I dreaded it more than anything else. The drive over was always filled with silent tears and rages that left both my mom and I exhausted. I never understood why I had to go there and I am sure neither did Mimi. Yet every year for a month, we would be packed up and sipped off to Penal to stay with one of my mom’s aunt. If there ever was a woman we feared, it was her.
Her eyes were deep black and soulless, her hands rough from scrubbing the bathroom tiles until their screamed for mercy, her hair wound so tightly you could see the veins trying to bust through her temples and smack you in the face. To us this month was always one of punishment and we prayed for it to come to a swift end.
The only upside was the time we spent with her daughter. We would get to dress up in red fish net stocking and sing Madonna songs loudly. Then each afternoon she would take us walking along the main road to a tiny bakery to buy sweet buns. But that was the end of the fun. Our days started at 7 am. We would be shaken awake and roughly told to make the beds and shower. The beds were then checked to ensure the lines were even and the edges were straight. We were stand there in terror waiting to be spanked if they weren’t. I could hear Mimi breathing so heavily her curls would fly off her face and bounce on her forehead. Breakfast was served on the kitchen floor, as children were too messy to be allowed on the table.
Once we had eaten and finished cleaning the kitchen to a near perfect hospital sheen, we then made our way down the old back concrete stairs that led to the goat pen and duck coop. It was then I would start the heavy breathing. I could smell the dog from two miles away and I knew he was waiting at the bottom of the stairs ready to take a bit out of my ankle. I would grab Mimi’s hand and gingerly we would walk down, step by slow agonizing step.
He would run after us so quickly all we could do was scream and thrash about. No help ever came. Somehow we would make it to the pen only to come face to face with an angry goat. After flinging a bucket of grass on his head we would pelt out the gate and over to the coop to feed the ducks stale roti left over from dinner the night before. Hearts pounding and completely out of breath we would then build up the courage to race back up the steps into the house.
Then began the long day of cleaning the rest of the place. We sometimes wondered what was worse, having to go through that ordeal every morning or being forced to take a nap at 12 o clock every day. She never had an answer and neither did I. All we knew was that we were in this together and would share these horrific memories for the rest of our lives.
Yet there was one moment every week that made us feel worthy of being there. Every Wednesday afternoon we would get to walk across the yard into the tiny wooden house that adjoined it and take nanny her laundry. With her long flowing white hair down to her waist, she would be sitting at the base of her makeshift temple saying her daily prayers. When she heard the gate open, she would look up and smile, turn back to finish. Quietly, we would sit and wait for her silently mimicking her words to her god. Slowly she would rise and sweep her hair over her shoulder, grab her cane and walk towards us. Her eyes were deep contentment, in the life she lived in the life she was living. Her existence to us seemed lonely, yet she was never alone.
Hand in hand we would walk her up the stairs and fold her clothes and pack them away. She would make us each a cup of tea, one tea bag two sugars and milk until it was the same shade as our complexion. We would sit and sip until we heard the mosquitoes buzzing around the lanterns by the door. She would rise take our hands and guide us outside into the twilight.
When she died we refused to go back there, to that place we called little hell. When she died, the makeshift temple fell apart and we never set foot in her yard again.
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