“Ababbi! Ababbi baabano! Mujje munyambe! Wululuuluuuluuuluuuu!!! Bannange ababbiiiiiiiii!!!”
That was one of my neighbors last night. At about 3am or thereabouts. There were thieves on the property! And of all houses, they had chosen hers. I jerked up when I heard her loud cry. (Oba should I call it “alarming”?)
It has been long since nighttime thieves invaded the estate. I had heard of daytime ones, young men who punch the kitchen windows and break the glass, then open the iron doors and make away with TVs, decoders, DVD players and other petty items.
The thought of ignoring her went through my head. Then in a flash of a second, I also imagined if it were me in her position, yelling for help.
The problem with these neighbors is their ignorance about security lights. It baffles me how people switch off their security lights when they are going to bed. Anyway, the cost of living is so high now, let me stop pointing fingers.
I groped under the bed for the cricket bat. My son’s. It was covered in dust of course, anti long periods of unuse.
But when I flicked the corridor light switch on there was no electricity. Oh what now!! What a night not to have power!
The moon was bright. I opened the door and ventured out, cautiously. Out of the gate and into the Screamer’s compound. There were voices. People had already responded and come to her aid.
She had told and retold, then told and retold her story to all who cared to listen. I realized that I was also a bad neighbor. I mean, we always say ‘hi’ to each other, our kids play together, sometimes we use the same taxi, but I don't know her name.
She said a sound woke her. Her bedroom door was slightly open and the light in the corridor was on. Suddenly the light went off, then on, then off again, then it flickered on. She got up to turn it off, but it went off before she could get to the switch. Then she heard another more definite sound- like an iron lid being replaced. It came from outside the bathroom. “Thieves! These must be thieves!” she thought. They must have heard her open the bathroom door because there was sudden silence. She dashed to the second bedroom to wake her younger brother, he’s about 20. But instinct made her draw open the curtain. Two men, one dressed in shorts, were half-running, half-walking to the next house. In an instant, they scaled the wall and disappeared into the night. And that was when she started screaming about “Ababbiiiiiiii!!!”
The neighbors gathered outside the Screamer’s house were quite a number. And quite a sight as well. I could make out shapes in the moonlight. The estate manager, his eyes full of sleep, was there. The Sudans were there, already going round to her meter box to check the damage that had been inflicted. The ones who never greet were there. The lugambolist with a wayward daughter was there. The one who I never knew had a baby until last week was also there. With her brood of three. And in all manner of night wear. The Screamer was not wearing her specs. She had on an old pair of tights on her head. An Africell t-shirt. I couldn't tell the color, but I read Af--cell under her short light-colored short nightgown. And a pair of big shorts. Oba her husband’s? Thank God I wasn't in the pink pajama bottoms.
After about ten minutes of narration and repeats of narrations about how they had definitely come for the circuit breakers and "soledos", there was a noise from high up the electricity pole. It was a loud clicking noise that went on and on. Some people in the crowd made to flee.
Suddenly the Screamer went into motion. “We are going to die! Hear! This electricity will burn us in our houses! We will be killed in our houses! Oh, this power. Tufudde!!”
There were obviously neighbors who had not come out of their houses. I saw one of them peeping from her bedroom window for a few minutes, the torch from her phone giving her away.
By this time, Screamer was marching around the compound, her two-year old son on her hip, making a gwanga mujje -like call, “Get out of your houses! You who are still sleeping, the fire is coming, it will burn you to cinders in your houses!! Get out now please, for God’s sake!!”
Now this was a mix. I highly doubted that we were in any danger. I whispered to the estate manager who was rubbing his eyes, “Ddala, tunaafira mu nnyumba? (Will we really die in our houses?)"
He gave me a conspiratorial look and whispered back, “No way. There’s no danger. That problem can be fixed. I’ll call UMEME later.”
As suddenly as the sound had started, it stopped. Then the lights came on again. The lugambo neighbor let out a whoop. “Gaago! (It is back!)”
Everybody started trooping back to their houses.
I walked back to the Mansion, and lay awake for a long time.
Wednesday 15 February 2017
Thursday 9 February 2017
#valentinesuponus
Could all the ladies in the house who have never been out on a Valentine's date please stand up?
