My maid Zita and race relations in South Africa

Yes I have a maid. It is a South African thing. Not that I need a maid or even wanted one. I employed Zita out of charitable considerations while I was still employed at the newspaper.


She was a waitress at my networking hub Nuno's, the Portuguese restaurant run by the two lovely lesbians. She needed extra income to pay for her kid's creche. So I employ her because I do not believe that charity does much good to the recipients thereof.


I know because I was also a bit of a charity case lately. My friends refused that I pay for a number of restaurant outings here and in Oyster Bay and although I was suitably grateful, it grated me. We have another friend who lives in Cape Town ... in his car. I pointed out to Jan that once you begin to see yourself as a charity case you are buggered ... and I don't even have a car to live in.


But back to Zita. I employ her and convince Vince that he should do the same. To save her transport money we let her work for both of us on the same day. I am sure she does not work longer than two or three hours per week between the two of us. I live in a bachelor's garden cottage and Vince in a room. Since neither of us cook at home it is merely a question of picking up the clothes from the floor and general tidying up.


As soon as I lose my job, Zita loses hers, allegedly for overcharging a customer. Now Zita is a Xhosa and there is a long tradition of mutual mistrust between us Afrikaners and the Xhosas that started more than 300 years ago with mutual thieving of cattle and intermittent warfare about the same in the Eastern Cape. Vince and I give Zita the benefit of the doubt.


On her last working day before my unfair dismissal case I speak earnestly to Zita about my predicament and tell her that I would have to let her go if the case went badly. She says she will work for me for free as long as I can help her out with transport money. I am touched by her generous spirit and my case goes fairly well so Zita stays.


Yesterday I even convince my sister Emily, who lives on the same property, to also employ Zita. I initially arranged with Zita to come in at 10am because I do not work on Mondays, but now I phone her with the good news that she has another job and tell her to come in earlier so that Emily could show her around.


I spend a fair bit of the night busy with "Internet research" and drinking wine. Zita pitches at 7am. A shouting match ensues, only half in jest, about who said what about time.


Emily clearly forgot that Zita was coming but I pack Zita off into her house and go back to bed thinking that a house occupied by three children and a woman would keep her busy long enough for me to catch up on some much-needed sleep.


I am disappointed at Zita's efficiency when she chases me out of bed at 9:30am. Another shouting match ensues as I refuse to get up and she refuses to amuse herself a bit with more cleaning in Emily's house. She insists that I inspect her work. I tell her that I am a man and that I know from experience with women that I do not know what clean really means.


By 10:30am Zita announces that she is done. I walk up the road with her to draw money for her, but the ATM is not working as it should, so I just give Zita a generous transport allowance and buy her breakfast.


She only eats one egg on toast and when I enquire about the meagre portion, she explains that she needed to be "in shape" for the World Cup ... She plans to make lots of dollars, euros and pounds as a hooker. I just shrug and roll my eyes.


That was my maid Zita and race relations in South Africa in a nutshell ... and the spellcheck tells me that I made only one typing mistake in this whole piece ... By the way thanks to all 11 people who actually took the trouble of becoming followers of my blog. Welcome Simon.