They Have No Birthday: The Trail and Travail of a Domestic Help

By ISAAC EZENWA UMELO

The book is a story of a young girl whose epic challenges bent her to a point of attempted murder. Bomas father was Head of Chancery at the Nigerian Embassy in Paris. Her promising life turned gloomy when her father eloped with his beau to America abandoning the family in France. Her mother later died of breast cancer at home in Nigeria. A scheming uncle tried to marry her to a wealthy Muslim fleet owner. The mans attempt to rape her resulted in Boma smashing his head with a whisky bottle.
Fleeing from justice, Boma landed in the home of a university couple where she suffered indignities.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Jan 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781499092448

ISAAC EZENWA UMELO

Isaac Umelo is a 70year old Electrical Engineer, a former staff of Unilever and an Alumni of Haggai Institute Singapore. He started writing in High School contributing articles to Christian magazines and national newspapers. He has written four novels. The author was a chapter President of the Full Gospel Business Men’s Fellowship International in Lagos where he led the Prison Welfare committee to impact on Prison conditions. He is a Deacon of The Redeemed Evangelical Mission Lagos and a Co-Author of the “Gratitude Book Project 2013: A Celebration of 365 days of Gratitude,” a NY Best seller edited by Dona Kozik. Isaac Umelo is a father of 6.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

THE BEGINNING FROM THE END

B oma bent over the baby in the cot. The glitter in his eyes was gone and a yellow dullness was creeping into the white apple. She touched his face and quickly withdrew her hand. The temperature was scorching, like the face of a newly plugged iron. She felt the heat through the radiation from the sleeves of her own gown. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling. If what the medicine man said was true, and so far, everything happened as he predicted, then Mrs. Ulo’s precious boy had but a few minutes to live, and nobody would ever know the cause of death.

The medicine man spoke to her and the houseboy, Akpabio, without a prompt. He blurted like a man delivering an inevitable prophecy. The setting was in the man’s temple in Duke Town, Calabar, where the tricky houseboy led her. The leathery old man with baggy grey shorts thrust two small plastic bottles into her cupped hand.

A time will come, the medicine man said, caressing a big black gourd. A time will come in your experience with your madam; you will be moved to wreak vengeance. It is evil, but you may want to do it.

Up to this point, she acted with a steely composure, and followed the instructions of the medicine man with the same efficiency as when she performed madam’s bidding. First, a black powdery substance, too small to fill a teaspoon was emptied from the bottle into a plastic cup of lukewarm water. The water bubbled with sudden heat for two minutes and rested in a colourless state. Boma threw the bottle into the fire and watched as it melted.

She returned to the mixture, spoke two words of incantations, and waited for the cup to cool sufficiently for her to proceed. With a loose piece of rag she picked up outside, for which no accounting was required, she wrapped and lifted the glass and walked from the kitchen into the baby’s room.

As usual, the baby sensed her entry and opened his eyes. With outstretched hands and muttering lips, he beckoned for the contents of the glass cup. Boma bent low without a word, raised the cup to the baby’s lips, and watched the movement of the liquid as it trickled from his tongue to the point where the throat nodded in agreement. From his reaction, the liquid must have tasted sweet. The baby cried aloud for more, but Boma sneaked from the room, clasping the glass and its dregs to her chest

She hurried towards the garden at the back of the house. She was tilling the tomato beds that morning, and had deliberately dug a hole at the base of the wall. Boma threw the cup with its remaining contents, and the rag into the hole. She scampered back to the kitchen for a bowl of water.

There was still the bottle containing the white substance. Without being told, she knew this was some kind of antidote. Boma emptied the white powder into the bowl, placed the plastic bottle in the fire, and watched it thaw and disappear. Then she carried the bowl of liquid antidote and decanted it into the hole in the garden. Now the poison would have no adverse effect on the soil or plants. She closed up the hole with earth, and stuck a tomato nursery plant into it. The main evidence of a dastardly act was buried completely. Or was it?

