Zyphera

Helena is a fresh flower grown in mud. She is covered with mud, with dirty black soil. She bends under weight. Nevertheless, she sparks. Helena is a forty-year Congolese woman. She washes clothes listening old Congolese rumba poorly recorded on an old radio. I hear her sing. When she sings, her voice softens my heart. Helena is what we call in Condo a domestic. We don’t say housemaid. We don’t say hostess. However, she gives life to the house. She is the one who washes, cleans, cooks, and takes care of everyone. « You have to eat Mademoiselle! Because, one day we will die. But what we eat … we keep it. » What a philosopher!  « Do not trample Mademoiselle, your feet will swell, » anxious to see me barefoot. She has a small face with two small round and smart eyes. Her mouth is very thin and her lips slightly curved. Her thin hands are damaged by washing. Her skin is black, and her dirty hair is always tied. When she stops to wash the floor, her back points to hell. Her big buttocks stretched in the air seem to say « kiss it » to the One who hasn’t heard her prayers. This is how I see her. She has this hope in life beyond my understanding. She has four children. Now she can’t have children. Her husband left her for another woman. And she says she’s fine with that. Because, he may have other children, and this is what she wants for him. She’s so natural and spontaneous.  She doesn’t feel shy telling me the details of her pain when she makes love. What a relief to her that her husband is gone. When she smiles, she seems to be about to laugh. She looks at everything and everyone by the same way. Her gaze is a mix of curiosity, compassion and impertinent. She appears -alongside other Congolese more docile, as shameless. I like to know the meaning of names that reflect or not the person. But it can be a perception tool. Helena comes from the ancient Greek meaning « glory of sun. » It perfectly suits her. I see her as glow and as sun. When I‘m watching her, I’m smiling without knowing why. The “sun woman” dries and cracks mud around.

Destiny made her born here, in Congo, and left her in her condition. I wonder what she could be in another condition, in another place, another time. I dream she would be an excellent manager in any social field, steady, human intellect at once. She would have cute children full of life. Her house would always smell tasty cakes. She would always dress simple but elegant and colorful. And her big buttock wouldn’t longer say « kiss it » but would sit on the misfortunes she wouldn’t have.