Natasha Banda hardly needed an alarm to rouse her.
Eyes wide open long before dawn settled in. That old Nokia could scream as much as it wanted at 5:30, but she'd been lying there already with her eyes fixed on the leaky ceiling spots in her tiny room. Ndola outside beginning to hum a stray dog barking blocks away, some truck grinding through Chifubu's dusty streets, and her mother's soft cough strolling through the flimsy wall that separated their spaces.
Day in, day out. Nothing changed.
She loosened up in bed, feet grazing the cold concrete, and allowed herself five seconds to just be still. No more. The thing is, longer pauses leave room for worries to creep in and hers were trouble waiting to happen.
She rose from the narrow bed.
The mirror frame showed cracks but the glass held an even image. Her own face looked out, alert, unbroken. The dark irises kept a sharp light - she guarded that light. Her skin held a deep even tone, the colour of polished walnut. High cheekbones gave balance and her mouth kept its shape without artifice. Beauty lived there, quiet and gradual, not announced.
Her fingers moved fast, parting plus crossing strands until two tight braids lay flat against her scalp. She scooped cold water from the cracked sink - the heater had failed three weeks earlier.
The dress came next - its original navy had paled to soft grey blue. Over it she tied the white apron, the cloth still stiff from yesterday's starch. Leather soles, once thick, now flexed at each step - she laced them and tied the final knot.
She wore a maid uniform every day - for two years she scrubbed floors in the Chandas' house. She would never own those floors. She would never eat from the plates she washed. She would never sleep in the beds she made. The bedrooms were too large for her to rest in. The Chandas were not cruel. They were only so wealthy that they did not notice the person who cleaned for them. They spoke as if she were not in the room. Their children dropped food on the tiles she had just mopped and did not apologise.
She felt like a piece of furniture. Useful. Ignored - replaceable.
Her wage was twelve hundred Kwacha each month.
Twelve hundred.
She calculated that amount over and over until the numbers hurt. Eight hundred Kwacha paid for the two room house in Chifubu. One hundred fifty Kwacha paid for electricity, when power stayed on. Plain food cost three hundred Kwacha - she bought meat only if money allowed on Sunday. Blood pressure medicine for her mother from UTH cost one hundred eighty Kwacha every month, without fail.
She never earned enough - each week she reached into the money meant for the next day. The totals refused to match.
But she arrived. In rain or in sun - she had never chosen to stop during the twenty four years she lived.
The Chanda house stood large and neat behind a tall white fence on Kabelenga Road. At seven sharp she used her key at the side gate, started work, moved without noise, finished before anyone noticed.
She brushed the veranda until no dust remained - she washed the kitchen floor. She rinsed the plates from breakfast - Mrs. Chanda's teacups still released steam where they rested in the sink. She moved to the bathrooms, knelt in bleach foam and her back hurt after years of bending and lifting.
Near eleven o'clock, while Natasha fixed wet laundry to the rope behind the house, Mrs. Chanda's voice floated through the open kitchen window.
"I'm eyeing a younger one. Quicker on her feet"
Natasha stopped with a clothespin half pressed into a sheet.
"Natasha?" Mr - chanda replied in a flat tone.
"Mm-hmm. She's okay, I guess. But okay's not much fun, right? My sister's got this fresh girl from Lusaka, they say she's - "
The rest of the exchange turned indistinct.
She completed the line, set the basket down then walked indoors and cleaned her hands on the small towel beside the tap.
After that she stood at the threshold of the sitting room and waited.
Mrs. Chanda lifted her gaze from the phone, startled - Natasha never began conversations.
"Yes?"
"Madam" she spoke, her voice steady even though her heart hammered. "I'm giving notice. Two weeks. I'll finish out the month, then I'm gone"
Silence pressed in so hard that no one seemed to draw air.
Mrs. Chanda blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"Thanks for the two years, Madam" Natasha used plain words. "I'll leave it all tidy"
She turned toward the kitchen.
She clutched the counter rim until her knuckles blanched - she inhaled slowly - one, two, three - until her fingers stopped shaking.
She had no idea what would follow.
She only knew that to remain was out of the question.
The next fourteen days crawled past.
That evening, beneath the lone bulb that cast weak yellow light across her mother's wrinkled face above the wobbly table, she told everything. Her mother simply listened, as she always did - quietly - the speaker felt fully heard.
Art is a social phenomenon, and it is associated with such concrete and external forms as paintings, sculptures, and musical compositions.At the same time, logically, art must also be found in day-to-day activities.This paper discusses such a possibility regarding the existence of art in everyday life.
The first observation of everyday life is that a great number of daily activities are governed by aesthetic valuesᅳfor example, the arrangement of objects around one's house, which tends toward achieving symmetric balance and aesthetic harmony; thus, it is visually harmonious.Culinary operations involve precise measurements and plating, activities which, in their essence, follow artistic methods.The selection of one's outfit in the morning applies color theory and stylistic coordination.
Other art forms include sound art, which can be found in naturally occurring phenomena, such as the rhythmic storm of rain or the cadence in which people speak to one another.Their sounds are cadenced and rhythmic, giving way to repetitive yet well-structured soundscapes that might be viewed as incidentally occurring compositions.
Green scrubs now. Tiles gleamed underfoot, not marble. Air sharp with cleaner, not spices or scents. But she glided through Levy the same - hushed, steady, blending in.
Only, this felt shifted.
In those endless halls, amid cart wheels squeaking and nurses' low murmurs, with sun slicing windows at eight and quiet draping wards by six, Natasha sensed it for the first real time in ages: this spot fit her right.
Couldn't say why.
Didn't bother trying.
Head down, mop firm, she pushed on.
No hint, not even a shadow, that eyes in this place had tracked her already.
Watched close, for weeks.
Her world - every unpaid bill, stained roof, icy floor - teetered on a flip she couldn't dream up.
Not quite.
Soon, though.