Another couple of minutes passed and Boma knew the poison was taking effect on the baby. She must do something about the baby’s meal to give credence to the lie that she found him sick when she took his meal to him. Boma walked back into the room. Did she notice pleading eyes or a mocking smile on the baby’s lips? She couldn’t say.

She lifted him up and noticed the surging warmth of his body and the diminishing strength of his breath. The bitterness that had swamped her mind was drifting away. She didn’t feel any sense of elation as a murderer would. As she looked at the dying baby in the cot, her own life and family background flashed back to her like a picture on a screen. She had a baby brother whom she loved dearly. At that stage in her life, they lived with maids who catered selflessly for them. What if? For the first time that morning, she began to lose her calm.

No! No! she groaned, as if coming out of a spell. Junior! You mustn’t die. What have I done? She pulled the baby from the cot into her arms. His breath was so faint now, it was hardly noticeable. His skin had begun to pale.

Suddenly, Boma remembered the white powder given to her by the medicine man. But that was dissolved in a ten-litre bucket of water and drained into the poisoned hole by the wall. She dashed to the double-chambered refrigerator in the kitchen, swung open the freezer, and brought out blocks. She stroked the child’s face with the ice. But the effect of an unknown herbal poison could hardly respond to a regular comfort treatment for swollen nose.

Junior! Boma shouted. Her original confidence was turning to panic. If you won’t live, then we’ll die together. She stuck her tongue into the child’s mouth, breathing into his nostrils. She swallowed hard as she sucked, so that what remained of the poison would get into her system.

In a flash, she remembered the bucket into which she threw the antidote. The liquid content was emptied into the hole in the garden. She ran back to the garden, picked up the bucket, turned it over her head and waited as the dregs trickled down into her open mouth. Then she squeezed open the baby’s now lifeless mouth and emptied the contents of her own mouth into it. With her tongue, she played a dog’s game, lapping up what liquid remained in that bucket and at once transferring it to the baby’s own.

Boma prayed and waited. She blew cold breeze across the baby’s face. He flinched. It was a slight, hardly noticeable movement but it made Boma’s heart throb. Did she notice a lowering of his temperature? It was hard to say and she didn’t wait to see. She poured a little water into the bucket, rinsed the base, and emptied the water directly on the child’s mouth and face. God, she prayed, he must not die. I’ll give all I have, I’ll give my life. Please God, take me. Let my sin catch up with me. But let my baby live.

She looked at the face of the child. Life certainly had returned. God had intervened in a miraculous way. He opened his eyes. There was little indication of the paleness that had enveloped his face. The baby noticed Boma and his lips parted in a smile. Maimaima, he called out.

Boma looked him over for some minutes in disbelief. She was fascinated. Was it a dream or had she lived through these thirty minutes? Starry eyed, she tossed the boy back to her bosom, cuddling him like he was a newly discovered treasure. She held him like that until they both fell asleep.

Boma was awakened by the peal of the doorbell. The bell sang her favourite hymn; When the saints go marching on. It was an odd song in a house that did little praying except in the chapel on Sundays.

She returned from her brief madness, the madness of vengeance and held the baby with a newfound devotion and love. The bell rang again, this time for a longer peal. She knew her madam was back. No one else made such a punishing pressure on the bell button as Mrs. Ulo. She carried the day’s frustration to the doorstep, and seemed to usher in her irritation before she herself steps in.

Welcome, Mama, Boma greeted, as she opened the door. I hope business was fine today, Mama, she followed up in the most humble tone. The baby beckoned to the mother, but Mrs. Ulo was already across the doorway with no word to either.

Boma picked up the bag left at the door and quickly ran after her. Then she remembered that the kitchen was untidy and the meal was not prepared. She was so engrossed in her new friendship with the baby that nothing else seemed to matter.

"Boma!

Yes, ma.

What is the meaning of this? Mrs. Ulo said, pointing to the kitchen table.

Yes ma, I am sorry, ma. The baby was crying and I stayed with him. Mrs. Ulo looked at her baby. He was bubbling and stretching out his hands to her. There was no trace of angst to prove Boma’s claim. She walked into the kitchen.