Hmmm… seems like I’m the only one on my feet.
Someone has offered to take me to the zoo. I’m still wondering if I can kowtow with this poohoo of taking walks among the animals.
Anyway, St. Valentine’s Day is upon us, and already tension and excitement is in the air.
For me, it will be normal workday, Inshallah. Wake up, go to work, eat lunch, work again, go home, sleep.
For others, they will pull out their red pair of trousers, red bowtie, red underpants, red vest, red belt, red hat, red pair of sitokisi.
Their girlfriends have already hinted on their demands, about how they will not be repeating the same dress they wore last year, and how if he doesn't buy her anything this year, then “hmmmm....she doesn't know!”
Side-dishes have already accepted their relegation and tied their mouths into sumbusas as the day approaches.
Telecom companies are already sending us their soppy messages about doubling the love with doubling data and free simcards.
Radio presenters have crammed adverts about "bivulus ku Valentayini eno" in "Nateete ku Solvivo pub" that will "kusindogomya endongo mpaka nga emambya esaze!".
Heeeeeh!
On that this Valentine’s Day, errand boys will deliver bouquets to offices from mysterious lovers who asked the florist to ensure they don't leave a name.
On that day, some singles will send themselves love messages. Let's see self-love month become real.
On that day, some radio stations will play love ballads even during the news.
On that day in the evening, music artistes will croon the songs they have spent months in the studio practicing.
On that day, restaurants will serve special Valentines’ menus at half-price, glasses of red wine, and chocolate delights.
On that day, hotels will prepare wonderful romantic offers- sundowners, intimate buffet dinners like roasted duck with plum sauce, love bite cocktails and strawberries in cream.
On that day, other exotic destinations that have promised romantic-never-to-forget experiences will be hosting love-birds to breakfasts of pasta in a silky sauce of eggs, evenings of rose-petal turndowns, wine in buckets.
Red roses will be like red roses everywhere. In the hands, between the teeth, hidden behind people’s backs.
On that day, hawkers downtown will call out their wares- plastic flowers, made-in-China teddy bears in red vests, cheap mini-love pillows in red gift bags.
Love interests will smile sweetly at each other, crushes will look on longingly, fleeced men will worry about that quick loan they took to finance the day and whether they will get value for money as they chew dryly on the food to get them in the mood. Others will desperately wait for phone calls that will never come.
One Valentine’s Day morning in the early 2000s, when I was still lounging lazily in bed, someone knocked on my hostel door.
Surprise. It was a guy I had had a crush on for five long months!
He didn't come in, but after some hurried “hi’s”, he said there was something he wanted me to keep for him. It was in a red kaveera, these ones from supermarkets of outside countries.
He said not to look inside please, but that he would return for it later in the evening because there was something in it that he wanted to give to someone special.
That day I couldn't settle, I had an excitement about me, a light air, joking with everyone even those who would usually irritate me. I couldn't wait for evening. I was in love, having graduated from crush zone. In my heart of hearts, I knew I was that someone special who was waiting to open that red kaveera.
Evening came. I bathed early and sat in my room, listening to soft music on my Dorotia. I wanted to be away from the cheap talk that usually occupied the other girl’s evenings. C’mon, I had a Valentine’s date!
7pm, 7:30pm - the night crept in. I waited.
At around 7:40pm, a knock on my door. Crush peered in.
“Hi.”
“Hi!” Extra cheerily from me.
“Kati, those things that I gave you.”
“Oh!” A small secret smile crossed my lips.
“You know, this day this year is special for me. I don't even know how to say it.”
“It’s okay. You don't have to say anything.”
He sat on the bed and I was on this bu-round bamboo stools we used in shule.
“You mean I shouldn't tell her anything?”
I came down from the stars where I had been. Had I heard right? Anyway, maybe he was speaking in riddles.
“Yeah, she leaves work at 7pm, but I had asked to see her at 8.”
My stars melted into a mess. I landed with an almighty thud.
"Eh? Who?” This was not a rumor.
He hesitated. “Someone, you’ll get to know soon. I have this crush on her. I hope it can blossom into something eventually. Y’know, like a relationship. I actually think I love her.”
