When Agnes got the joke, she was mortified. Just because she was British and had moved to Africa – to be with him, mind you! – that did not make her a colonialist. She was nothing like Grandpa Percy, who, yes, had occasionally said things about the ‘lower races’, and used uncouth words like ‘nigger’ and ‘Kaffir’, and treated his time in Africa as a sort of jolly jaunt.
‘Am velly solly for creening, Madamu,’ Grace said now. ‘But it is late. Past twove o’crock. The peepo are coming for the patty pa aftanooni. Bwana says I must shine the floze—’
‘Why?! Why must you perpetually shine the floors? They’re already a bloody hazard!’
Agnes did not appreciate such tokens of luxury as reflective and hygienic floors. She had wet her socks. She had slipped. It was easier to blame the maid than face her true terror of hurting herself in this unfamiliar place. Agnes had already gathered posies of bruises on her legs and arms, not just from stumbling over furniture but also from tripping over Grace herself, who was always underfoot, creening things. Once, Agnes had walked straight into the girl, standing fully upright in a doorway.
‘Waiting!’ Agnes complained. ‘For me to crash into her! She’s up to something.’
‘She is up to nothing,’ Ronald snorted. ‘This house is never properly clean.’
‘Then fire her!’
Ronald did not. Grace came with the house, which came with his job. He was on the planning committee for the country’s first national university, a highly prestigious position. He had taken on the assignment with energy and aplomb, as a member of the elite in Lusaka, the capital.
Life here had been a rather more difficult adjustment for Mrs Agnes Banda, however. There was so much to adjust to. The extra oil in the food, the dearth of salt. The shower that was either freezing cold or blazing hot but never comfortably warm. (Ronald had laughed: ‘How is a woman familiar with English weather baffled by this?’) The nighttime racket was unbearable. Dogs accusing each other across town. Mosquitoes dive-bombing her ears. A demented rooster that couldn’t distinguish sunlight from street light and announced the dawn every hour to cover its bets. (‘Don’t worry,’ Ronald had said, ‘that chicken will get eaten or that light will get broken.’)
Easy enough for him to say. He always slept right through the nightly cacophony, while Agnes lay there, vibrating with pique. This upended their balance: he woke a few hours after she had finally dozed off, parallel universes staggered by twelve hours. She often slept late into the day, getting up in time to join him for one of Mr Sakala’s elaborate lunches – crumbling chicken fricassee or ersatz beef Wellington, bland and congealing. Marriage, career, Africa itself – something had exposed the many ways they were at odds. Alone and aggrieved, at home all day, Agnes often caught herself berating the workers, ranting over trivialities. A princess shouting at the pea under the mattress.
‘This is not the time to creen the bedroom,’ she hissed at Grace now. ‘I’m sleeping.’
The words deflated like punctured balloons as they left her lips. I’m sleeping: what a self-defeating thing to say. Grace did not reply but the scratching sound started up again, just slightly softer. Agnes sighed and reached out from under the covers to turn on the radio beside the bed.
‘Lusaka calling,’ the broadcaster purred. He announced a radio play about wamunyama, the local word for vampires. Then came the world news, which was mostly about the prospect of a second Clay vs Liston fight. A dulcet voice advertising Palmolive. Satchmo growling like a pleased honeybear. Cutting through his song came a yawning sound – the front door opening.
Grace stopped polishing. Her bare feet pittered across the floor. She cracked the bedroom door. The two women listened to the voices knocking about the walls of the house. Agnes identified Ronald’s tenor, a man’s wheezing voice, and the kind of laugh that belonged to a big woman.
‘Madamu, they are hee-ya. You must get up now.’
Agnes dragged herself vertical. Her toes fumbled under the bed, seeking her slippers. Grace snatched her to her feet and pulled her away from the bed.
‘No, Madamu, you must be looking nice!’
They stepped over to the wardrobe together and Agnes rifled among the hanging clothes for a decent skirt and shirt. She changed into them and accepted Grace’s adjustments.
‘Iye, Madamu, but this ka blouse is small-small. Too much nshima!’
‘What? Oh, yes, well. I didn’t eat lunch today at least,’ said