The Heart of a Woman by Maya Angelou

Author:Maya Angelou
Format: mobi, epub, pdf

The next morning my interior decorating met with stony disapproval. The old sofa was wrong for a man in my husband's position and the secondhand-store bedroom set definitely had to go.

“I am an African. Even a man sleeping in the bush will lay fresh leaves on the ground. I will not sleep on a bed other men have used.”

I didn't ask him what he did in hotels. Certainly he didn't call the manager and say, “I want a brand-new mattress. I am an African.”

I said, “But if we're going to Egypt we shouldn't buy new furniture.”

He answered, “The things we buy will be of such quality they will have a high resale value. And anyway, we're not moving immediately.”

I followed him meekly around a furniture store where he selected an expensive bed, a teak coffee table and a giant brown leather sofa.

He paid in cash, pulling bills from a large roll of money. The source of Vus's money was a mystery. He evaded my questions with the agility of an impala. There was nothing for me to do but relax and accept that he knew what he was doing. My son and I were in his care and he looked after us well. He was an attentive father, making solo visits to Guy's school and sitting with him late evenings over textbooks. They laughed often and affectionately together. When other Africans visited, Vus would insist that Guy sit in on the unending debates over violence and nonviolence, the role of religion in Africa, the place and the strength of women in the struggle. I tried to overhear their interesting conversations, but generally I was too busy with household chores to take the time.

It seemed to me that I washed, scrubbed, mopped, dusted and waxed thoroughly every other day. Vus was particular. He checked on my progress. Sometimes he would pull the sofa away from the wall to see if possibly I had missed a layer of dust. If he found his suspicions confirmed, his response could wither me. He would drop his eyes and shake his head, his face saddened with disappointment. I wiped down the walls, because dirty fingerprints could spoil his day, and ironed his starched shirts (he had his shoes polished professionally).

Each meal at home was a culinary creation. Chicken Kiev and feijoda, eggs Benedict, and turkey tetrazzini.

A good woman put ironed sheets on the bed and matched the toilet paper to the color of the bathroom tile.

I was unemployed but I had never worked so hard in all my life. Monday nights at the Harlem Writers Guild challenged my control. Heavy lids closed my eyes and the best reading of the best writing could not hold my exhausted attention.

“A bride, you know.” Everyone would laugh, except Rosa, who knew how hard I was trying to be a good housewife.

“That African's got her jumping.” Hands clapped at the humor of it all. But they were speaking more truth than they knew. When I wasn't home tired I was as tight as a fist balled up in anger.

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