I was stunned. My ears were burning. My chest tightened. My mouth was dry. My legs were numb. I nearly fell off the stool. I could feel the blood pounding in my temples. I was speechless.
After a few seconds, I regained my faculties.
“You should go!”
“But I wanted you to give me some tips on what to say… you know these love things are tight.”
“You go and kuyiiya the words. Its not hard. Just be simple. Go, you’ll be late.”
I closed the door behind him. This had not just happened. All along I thought he felt the same way. God, had I been light-hearted the whole day, for nothing?
The girls were hooting loudly in the quadrangle.
And because I was so shocked, I laughed.
Happy St. Valentine’s Day! These foreign things.
Friday 3 February 2017
#eve'spunishment
The shopkeeper kept ignoring me and yet I had been standing there for
close to five minutes telling her what I wanted, but she kept serving
other customers. Even those who had come after me. And left before me.
Just as I was about to walk off in a huff, she said, “Madam, kozzi
ogambyee nkuwe Always?” She pronounced it Oluwez.
“Yee!” I could have yelled.
She looked around furtively, then reached for a stool, climbed on to it and reached for the packet of sanitary towels. She placed it out of view. Like she was hiding something.
“Mmeka? How much?” I asked.
“Madam, zijjakubeera nkumi ssatu.” 3,000 shillings. I know a pack is sold at 2,500 shillings in town, but with these village shops, you never know.
“Olina akaveera?
Plastic bag for what now?
“Sirina.”
She peeled off a small size black bag from the nail on the shelves behind. Another furtive look around, then she quickly and secretively shoved the packet of pads into the kaveera.
Bannange, now all this drama for what??
So what is so unholy, so taboo, about sanitary towels that the whole purchasing process should be treated like there is a bribe being exchanged? That time of the month is a completely normal process that should not make anyone ashamed.
And that shopkeeper has a TV in her shop.
And...I'm certain she watches the Oluwez advert and sings along as well!
“Yee!” I could have yelled.
She looked around furtively, then reached for a stool, climbed on to it and reached for the packet of sanitary towels. She placed it out of view. Like she was hiding something.
“Mmeka? How much?” I asked.
“Madam, zijjakubeera nkumi ssatu.” 3,000 shillings. I know a pack is sold at 2,500 shillings in town, but with these village shops, you never know.
“Olina akaveera?
Plastic bag for what now?
“Sirina.”
She peeled off a small size black bag from the nail on the shelves behind. Another furtive look around, then she quickly and secretively shoved the packet of pads into the kaveera.
Bannange, now all this drama for what??
So what is so unholy, so taboo, about sanitary towels that the whole purchasing process should be treated like there is a bribe being exchanged? That time of the month is a completely normal process that should not make anyone ashamed.
And that shopkeeper has a TV in her shop.
And...I'm certain she watches the Oluwez advert and sings along as well!
Thursday 2 February 2017
#neighborsfromhell
Having first lived in the leafy neighborhood of Rubaga (like I remember- I was only a year old!!), then in a block of flats -the first time it was in an affluent neighborhood near the sacred State House in Nairobi. Next, we moved to a nice place with a nice school nearby, which we attended. The holiday program was made up of waking up at 9am, eating breakfast and playing with the neighbor's kids the whole day.
There were Sales in the neighborhood nearly every weekend, and we enjoyed sifting through expatriates' stuff for golliwogs, story books, puzzles and nail polish. They did Sales when they were leaving the country. (Mum even got some sheets, sets of plates and drinking glasses which still exist today- after more than 30 years!!)
The next place was more away from town, but at least we had a nice bungalow shaded by trees and a nice big garden. The neighbors were not so friendly at first and we did our very best to keep away as they labelled us "refugees". Slowly, they got used to us, but we never let them into our compound because their kids were very naughty and mispronounced our names.
As we progressed into adults, we began to realize that neighbors can either make or break you, and as you choose where to live, whether in a rented apartment, a muzigo in Korogocho, a comfortable bungalow in Kololo, or in your own country home, that one of the things you need to mindful about is---- who your neighbors are.
Hmmmm.... they come in all sizes, types and colors. But this is one important lesson I have learned over time.
