One morning, Madam asked me a question that stopped my heart. “Irene, are you having an affair with my husband?” Her voice was calm, but her eyes were sharp, searching mine.
I was stunned. “No, Madam, never. Why would you think that?” My voice trembled.

She bit her lip, hesitating. “There was a red lipstick stain on his shirt, one he hasn’t worn in weeks. I don’t wear red. You’re the only other woman in this house who might.”
My throat tightened. “Madam, I don’t wear lipstick. The one you gave me is still in its box.”

She studied me, then sighed. “Maybe I’m wrong. But secrets don’t stay hidden forever.” She walked away, leaving a chill in the air.

Let me take you back to the beginning.

When I first arrived at Madam’s house, I felt I’d found a home. The house was stunning—spotless, organized, with walls adorned with vibrant paintings and family portraits that held me captive for minutes. The servants’ quarters, where I’d sleep, were tidy and comfortable, a far cry from what I’d expected.

Madam was kind, never barking orders. She corrected me gently, trusting me to work with minimal supervision due to her busy schedule. Big Boss was polite, always offering a quiet “thank you” when I handed him his crisply ironed shirts or completed a task. Their two older children were in boarding school, but Cecil, their well-mannered daughter in year 8, was home, always polite and cheerful.

For months, I thrived in my role. I woke before dawn, prepared breakfast, cleaned the house, did laundry, and handled any task assigned. Madam and Big Boss seemed content, often sitting together in the evenings, laughing softly at the television. I thought they were the perfect couple.

Then I started noticing things.

Big Boss would sit in his car, windows up, on long phone calls. I assumed they were work-related at first. But then I saw him pacing the balcony, smiling during calls, always stepping away from earshot. His face lit up in a way that didn’t feel professional. The calls suggested something personal—a secret.

I kept quiet. I was just the help. It wasn’t my place to speak.

One day, while doing laundry, I found a faint red lipstick stain on the collar of Big Boss’s white shirt. My stomach churned. Madam only wore maroon, pale pink, or soft brown. I scrubbed the stain, fighting tears. Madam was kind, devoted. She didn’t deserve this.

When Madam announced she’d be away for a three-day conference at the coast, I promised to manage the house. She smiled, squeezed my shoulder, and said, “I know you will, Irene.” Her warmth made the secret I carried feel heavier.

That evening, I asked Big Boss if he wanted ugali or rice with the beef stew. “I’m eating out,” he said, adjusting his cufflinks. “Just make sure Cecil eats on time. How’s this white shirt with this suit? I have an important meeting.”

“It looks great,” I said, my voice flat. His phone buzzed, and he grinned at the screen. I knew there was no meeting.

The next day, while washing his clothes, I found another red lipstick stain on the cuff of that same white shirt. My hands shook as I scrubbed it away, the truth burning in my chest.

The signs kept coming. Big Boss wore cologne more often, even on weekends. He left the house at odd hours, returning with the faint scent of unfamiliar perfume. Severally, I caught him humming softly, lost in a private joy.

I saw it all, but I stayed silent, terrified of what speaking might cost me—my job, my daughter’s future.

Then came Madam’s accusation. That night, I couldn’t eat. Her suspicion, after all her kindness, tore at me. I wanted to tell her about the calls, the lipstick, the strange perfume, but fear held me back. What if Big Boss denied it? What if he turned it against me?

The days that followed were strained. Conversations with Madam felt forced, her trust in me fractured. Big Boss acted as if nothing had changed, still taking his calls at the edge of the compound.

One afternoon, Madam took Cecil and me out for dinner to lift the mood. At the supermarket, I teased, “Mama, get me Cadbury white chocolate. I won’t share!” Madam laughed, promising us each a treat if we behaved.

At the restaurant, Madam suddenly froze mid-step. I followed her gaze. There, in a corner booth, was Big Boss, holding hands with a woman in a red dress. Her lips were painted the same red I’d scrubbed from his shirts.

Big Boss looked up and saw us. His smile vanished. He dropped the woman’s hand, his face a mask of panic.

Madam didn’t scream or confront him. She clutched her bag, her voice barely audible. “Let’s go home. We’ll have dinner another time.”

In the car, she murmured, “That explains the lipstick. The late-night calls.” Cecil and I stayed silent, the weight of the moment suffocating.

That night, the house was eerily quiet. Madam’s soft sobs echoed from her locked bedroom. Cecil retreated with yoghurt and cakes, her door shut tight. Big Boss came home late, his attempts at normalcy falling flat in the heavy air.

The next morning, Madam found me in the kitchen, her eyes red and swollen. “Irene, I’m sorry I doubted you. You’ve been nothing but loyal.” I swallowed hard. “It’s okay, Madam.”

Deep down I knew it wasn’t. Not for her, not for the marriage she’d built on trust, not for Cecil who’d seen her father’s betrayal.

The laughter that once filled the house was gone. Big Boss stayed out later, Madam withdrew, and Cecil grew quiet. Meals were eaten in silence.

I scrubbed the lipstick from his shirts, but some stains can never be washed away.