And the food was it also crying?

Oh no, ma, pardon me. A few minutes, and all will be ready. I’ve peeled the yam and soup is in the fridge.

Mrs. Ulo lifted her hand to strike, but the sight of her bubbling baby restrained her. You foolish good for nothing maid, she screamed. You, who should be gathering oil bean seeds in your village, and feeding on cocoyam. But for my husband, you should have left this house long ago. I say for the last time, now you have become a madam of your own, wasting the day bathing and coloring yourself, your days are numbered here!

Mrs. Ulo lifted the baby from Boma’s hands and walked towards the staircase. Boma heard her feet pounding on the wood as she climbed the twelve steps to her upper floor.

She lay on the bed with the baby by her side, listening intently for the tale-tale whistling or singing that housemaids use when they are inspired to have it back on mistresses without direct confrontation. Mrs. Ulo heard nothing but a smooth regular pam pam of pestle on yam. She threw her head to the pillow, wondered at the uncontrolled emotion she exhibited. Soon, she dozed off. The baby too slept, perching on her breasts.

Boma finished pounding the yam. She brought the soup from the fridge. It was as hard as concrete but soon the heat will reduce it to a green freshness of an okro soup. And Master and Madam loved the slimy soup she made even though no one openly acknowledged it. She loved the sweet smelling aroma of thawing soup. Today was like a new birth for her. The chirps of the birds, the barks of distant dogs, and the rustles of the trees across the road became music to her ear. She dared anything or anybody to steal her happiness. No, not today. She faced the years of bitterness, got to the edge of murder until a little baby’s face brought remembrance of her past to her and with it salvation. The joy was in her power to keep and not in the hands of her tormentors.

What a day! she exclaimed. I must do my very best for Mama and Daddy today.

When the soup was done, she set the food in a tray for her mistress. Dr. Ulo wouldn’t be back for some hours yet. She chose Mrs. Ulo’s favourite plates and put out a clean white napkin. Quietly she tiptoed into the room to set the food by the woman’s bed. Mrs. Ulo was still asleep and Boma had time to peel a fresh pawpaw she plucked that morning from the garden. Madam loved pawpaw, and said it gave her both appetite and digestion. Again, she set this by the food in the bedroom.

Boma tiptoed from the bedroom to avoid waking up her mistress. Down in the kitchen, she prepared the baby’s food. It was the usual formula, fortified with nutrients for a baby’s needs. Mrs. Ulo hated breastfeeding. She didn’t want her breasts to sag in an environment where teenage female students joggled their femininity before young lecturers like her husband.

Mrs. Ulo woke up with a stretch and was surprised to see her food laid out so quickly. Boma, she called, and the maid rushed up to her. The baby saw her and beckoned, as she stretched forth her hands to lift him from the bed. The woman in the bed was watching closely. The spark in the maid’s eyes baffled her. Something she hadn’t seen in the months with her was showing. Her eyes scanned Boma’s movement out of the bedroom. The maid was, without doubt, a beautiful lady, the one reason Mrs. Ulo did her best to dehumanize her in the house.

This girl certainly knows something and whatever it is, I am going to find out.

She surveyed the meal before her, wanting to pick fault as usual. She tasted the pawpaw. It was farm fresh and sweet. My God, she said pensively, what have I been doing to this girl? Boma! she shouted. The maid hurried back. Mrs. Ulo turned to face her with a rare smile. Thank you for the food, she said. Boma floated out of the room, not believing her ears. For once, she struck the right chord with Mrs. Ulo.

But the woman was not so easily taken in where Boma was concerned. As days passed, she came to believe that Boma was in love with somebody. Only young love could make a girl float in the stars the way Boma did. Only love could make the hardest labour look like a hobby. The change was too dramatic to overlook.

