MELITA

Story of a ground-level Mozambican girl who touched the sky with the help of her Amigo but without forgetting her roots.

My life has been woven so far with many colors.

By the way, I am Melita Manhique from Mozambique.

I was brought up in a remote village of Gaza province with four other brothers and sisters. I was the second last among my siblings. My upbringing went through series of negligence which was natural within an inherently poor farmer’s family.

But still my highly influential mother allowed me to spend a handful of years in the local school. I rather did well in my studies. I was favorite, particularly of our Math and Portuguese teachers. When I was in standard fifth Mom took me out of the school and parceled me straightway to Maputo in my aunt’s house for work. I was 16 that time.

My aunt was an affluent woman who owned a palatial bungalow at the outskirt of the city touching the coast-line. She got the house as a gift from her super wealthy boyfriend of Portugal who also gave her a daughter. My aunt was an attractive woman who had hooked many men in her life, mostly expats from Portugal and other European nations. She went steady with a few of them like the one who had fathered her daughter and brought her a mansion in a costly place like Maputo.

My aunt was living with her daughter, my supposed-to-be cousin Natarsia. Natarsia was not in speaking terms with me. She was few years older than me and busy with her friends and parties. I still remember those nights when she returned home fully drunk and I opened the gate for her. She parked the car, most of the time by making lot of awful sounds and emitting thick smokes all around. She threw the car-keys to me after getting out of the car and my job was to hang them at the right place of the drawing room. That was the only interaction that happened silently between us. Her chronic apathy became clear to me later on. I was much more attractive than her; tall, curvaceous with alluring physical assets desired by every man. Natarsia was short, plump and ugly. But she was rich. I was not.

I was an all-time, multi-purpose domestic help in exchange of daily three meals and a meagre salary of 3000 meticais which was transferred to my Mom’s account in Gaza every month as the condition of job. My hands remained penniless till Mom shed few hundreds of meticais time to time as my pocket money. I spent them after buying credit of my phone. My mobile phone…….an old-fashioned and used one which I got from a middle-aged man of our village. The man slept with me as a fair exchange. It pained me a lot. My first sexual encounter. I couldn’t say a word against his thoroughly brutal act. He told me that he will give me a mobile phone for a good, adjusted sex. All my friends of the village had mobile phones. I didn’t have one. So I adjusted and found a phone for myself.

I carried the phone to Maputo without the knowledge of my siblings and Mom. They could have easily snatched it away from me. Mine was a good-looking android phone. I later on heard from one of the girls of my village that the phone belonged to the late wife of the man who had sex with me. She died of AIDS.

I was aware of AIDS by that time. They taught us about the disease in the school. There was always a fear in my mind. The man might very well have AIDS who had transmitted the disease to his wife and she died. Had I got AIDS from the man just for the sake of getting a mobile phone?

I couldn’t share my fear with anyone. There was no one in the world to share my stories with. I was darkly alone in the abysmal palace of my aunt.

My aunt never allowed me to go out like her daughter. She told me that it is my mother’s instruction not to let me go out. I was only allowed to move around within our locality which had rows of bungalows on the both side of the road. Those houses had maids like me. Slowly I became friendly with a few of them.

Joana came to my life. 

                    

She was around 20 and a typical Maputo girl, slept with many men, married once and subsequently got divorced and already mothered two children. She was staying with her mother who was a vegetable vendor in the local market.

Joana took me to a clinic run by an NGO for AIDS test after knowing about my fear. ‘I time to time visit this clinic for getting myself tested. This is important for all girls who are having active sex lives. They don’t charge anything for the test.’ She said to me. ‘Never let those men touch you again without a preservativo (condom). Also ask money from them time to time. I call that a tax for allowing them to have sex with girls like us. Otherwise how can we survive without good education and a proper job?’

Life remained rather flat and uneventful till I turned 18 except a short-lived friction with a local driver named Mario. He was in his mid-thirties and married with three school-going children. He was desperately looking for a young girl-friend as most of the middle-aged Maputo men generally have. When he eyed on me he got rather a bit too impatient to bed with me. The first few weeks went after showering of gifts on me to create a good impression. I could have easily been swept over but the previous experience of sexual harassment to acquire a piece of used mobile phone was still fresh in my mind. In addition there was always the fear of my all-time vigil aunt. Mario’s frustration grew up when he couldn’t take me out for a date after a number of phone-calls and verbal requests. One day afternoon he invited me inside his van for a round of sexual encounter. I softly declined.