When I came to Kampala, it was to a two-roomed "apartment". This was where I was to live for the next six years. The buildings were brand new, the only neighbors were three other families with younger children and we all minded our business, only stopping to say good morning and whatever other greeting like “Gyebale ko!”. Not bad at all except that there was a teacher with thin legs who called her sister all sorts of vile names, and caned her for every little "misdeed". The beatings could come at any time. Unannounced. On a Sunday morning when we were still in bed; in the middle of the night; in the presence of her visitors- she did not care. And it was amazing to see how nice and caring she acted with the nursery school-kids whom she taught.
I never quite got used to her cruelty but what took my mind off her for some time was this buck-toothed woman who moved in next to us. She had a family of eight children, including two girls who were over twenty. And they all squashed into the two small rooms. With her younger husband (obviously not the father of the older children). I marveled at how they did it. Did they sleep on the rafters? Or among the several buckets and basins? She supported her large family with a salon business, which I soon learned, expanded to my verandah when I was not around! That woman made me so uncomfortable. Mama Large Brood.
But this discomfort was nothing compared to the mad man who shifted in a week after Mama Large Brood moved out. He swore at his girlfriend's two children (who I think, were born about seven months apart). He screamed at them, he insulted the girlfriend, who by the way, was pregnant again- with his unfortunate soon-to-be-born child. And when she was not there, he brought prostitutes home. He loved to sit outside his house and sing Philly Lutaaya songs loudly while washing his clothes and splashing water all around like a duck. And he was always strutting around shirtless while being chatty with the other neighbors who annoyed me so much because they were trying to be nice to a monster. Mad Man had an old cassette player that always played the same songs (like the broken radio that it was) and it was always on full blast. I don't remember how many times I asked him to turn it down, and one day when it was too much, I walked up to his door, opened, and turned the blasted soundbox off myself.
All hell broke loose then.
I shot him an array of carefully picked very colorful words, curtly informing him about how fed up of him we all were, but that the others were too weak and scared to tell him, and that I would be their ambassador. He threatened to shoot me and I shouted at him to "bring it on!!".
And the foolish neighbors peeped at us from their windows not daring to intervene. Keeping quiet.
And the landlord, the mite that he still is, did not say anything even when I complained bitterly.
The last straw was when I discovered that Mean Teacher had fallen for Mad Man's shirtless torso, was cooking his meals and was even keeping his house keys.
God freed me from my cross, when Mad Man was arrested for posing as a police officer and fleecing a taxi driver of several hundreds of shillings, and his picture was posted in the local newspaper (and which someone cut out and stuck on his front door).
I had had enough and my hunt for a new place to stay took me miles away. The new house was more spacious, the area was very quiet and I had my very own space and privacy. I have no immediate neighbors but it seems my landlord has fallen on hard times and is taking in all the riff-raff. Sometimes I pray that they destroy the fittings in his houses before he finally discovers that much as you need the money, you also need to guard your investments well. And getting the right tenants is just one of those things.
My list of Neighbors From Hell is long. I am not distancing myself from this list, because to others, I may also be a Neighbor from Hell.
I have tried (and failed) to determine who tops the list, so please identify for me and choose.
Neighbour who minds MY business
This one, just like the description above, has no business of hers to mind. They are so interested in what happens in other people's homes, and not in a nice way. They know what you ate for supper, despite the fact that all meals are prepared inside your house, in the privacy, and safety of your kitchen. They know when you have defaulted on your kids' school fees payments, and how you have begged the headteacher who has refused to listen to your pleas for clemency; they know how you use Omo to wash your hair, and how your bathroom floor is cracked. And they have worked hard to see that your maids do not stay. This one abuses your children; she is always looking for a fight, however hard you ignore her; she sits inside her house the whole day cooking up her next line of attack on you and your children; the veiled insults she directs at you have since been unveiled, just because you have refused to give her attention. This neighbor makes the environment so wrong.