She searched through Boma’s belongings, expecting to find love letters from a distant boy, but saw nothing. She listened in on the telephone whenever Boma lifted the ringer. But no caller appeared familiar to her, and no call was meant for her. Mrs Ulo knew the tricks of the game. A maid would call out wrong number if her mistress was home and a boyfriend called. But nothing of such happened. She vetted every male in the neighbourhood, especially the young unemployed school leavers that roamed the street at midday. She even planted spies on Boma. No results. Then she turned to her husband in the dawn of the morning while they lay in bed.

Darling, she whispered into his ears, have you noticed Boma lately?

‘Yes, sure, who wouldn’t? The girl seems to be a being from the heavens. As it’s often said, out of the sting of the bee the honey is made. Something good comes out of evil. Your last brush with her, sad as it was, has brought out the best in her." Dr. Ulo was obviously excited by the new Boma, an attitude his wife didn’t share.

Hmm. And what do you make of it?

Well, I don’t really know, but I think she could be in love.

With whom?

I don’t know, that’s for you to find out, darling. But certainly we are all the better for it.

Better for it indeed, the wife said, raising her voice. This could be the twilight before the darkness, or the sunshine before a storm. We could be harbouring a Greek horse here and when the innards come to show, we could be the latter day Trojans.

Beautiful prose, darling, Dr. Ulo clapped. You haven’t yet forgotten our classic tutorials. But even the Greeks wouldn’t have left their horse in Troy without a rearguard. The Greek fleet waited at the shore. You find the outside connection, and I can begin to agree with you.

Well, I can’t say I haven’t tried. What with going through her things, and all that. But what if her outside connection happens to be within these walls?

That then would be beautiful, Dr. Ulo said. If Boma is in love with the baby…

The baby? his wife cocked her eyes and turned up her upper lip. I wasn’t thinking of the baby.

You, you what? Dr. Ulo barked. Damn you woman. You still haven’t grown up; your maid in love with me? What the cheek?

Sorry darling, I didn’t really mean any harm. She scratched his foot with her toe. But certainly, this is my problem and…

Your problem is my problem, the husband echoed. He held her hand. Look darling, you talk as if you preferred the former belligerent posture to an atmosphere of peace; a naughty Boma to an endearing one. Could you be so hooked to anger and bitterness that you feel uncomfortable in a situation of love and joy? What is the stake? he asked. Our baby is having such a wonderful time in the hands of a loving minder. You and I are eating the best meals ever, and they are not cooked by you. And, what is more, our environment has become tidier, and I believe your blood pressure will be lower at your next visit to the doctor. What more do we need to celebrate? Dr. Ulo fell on top of his wife, laughing.

She slid away from under him. We must be up, love, she said. There is a day in front of us.

CHAPTER TWO

THE DIPLOMAT

B oma burst into the room, her white towel hanging around her neck. A smile hung on her wet lips. She was full of life. A spark of light seemed to follow her every movement. Good day, mum, she shouted and ran to plant wet kisses on the cheeks of her mother.

Good day, darling. How was the lesson today?

Oh mum! I believe I’m getting better, she said. Basic swimming is the easiest sport to learn but to get the type of speed I need for any competition is something else. Mr. Franz is a hard pushing coach, and my thighs do ache.

Her mother looked down at her slim long legs and smiled to herself. At fourteen, her daughter reminded her of her younger days, and the hopes she grew up with. Don’t worry dear, she quipped, you’ll make the gold. It is in our stock. Our people eat and live in the water. Your dad is a renowned swimmer, and me, I can hold my own in any pool.

Mum! So like mother like daughter, eh? The pool keeper, Mr. Maulder tells funny stories about what adults do in the pool. Mum, did you and Dad play in the pool?

Mrs. Jack couldn’t answer her daughter. Did she play with Don? Did they hurtle into their pool at 2 a.m. in the morning, in their birthday trunks? Did they clasp themselves and laugh hoarse until she dropped off in his arms? It was now all a dream; a dream that is recalled in pain. Yet the charade continues for the benefit of their daughter and son. How soon will the bubble burst?

Yes, we did Boma. We certainly had our time in the pool.

But mum, you never seem to swim together now. What happened? Boma asked.

