Rural Love, Life and Labour.

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Sophie Black         Page         

Rural Love, Life and Labour

        I remember as if it were yesterday, my father, my mother, my two younger sisters and I… How happy we were… We lived in Chikkibalou, a small village in the rural area of Northeast Brazil.

        My father, who was a tall, stocky, brave but very loving man worked as a farmer on our family’s own fields. Our family was the main supplier of food to the other villagers and therefore Father always had a steady income. Back then, mother never used to go out to work. She stayed at home and maintained the house, as well as hosting village meetings and preparing well balanced daily dinners for all of us,

        I adored living in the small village of Chikkibalou. At the time I was about thirteen years of age. My two younger sisters, Nadia and Nabila, were still very young. Nadia is the eldest of the two, and at the time Father was alive and we were living in the village of Chikkibalou she was only at the delicate age of nine. My youngest sister Nabila was only eight. Although there are quite a few years between the three of us, we were close, almost like best friends.

        Everything has changed now, though. Things have changed so drastically and in such a short space of time. You see, Father became very ill, and the doctor diagnosed him with Malaria. Although he was given lots of medication we always knew there was a chance of him not coming through, but we never properly considered it. Over the weeks, Father’s health gradually began to deteriorate and he eventually became bed ridden. Mother was at his side when he passed away. She always tried to remain optimistic through the situation for the sake of us; Nabila, Nadia and I. She told us that he did not die in pain, but peacefully. I’m not too sure about that. Sometimes it makes me wonder.

        Father’s death left us, as a family, devastated. However, Mother insisted that Father would have wanted us to carry on with our lives, and not dwell on the what-might-have-been. She took up the role of looking after the crops Father had left behind. For the first few months things actually felt as though they were getting better. Then the draught came. No rain fell for months and nothing would grow. Our crops were slowly dying, as they were crying out for our help. For a while we managed to scrape by on our savings and the money that we already had, but as our money became tighter, still no rain fell. Most of the other families in the village had left, to go and set up new lives in the cities: The once so friendly, happy community gradually drained away. We were the last family to move out of the village. I remember the day well. I have a vivid image in my head. The image is of the old house on the day that we left. Although it was a sunny, bright day it did not feel so friendly and welcoming as it once did. I had gradually learned to hate the sun. I hated it so very much; I saw it as the cause for all our family’s problems. The hatred was enormous, but now as I have grown up I have learnt that what happens in life happens and God makes it happen for a reason.

        The day we left we only packed a few belongings each. I had just an alarm clock Father’s friend bought for me, when on a grand exhibition in America, and a small framed photograph of Father. These two things had grown to be my two most treasured possessions. We left on a cart, pulled by Lattidos, our old, frail horse. With no money, no food and no destination Mother suggested that we would have to go and live in a ShantyTown. Although I was extremely upset to leave, part of me looked upon it as an adventure, a new way of life…

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        An old wrinkled hand reached out towards me.

  “Well, are you going to take it then?” He questioned. I took the ticket and made my way up the aisle. This was it, another day of working to the same routine. I sat down at a seat towards the back and gazed out of the window. I could see how elegantly the beautiful rays of sunshine shone down on the poor shantytown. House upon house, so close and tightly packed in together. Every single one guaranteed to be hand made by the families living in them. I suppose I was used to living in that environment by then. After living in the same place for three years it becomes a way of life. I knew I was no longer as fortunate as I once was and as many others in the world, but there were plenty of people worse off than myself.

        The journey into the city was about half an hour long. As the bus slowly bumped along the narrow, dirty lanes a few more people got on at other stops. I did not know any of them, even though we shared the same bus journey every day. The bus was never full, infact there were only about eight of us who were regular passengers. We were the handful in the ‘town’ who were lucky enough to have regular jobs in the city, even if the pay was not high. Many had never even been into the city for they could not afford the bus fare.

        As we drew nearer to the city I could see in the distance, but slowly approaching, the skyline of its centre. It looked like a mass of giants, big giants with their heads poking up above all. These were my last few minutes of peace before I got off the bus and just became one in the mass of crowds, the busy city, people going to work.

        When the mini bus drew to a halt I rose to my feet and prepared myself for the pushing and shoving awaiting me outside. The driver had already vacated the bus in order to control the crowds, to allow us to get off, before they got on and were taken to their destination. “See you tomorrow, Kareem!” He shouted to me as I rushed passed him. I turned around and saw his head bobbing just above the sea of people. I think he felt an element of sorrow for me, going out to work at such a young age. Unknown to him so many of the teenagers living in the favelas work for their families too.

        As I began to drift away from the crowd and start on my five-minute walk to work, I noticed some boys on the other side of the road. They looked of similar age to me, eighteen at the most. We looked so alike, but yet so different. Then I realised how different we actually were… They were so lucky to still be at school. At least they had the guarantee of a good education and future. Eventually making a right turn I found myself on a road sign posted ‘Paulo Grande’. This was where I worked, as a servant in one of the big houses. From the outside; many windows and the finest decor. From the inside; fifteen bedrooms, fourteen bathrooms, as well as a prestigious dining room, ball room, swimming pool and much more.

        I was very lucky to get my job. It was offered to me through one of Mother’s contacts that she had found in the favela when we first moved there.

I sneaked around the back of the house and scrambled over the tall steel rubbish bins. I was not allowed to use a main entrance to the house so I had to enter through the door that led to the kitchens.

        On this morning the pristine, sparkling kitchens were deserted. This was not unusual for half past six in the morning, as the cook did not arrive until eight o’ clock when the master rose from his bed.

        My master and I were fairly close and I look upon him as someone I could trust, an older friend to rely on. He lived in the house on his own; He used to be married but after it did not work, he divorced. She moved away to Ireland, but that was about twenty four months ago and he quickly made a speedy recovery.

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        I had many extra duties that morning, as my master had many guests arriving from England in the afternoon. They were researchers from Oxford University which, I was told, was near London and that evening I was expected to serve dinner for them.

        It was at that dinner where I first met Emily…

        It was six o’clock later on that evening and my master and I were in one of the many unique and admirable bedrooms of his house. The room was to be mine for the night, as I was allowed to stay. In all the time I had ...

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