Neighbors from other lands
These arrive by the lorry-load on an hourly basis. Very anti-social, sticking to themselves and refusing to mingle and be neighborly. They consist of very many women, an even bigger number of young men- mostly teenagers who wear thin made-in-China trousers. And then an uncountable number children who do not wear pants. Mucous runs from their noses. Dark and dirty. The teenagers like gathering at the side of the road in the evenings, listening to a phone radio, speaking at the tops of their voices and calling their relatives in Sudan. In Dinka and Nuer dialect of course. Sunday mornings are so ruined by the younger children who play kwepena, while shouting and arguing so loudly that you can think its a marketplace run by young 'uns. I think they call me Mama Bitch because I take no prisoners- chasing them away and telling them to shut their little traps and go and play elsewhere. The big boys used to move away from their houses in the area in which they were herded and gather outside my gate, chattering away. Once, twice, thrice- I told them I would pour dirty water on their heads if they returned. They are so filthy, spitting endlessly and sweeping and pouring dirty water into the road. Free advice-when you live in an organized society, please try and fit in and remember that when in Rome, do as the Romans do.
(And surprisingly, they have penetrated even the more 'affluent' neighborhoods- Ntinda, Kiwatule, Najjera- the children playing loudly in the road in their bare feet and cheapening the place. Ugh!!!
Neighbor Who Has No Regard For Anyone (NWHNRFA)
This one is found mostly in flats. They light a sigiri in the corridor, just a few feet away from the staircase. So, there you are enjoying breakfast on Saturday morning, newspaper and remote in hand, and suddenly, the smoke appears from nowhere and you start choking.
This story was told to me by the neighbor who lives in the flat just below NWHNRFA. That they once left the taps turned on and went on a work trip for the weekend and the water suddenly decided to reappear in the middle of the night. This NWHNRFA lives in the top flat.. So water gathered and you know how it needs to find an outlet when it floods. It seeped out the doors, into and down the walls. Lower Neighbor told me that the water was seeping through his power sockets, dripping from the ceiling and perforating the walls. And when NWHNRFA returned from his sojourn, he acted like everything was alright, saying cheery "hellos", and did not even apologize to his distressed brethren who incurred huge costs to repair and replace their destroyed household equipment.
Big Mouth Neighbor
A special type. Mostly female. Stay at home mum. Once kids are dispatched to school, her wandering eye and equally-inquisitive mind has all the time to dig into the business around her. She knows who is harboring 30 illegal immigrants in their house, what disease that old man is suffering from (courtesy of being a part-time nurse); who stole who's television set and mattress and fled on a boda-boda; who was a prostitute in her former life; where that neighbor who drives a Premio works, and what time he wakes up. Eh! And when she accosts me on my way back from work, I know I am done for, because she can gossip for an hour-plus. And it is not helped by my character which forces me to feign surprise at her every statement. So whenever I return early, and just before I turn the corner near her house (which is strategically placed to net any unsuspecting victim of her lugambo) I reach into my bag, take out one of my two phones, switch it off and put it to my ear. I tell you, I am forced to start acting- holding a conversation- which normally goes like this- "Yeah, okay, let's see what we can do, yeah, okay, let's see what we can do..."- with an imaginary person. It IS that bad! And this type will probably tell others about you and how much you earn. I recently bumped into her as she came up the road, and she told me that I no longer like her. Whatever!
Neighbor Who Comes Back Late
This one leaves the gate unlocked. And his car is always blasting local Luganda kadongo-kamu music. He usually arrives at midnight or thereabouts. When he has noisily unlocked the gate which he leaves open after I struggled to lock it, he drives in and parks outside his house. Then he opens the car doors and bellows "Lodgerzi" (Luganda for Rodgers), about five times before a sleep-ridden Lodgerzi emerges, rubbing his red eyes to open the door for his master. And in the midst of the bellowing, the car radio is blaring kadongo-kamu stuff and this could go on for 20 minutes. Poor Lodgerzi then starts to ferry the stuff his boss has bought, into the house. Bunch of matooke, kaveera of milk, loaf of bread, paper-bag of nyama, five onions and two green pepper bells.
Neighbor who doesn't greet neighbors
This one has moss in her mouth. They pass you like you don't exist. It is like they are a love rival of sorts. You speak the same language, and you know you do, because you have heard them talking loudly on their phone and calling to their little child who likes to play in your house. But they never greet you back, even when you offer a smile. The first day they came, you wanted to welcome them and give them some welcome buns, but their standoffish-ness makes you back off. On the positive side, they make it easy for you in the mornings, because you can, without any pinch of guilt, pass them in your car, standing at the bus-stop on a rainy day. You just purse your mouth, rev the engine and roar off.