Oh, a lot of things my dear. Your father is a very busy man, you know; papers to read, meetings to attend, and all that. He has little time for such games. At our age, swimming becomes very tiring. Well, I mean, we are not what we used to be. She noticed how confused her daughter was and veered the conversation to the mundane. You’d better hop upstairs and dress for dinner. Your brother will soon be back from his music lessons.

As she spoke, a black Mercedes Benz 500 sedan drove into the garage of the Boulevard residence. It bore a diplomatic number, because, Mr. Jack was the Charge D’Affairs of the Nigerian Embassy in Paris.

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The glamour of the diplomatic service has a way of covering up the internal conflicts in a diplomat’s life. What, with the custom made suits and silk ties, with shoes polished to reflect like mirror? What of the choice of expensive fragrances and the regular sip of mature champagne bought at cheap prices in diplomatic shops? For a young man, who chooses to, the glamour is seemingly unending, but only for a while.

Mr. Jack was no longer young. He had seen it all, and now his marriage was crumbling, and his two lovely children faced an uncertain future. He had in fact already resolved to leave his wife, resign his job, and look for a new life in America. His affair with a young American girl he met in Paris had gone too far, and now she was carrying a six months pregnancy for him. He considered himself in love with her.

Hello darling, he called out to his wife with a strained voice.

Welcome, dear. It was a cold response. Your meal will be ready soon.

Oh! Not to worry. I had a bite at the Club. There is still this reception for the Ghana National day at 8 p.m. and so I’ll just go up for a nap before then. Do be sure to get ready on time.

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Don, she called, facing her husband, must we continue like this? Will this charade never end?

They were returning from the reception at the Ghana High Commission. There, they danced mirthfully and observed the usual diplomatic niceties. The Nigerian Ambassador was away to Nigeria, so, Mr. and Mrs. Jack occupied a pride of place as the sole representative of Africa’s most populous nation, a country that by history and tradition is looked on as Ghana’s twin brother.

Mr. Jack peered into the questioning eyes of his wife. He could hardly contain his anguish. It was not totally his fault that things got to this point. Amatu had her share of the events that led to their shattered life. But the hand on the hammer that strikes the final nail to the coffin will definitely be his. Oh, he thought, the undertakers are already around, why waste time calling the doctor.

Don, Mrs Jack faced her husband, today Boma asked why we never swim together. Her swimming coach tells her stories of other couples in the swimming school. Mrs. Amatu Jack sounded distressed.

Hm, well if you consider it important, we can start all over again. Amy, he said, avoiding his wife’s eyes. "Look, don’t take anything very hard to heart. Matters have a way of resolving themselves, and don’t let these children become peeping toms in matters they don’t understand.

There was such an air of abstractness and finality in his voice that Amatu couldn’t pursue the subject. They both sat mum in the big Mercedes as the driver, who is shut off from the conversation behind drove home to their mansion. When they returned home, the children were asleep. There was no need to play darling or to kiss each other. Only a firm Goodnight, Don.

Goodnight, Amy, and both drifted to their separate bedrooms.

Amatu woke up in the morning with a nagging strain in her belly. She hadn’t slept well as she kept remembering the landmarks of her fifteen year marriage. Saturday mornings were usually lazy mornings in their home. The family rarely woke up before ten. Today, she woke up early with a slight hope that her husband would call her up for the early morning splutter in the pool. But that hope was in vain.

She looked herself over in the mirror and assured herself she still had what it took to bring back a man to his knees. Amatu stood lanky at five feet eight inches. Her belly was flat, thighs light and breasts firm. Her ebony black skin was still moist and shiny. She had the rounded square jaw and aquiline nose that won her a beauty contest in the university where her husband first met her. Her eyes moved above the mirror. The smiling faces of two young couples stared at her from a photograph taken during their honeymoon.

Amatu, she told herself, staring at the mirror, you still win glances. Now is the time to pick up the gauntlet. I know men, Don, and you in particular, you are my own.

At ten o’clock that morning, Don was missing from the dining table and the children