Next thing he did was a daring attempt of rape on a drizzling evening in a soulless place near our house when I was returning from the market after a round of marketing. He overpowered and dragged me inside his van which was driven by one of his friends. The van was moving slowly. Mario took no time to tear my cloths apart. I was in a state of shock and lacking resistance. Just before his forcible penetration something weird came out of my mouth. ‘I have AIDS. You will also get AIDS from me.’ Mario made a sudden, unprecedented halt of his further movement with fiery eyes, slapped me hard several times on my face, told his friend to stop the van and kicked me out of the van the very next moment.

The trick suggested by Joana finally clicked.

Then it was Amigo’s turn to knock my door.

A fair-skinned, lean and thin man in the early forties whom I kept on meeting while brooming the front side of our house as part of my daily routine of the morning. He couldn’t speak Portuguese well. I was not conversant in English like him. Our exchange of words were confined to basic greetings in Portuguese with frequent smiles in between.

He was probably the first man I met in my life who had something more than just pure lust in his eyes for me. His eyes were dreamy and pale. I couldn’t look at them for long. Was it an expression of love, appreciation or desire of different kind? I didn’t know. I was confused.

I stopped brooming every time I saw him crossing our house. He also halted after seeing me, took few steps back towards me to say ‘Bom dia (good morning) in an accent that sounded totally funny to me. I figured out that he is a stranger and doesn’t belong to Mozambique. But I didn’t know anything about his origin. He didn’t tell me either. He used to emit many things in English during our short-lived rendezvous of the morning which remained totally alien to me. But there was a sincerity in his talks that often touched my heart. He kept on clicking my pics by his sleek and big mobile phone between his words. Initially I refused to be snapped on my shabby morning rigs and untidy situation. But he insisted. His eyes became extremely appealing that time. My resistance got automatically diluted.

His broken Portuguese made me understand one thing clearly. He wanted me to call him my ‘Amigo’ (friend). So I called him Amigo.

Joana threw her usual cautions when I told her about Amigo. ‘Next time ask for money whenever he wants to click your pics. Never trust those expats. Who knows, he took your pics to show them to his clients of South Africa to sell you off to them.’

I was shivered. Can Amigo be such nasty man?

It off and on happens here. Girls of Mozambique are sold off to South Africa and Arabian countries in the name of employments.

Then I stopped noticing at Amigo whenever he was passing by our house. I didn’t respond to his greetings. I didn’t even throw him a look understanding very well that my sudden change of behavior put him under terrible surprise.

One day he brought Osvaldo to our house. Osvaldo was a local boy and friend of Natarsia. He was a student of the university from which Natarsia got herself recently dropped. I was a bit surprised to see him with Amigo. Osvaldo told me that he knows Amigo very well and he is a good man whom I can trust fully.

Soon our conversation started in the mid of the road before our house. Osvaldo became the interpreter between us.                      

Amigo asked me many questions that day through Osvaldo. Till what standard I had studied, why I was dropped from the school, what profession I would like to pursue in life, why I work as a house-maid, if I am interested to revert back to studies etc. He looked disappointed when I told him that I have no chance to go back to school as both my Mom and aunt are against it and want me to work till indefinite period.

Then he told me something that stunned me for a while.

‘Melita, you don’t know what potential you have. You have a perfect face and body to become a highly successful model. Why are you wasting your valuable time here?’

Model? I can become a model?

I saw Natarsia often glued to Fashion TV channel till the time she stayed at home.  Does modelling mean that I have to also walk in the Fashion TV like those funnily donned, lanky, skinny girls?

I remembered what Joana once told me about those models. They earn in millions, move around the world in chartered planes and expensive cars and live in sky-touching mansions.

 The next moment Amigo took out a large tab from his bag and opened a page full of my pictures that he had clicked earlier on the road in front of our house. He informed me that he created my profile in one of the popular social networking sites of the fashion models. My pictures already got good number of likes from the viewers. More interestingly, a well-known fashion photographer of Johannesburg recently showed his interest to work with me. He will soon visit Maputo for a professional assignment and love to meet me for a quick photo-session in the beach that time.

I felt damn nervous.

‘This would be a life-time chance for you, Melita. Don’t miss it.’ Amigo said excitedly. ‘The photographer of Johannesburg made lives of many renowned models. You are lucky that you got his attention so fast. Models generally queue for stealing a small glimpse of him. Gear up for the photo shoot of the beach. Don’t worry about money or other kinds of requirements for your shoot. I will fulfill that.’

‘What I have to do for that, Amigo? Sleep with you?’ I was keen to ask him that but couldn’t. There was a genuine honesty and lucidness in his voice and expression. It can’t come only from lust. I felt confident about that.

