Hands of Steel

My eight fingers are wounded from hand-washing my children's clothes on Boxing Day. Clusters of tiny skinless wounds are causing me immense pain. Much more than this, I am ashamed that doing laundry can actually wound me. I am thinking of the washing-woman who comes to my house twice a week and does heaps of laundry with such ease. I should increase her wages, now that I understand what she is saving me from.

Most of us in Uganda do not have washing-machines or laundry-driers. We hand-wash our dirty clothes. We also hang them out on metal lines or gauze wires or sisal-strings to dry in the sun. Before hanging them to sun-dry, we wring them with our hands to squeeze out as much water as we can.

I grew up hand-washing my clothes - mostly in boarding school. We all did this over the weekend, often spreading our clothes out in the green lawns to dry under the brilliant equatorial sun. And then I graduated from university and learnt about dobbies who washed clothes for a fee. I also learnt about dry cleaners who cost an arm and a leg to clean one coat or one skirt. And when I went overseas for graduate education, I learnt about washing-machines and driers. I returned home and itinerary washing-men or washing-women were the in thing. I have had a washing-woman do my family's laundry for the last donkey's years. And so my fingers are now too dainty to do the needful. Shame on me and other career-women who use our fingers to type on laptops but not for housework. Kudos for all washing-men and washing-women who save our hands from dirty laundry.

Stella Nyanzi