Lei Ayi

God, I hate Lei Ayi.

Lei Ayi is a servant, in the regular sense of the word. Rich Chinese families like my hosts dribble out around 4000rmb (£390) a month for an old-ish lady to clear up their filth, feed them, clothe them and generally rim them in other such ways, like some socially acceptable paraphilic infantilism. These housemaids (ayis) give up their families, hopes, dreams, and human dignity for chickenfeed from the hands of moneyed cunts who need someone to wipe their pooey arse.

Do I pity Lei Ayi? No. When I arrived she was a complete bellend to me. Wary of a new foreign intrusion into her territory, usurpment of some of her duties (involving the kid mostly) she yelled at me in Sichuanese like, every day. She didn’t like that I was putting a stop to her spoon-feeding the child and that I was refusing to tidy up its playtime mess alone. She would watch me with the beadiest eye when I crossed into the kitchen, and forbade me from eating certain foods (plum jam, cornflakes, mango) because they “belonged” to the Princess. Even though her mother had said I could help myself to whatever, because I was “part of the family”, something I never really felt like. Then after seeing me having a few, Lei Ayi started hiding strawberries from me. FOR REAL. HIDING STRAWBERRIES.

After a few months, it was evident I wasn’t going anywhere because the kid loved me and I was refusing to cave into this old lady’s constant harassment, so she started to relax a bit. She realised I’d taken a load off her back by making the kid more independent in the mornings, as well as teaching it that hitting the housemaid is unacceptable. So sanctions against me were slowly lifted; the tyrannical monopoly over the kitchen gave way a little and I could make myself fried eggs for breakfast once more. Around this time, an unspoken chumminess germinated; the recognition that both of us were dicked about by our fashionista she-master. At least I thought that was happening - one evening we exchanged miffed glances over the kitchen counter we’d been made to sit at whilst the host family and some guests supped in happy togetherness at the dining table.

But one day, just as lunch was about to be served, our gracious employer left the house saying she’d be back right away. Half an hour later and she still hadn’t returned, so I sated my wailing gut with an avocado sandwich, but Lei Ayi continued to linger, staring out of the window like a displaced refugee. Angry, I urged her “just eat! She always does this. I bet you she won’t come back.” When, two hours later she did, Lei Ayi triumphantly told her exactly what I’d said, grassing on me for my transgressive and unslavelike behaviour. I momentarily felt betrayed. Then I realised that, whilst she might, I don’t mind not being the bourgeoisie's bitch.

It’s not because Lei Ayi is clearly a basic bitch that I feel a lack of pity. I lack pity because she lets herself be treated like a domesticated dog. Fair enough, maybe it’s the best paid job she can get because of her lack of educational qualifications or other white-collar “skills”. She gets accommodation and food, and can send home her earnings to put her grandson through school and soften the blow for her mah-jong gambler husband. But the way she comes running, anytime day or night from whatever burdensome task, as soon as she hears her name screeched from the upstairs bedroom just makes me sick. I’m trying to teach the kid politeness and respect for other human beings but this is posed in stark contrast to the conspicuous mistreatment of Lei Ayi by the kid’s very own parents. Maybe I should blame them, who without Lei Ayi wouldn’t last half a day. Yet whilst I try to put her on an equal footing with them, or higher even because of her admirable tirelessness, she would never reciprocate this to me. She would lick their perineums and say it tastes like fortune cookies, and believe it too. A classic case of ragged-trousered philanthropism, the poor woman’s been brainwashed into believing that compared to them, she is scum. And if that’s what she wants, I’ll leave her to pant over their underpants.