Chores are the worst.

The mornings always started early for Portia. It was imperative that she was the first one up, which meant waking up earlier than Mr. Gamu. She didn’t think it was a stretch to suspect that he had some debt with the devil in his dreams because of his tumultuous relationship with sleep. The man consistently went to bed at midnight, and by three in the morning, he would be up scouring his vast domain - a six-bedroom pantheon of a house- searching for whatever he had lost in his dreams. Mr. Gamu’s early mornings meant Portia had to be up and ready at least fifteen minutes before, with a bucket full of water, slightly warmer than room temperature- as he liked it. Mr. Gamu had always insisted on bathing as soon as he woke up. It was essential, and Mr. Gamu promised it worked better than coffee (which, of course, was still a daily requirement right after the bath). He didn’t bother Portia much once he had received his coffee and his bed was done.

Usually, around sunrise, the rest of the family began their morning circus. First, Nyla, the youngest of three, would wake up kicking and screaming as if she didn’t wake up at the same time every day. Her grumpy but reserved older sister Darirai soon followed after, and always last was Doris, the most senior. His age afforded him leeway when it came to waking up, so much so there was an assumption he gifted himself extra sleep time in the bathroom. Onetime, Mr. Gamu had to kick the door open because the boy had fallen asleep in the tub and hadn’t woken up by the time the driver had arrived to pick them up. He didn’t have that type of blunder after that (the purple stripes that lined his lower rib cage were enough reminder to make that a one-time thing), but he still took ages to get dressed. Portia's responsibility was to make sure all three of the children stood dressed and ready for school by the time their driver Mr. Dokero had arrived. The quicker they were dressed and out of the house, the quicker she had any semblance of peace in the place. That task was much harder than it seemed. Nyla was a handful and needed to be talked down from a tantrum every day, but Portia had the patience; she was young and reminded her of her sister. The one she had trouble with was Doris. The two of them were the same age, and she could see the boiling urges in his eyes, every lingering glance, every awkward moment was followed by a tsunami of rude words. Portia could not tell whether he was that way because of lustful anxiety or if he just resented having her around; either way, he had a knack for making her everyday life increasingly difficult. However, her day had many seasons. By 7.30 am, winter would pass, and spring would arise; everyone would leave the house to go to school, work, and the home would become her dominion. Before she relaxed, she had to do her chores first. Nyla had also been sick for the past week, so Portia had more company than she was used to. A bang at the door had also disrupted her morning routine, but it was only Rumbie, another housemaid working in the next house.

“Pack your stuff up; we’re leaving,” Rumbie shouted, gesturing wildly towards Portia, who was still gathering herself after having opened the door. “What do you mean, we’re leaving!?” Portia retorted, confused by Rumbie’s suggestion. The day before, they had spent a while musing about traveling the world together, but Portia had not imagined how soon Rumbie would want to. Today she was more expressive than she had ever been, jittering and stuttering as she responded, “I’m not letting us rot here like everyone else; we are getting out of here” It was early in the morning, and Portia had just started her chores. “What are you talking about!?” Portia screamed, fed up with Rumbie, especially since she knew all too well how unpredictable the Gamus were; they could show up at any moment. It didn’t help that the two of them had been caught in a compromising position by the Gamu’s months before, but they had managed to explain it away as an innocent incident back then. “We are leaving now!” Rumbie shouted again, “Where is your phone? Is anyone else here?” She badgered as she surveyed the house, moving swiftly past Portia and through the lavishly adorned living room.

“It’s just Nyla and me. What’s happening!?” Portia said, her scowled brow turning taught with shock as her anger gave way to fear. “Where are we going!?” For some reason, Rumbie was not concerned with that question. Choosing silence as a response, she instead continued to ask about Nyla. “Is Nyla in her room?” She would say over and over again.

“Yes, she is!” Portia eventually screamed back, following behind Rumbie, “What are you talking about? Where are we going?” She continued, but Rumbie was already far ahead, her footsteps echoing down the sprawling hallway of the mansion. “We are leaving this country Portia! after what you told me yesterday, I’m taking action. It’s now or never.” Rumbie’s voice followed, echoing down the hallway as her footsteps had before.Rumbie had always been spontaneous (others would describe it as erratic), but this was outlandish even for her.

“I can’t just pick up and leave! Oh my god! I can’t believe you’re doing this right now! I have a life here. I have a family! You sound crazy!” It was all too much for Portia, who had managed to catch up to Rumbie. She was standing outside Nyla’s room, staring blankly at the door. “I need you to think about the family you have now,” she said, pointing at Portia's midsection “not the family you had- plus; they already sold you off like mine did.” The words sat in the air, forming a bituminous brume over their conversation. “Let’s go,” Rumbie continued, cutting the silence she had created “we don’t have much time before they are back.”

“I’m not going anywhere..” the words rolled off Portia's tongue easier than any words she had ever said before, but Rumbies words came even more comfortably, “we have no choice.” Portia scoffed at Rumbie, “I have a choice, and I’m staying!” The mental fortitude she had lacked for so long in her life had chosen to show itself at this very moment, but Rumbie was unfazed. “No, you don’t!” She retorted as she pulled out a brown envelope from her left uniform pocket. She unraveled it, pulling its mouth open and showing Portia the contents of the bag. It only took a second for Portia to recognize the shimmering blue. It was a bag filled with one hundred American dollar bills. “Where’d you get that Rumbie? Where’d you get that?” Portia muttered, full of exasperation. The words barely left her mouth. The locals hadn’t seen American dollars in those parts for two years. Possession of foreign currency was an illegal offense, but the Gamu’s had always kept some stashed away. “I took it, it’s $20000, and it’s going to save us from this hell hole.” Portia immediately knew there was no coming back, but she couldn’t help asking, “Rumbie, tell me you didn’t get that from where I think you did. You’re insane! We are so dead!”

“Not if we leave right now,” Rumbie said with more confidence than fear. Portia secretly had always admired this about Rumbie, but now she found herself having to run through her memories to find a time when Rumbie had been wrong. There were none.

“How about Nyla? We can’t just leave her here,” she asked, worried about the seven-year-old she was supposed to be watching. “Yes, we can,” Rumbie had never cared for the Gamu’s children; she found even the smallest one spoilt self-obsessed, “just lock her in her room with a book or something she won’t even notice.” The disregard was more evident than ever. “You’re crazy. I’m not doing this,” Portia said, her love for Nyla awakened by the idea of leaving her behind “you have to leave.” Portia continued, but Rumbie had already made her mind up; leaving without Portia was not an option, but she was willing to try at least to convince her. “Listen, Portia,” she said, “we have to do this; we have no future here, in this neighborhood and this country. We don’t belong here, but I know a place where we can be ourselves, where we can breathe. Don’t you want that?” The words were the sincerest Rumbie had ever said. She did love Portia, but Portia wasn’t as sure she was, and Rumbie could tell, “well, I don’t have time for you to think about it. I’m sorry, but we have to leave before they get here. I’m locking Nyla in her room, don’t worry about her. We’ll leave her with some food. Maybe this will keep her entertained too.” She took out a little black book from her pocket covered with streaky black ink silhouettes barely visible on the front, and a clear plastic ballpoint pen with the butt chewed up. “She likes drawing, right?” Rumbie asked before pointing towards Portia's left uniform pocket, “give her your phone too; in case of emergencies, you won’t need it anymore. We’ll buy a new one once we’re in South Africa.”