Life is all about taking chances. So I took the chance against a steep resistance from my so called family. My mother didn’t digest that as she was about to lose a steadily earning daughter. My aunt equally hated it as she would be losing a low-cost, all-time and multi-purpose maid. Natarsia was tormented with jealousy. She could never probably dream of such turning point in my life. Joana as a true friend cautioned me by saying that it might be also a plot to sell me off. ‘Keep your eyes and ears open and don’t forget to keep me updated on your developments. Just run away if you smell trouble and never fumble to knock me for help.’

Had things betrayed me that time Joana would have been my last resort. My family already disowned me and the door of my aunt was also closed forever.

Amigo gave me the shelter in his house.

I started a new life.

The beach photo-shoot went fairly well. First time in my life I wore a bikini. ‘Your bod is perfect to put the beaches on fire.’ Said Jim, my shutterbug from Johannesburg. ‘Baby, you have a great life ahead.’

My life took a complete turn after that. Soon I shifted base to Johannesburg to meet a series of modelling assignments. Amigo as usual bore the entire expenditure of my travel and stay in South Africa. He lived there with me for about a year and then, one fine morning told me that it’s the time for him to go back to Mozambique.

I was speaking a bit of English that time but couldn’t stop him.

I cried. What else I can do?

I told him how much I am in love with him. How much I trust him. How much I am dependent on him.

‘You are now on the right track, Melita. You can go ahead from here all alone.’ I got his calm, composite reply.

‘That means you never loved me, Amigo?’ I felt totally heart-broken. ‘Then why you did so much for me?’

He smiled without saying a word. His eyes were twinkling.

‘Tell me, why? Why so much of favor if you have no love for me in your mind?’ I said crazily.

‘Who says I don’t love you, Melita? I love you with every bit of my existence. My love for you grew the moment I met you for the first time before your house in Maputo. But you know what Melita? There are many other girls like you in Mozambique. They equally need my help. I have to go back for them.’

I didn’t try to stop him after that.

I understood one thing very well on that day.

People like Amigo live for a cause not for individuals.

 

At 22 I was labelled as a super-model and moved further to the West to be based at New York. My account was swollen with money, I possessed one of the best mansions of the city to live in, my car was one of the most expensive one, private planes were often arranged for my frequent intercontinental travels.

But still……absence of Amigo tortured me every moment. It was not only my erupting love for him but a constant feeling of guilt.

He never tried to take advantage of any kind to compensate his favors on me. He never expressed his desire to sleep with me. He never forced me to bed with him like those who favor.

I offered him nothing so far to pay back his favors.

To me he was an exceptional man who knew to adore and respect the women.

 

Amigo discontinued all contacts with me after leaving Johannesburg. I sent messages to his mobile and tried to call him up many times. He remained unresponsive.

But life is strange. We live in the memories of the friends. We live amidst our creations. We live in the steps of our children. Our keenness to stay alive remained alive till our last breath.

Many years after that I discovered Amigo in the mid of the throng during a high-voltage ramp walk in Paris. He waved at me several times. My heart almost stopped.

He became old by that time with massive greying and thinning of hair. He must have lost tons of weight. But the glow of the eyes didn’t change a bit.

‘Melita, nice that you recognized me so fast!’

His very first response demoralized me quite a bit.

‘Amigo, I can very well recognize you amidst the entire population of the earth.’ I said vehemently.

‘Oh my God! You are speaking good English!’ his exclaiming voice was filled with happiness.

We hugged each other tight. He kissed passionately on my forehead. I closed my eyes in heavenly pleasure.

‘Can you help me with some good funds, Melita?’ He then said in a low toned voice. ‘But not for me.’ He said with an assurance. ‘For my work. I run out of my funds now.’ He displayed a bleak smile blended with a bit of guilt.

I didn’t let him say anything after that.

That was the moment I had been waiting for so long with a thumping heart.

 

I returned Mozambique the very next day with him and started our joint Foundation to help many girls across the country who are like Melita of ten years back.

 

One more thing I did. Tied the knot with my Amigo.

Losing him again in life was something I just hated from the core of my heart.

Reviews

[Leslie Philibert]

I have to admit that I did not read the whole piece, but I scanned the first paragraphs. A good write, with excellent paragraphing that always mirrored the new theme in the narrative. Excellent.

[SUGATA M]

Thank you so much.

[Coyote Poetry]

A wonderful story shared dear friend. You create good characters and worthwhile storyline. I liked her life and the ending. Wanting to help. Thank you for sharing the outstanding story.
Coyote

[SUGATA M]

Thank you very much for your good words.