and the flash of her gap just irritated Titilayo.
“That’s OK.”
Yetunde started to help Titilayo fold the clothes, removing the tiny pinafores and shirts from the rack before adding them to the pile on the top of the washing machine. She was not good at folding. Titilayo took the clothes out of Yetunde’s hands, refolding them.
“Don’t worry, I’ll do it.”
“But I—”
“Your mother likes it a certain way,” Titilayo said, interrupting Yetunde. She kept focused on the clothes she was holding so she would not have to see how Yetunde had reacted to the forcefulness in her voice.
It was quiet for a moment, before Yetunde said, “Do you want to come to my room when you’re done? We can watch a movie.”
Titilayo forced herself to look at Yetunde as she shook her head. She lifted the pile of clothes into her arms. “Sorry, not tonight. I’m very tired.” “OK!” Yetunde’s voice came out a little too high, the smile on her face setting like plastic. “Well, if you change your mind . . . ”
Yetunde looked at Titilayo expectantly, but Titilayo just stared back, surprised at how she could not even bring herself to force a sorry smile. She was relieved when Yetunde finally left. Once she heard the door close at the top of the stairs, Titilayo put the pile of clothes back down. There were still more of Demi’s clothes to wash. She would put them in the washing machine in the middle of the night when Mrs. Bolanle would not hear.
Slipping off her leggings and T-shirt, Titilayo walked naked to her bed in the corner of the room. She looked at herself for a moment in the mirror, laying her hands flat on her stomach, running them down her thighs. There were bags under her eyes, and Titilayo wondered when they had appeared. She pushed the thought to the back of her mind and got under the fresh sheets of her bed. All at once she felt grateful for the coolness of the sheets against her skin, welcomed the weight of the duvet as she lifted it over her shoulders and face. It stifled her breathing, but in a way that felt good.