Neighbor who fights and beats house girls
Big Mouth Neighbor first told me about this one- that she comes back very late. On a bodaboda. And she tells the bodaman to "first wait" till she has entered her gate and then into her house, bolted the door woken up her children and said 'Hi, how was your day?' first, before she shouts to the bodaman to go away-" Kale genda!"
Then her little sister comes to visit. She is nice to the kids, very cheery, brings them cookies and nice clothes and shoes, cuddles them, and tells them how much she loves them. Fighter Mother as usual, has had a late night. One day she woke up grumpy, started yelling at the kids and took offence when she asked one of them to pass her a slice of bread. Next thing I heard was the girl (Moleeni) yelping like a hurt puppy. Then Fighter yelled at her to shut her mandibles. The kind Auntie who was still asleep, was woken up by the noise from the sitting room that was bila chairs, and with her eyes still bleary, rushed to save her niece, imploring Fighter Mother not to beat. But Fighter Mother had cotton wool in her ears. She was not about to let up. She chose to interpret this as her sister daring to question her authority. She reacted with a ferociousness not even seen in a grizzly bear. Bam! Slap! Grab! Pull! Throw! The Fighter Mother was deaf to her children's screams as they witnessed their “mothers” going at each others' weaves and dreadlocks. Suddenly, the strap of Little Sister’s black nightie snapped and her boob popped out, out there for everyone to see.
Fighter Mother now like possessed devil moved in for the kill. Her fingers tugged at Little Sister’s short black weave and she would not let go. Little Sister was in such pain that her face started to go red. She dropped to her knees but refused to beg Fighter Mother to leggo. There was so much noise in the house. Fighter Mother was grunting, Little Sister was whining, Moleen and Mimi were bawling out their little lungs. And the maid came to the door to try to explain to all and sundry how things had gone out of "hands".
Neighbors!!
What kind are you???
There were Sales in the neighborhood nearly every weekend, and we enjoyed sifting through expatriates' stuff for golliwogs, story books, puzzles and nail polish. They did Sales when they were leaving the country. (Mum even got some sheets, sets of plates and drinking glasses which still exist today- after more than 30 years!!)
The next place was more away from town, but at least we had a nice bungalow shaded by trees and a nice big garden. The neighbors were not so friendly at first and we did our very best to keep away as they labelled us "refugees". Slowly, they got used to us, but we never let them into our compound because their kids were very naughty and mispronounced our names.
As we progressed into adults, we began to realize that neighbors can either make or break you, and as you choose where to live, whether in a rented apartment, a muzigo in Korogocho, a comfortable bungalow in Kololo, or in your own country home, that one of the things you need to mindful about is---- who your neighbors are.
Hmmmm.... they come in all sizes, types and colors. But this is one important lesson I have learned over time.
When I came to Kampala, it was to a two-roomed "apartment". This was where I was to live for the next six years. The buildings were brand new, the only neighbors were three other families with younger children and we all minded our business, only stopping to say good morning and whatever other greeting like “Gyebale ko!”. Not bad at all except that there was a teacher with thin legs who called her sister all sorts of vile names, and caned her for every little "misdeed". The beatings could come at any time. Unannounced. On a Sunday morning when we were still in bed; in the middle of the night; in the presence of her visitors- she did not care. And it was amazing to see how nice and caring she acted with the nursery school-kids whom she taught.
I never quite got used to her cruelty but what took my mind off her for some time was this buck-toothed woman who moved in next to us. She had a family of eight children, including two girls who were over twenty. And they all squashed into the two small rooms. With her younger husband (obviously not the father of the older children). I marveled at how they did it. Did they sleep on the rafters? Or among the several buckets and basins? She supported her large family with a salon business, which I soon learned, expanded to my verandah when I was not around! That woman made me so uncomfortable. Mama Large Brood.
But this discomfort was nothing compared to the mad man who shifted in a week after Mama Large Brood moved out. He swore at his girlfriend's two children (who I think, were born about seven months apart). He screamed at them, he insulted the girlfriend, who by the way, was pregnant again- with his unfortunate soon-to-be-born child. And when she was not there, he brought prostitutes home. He loved to sit outside his house and sing Philly Lutaaya songs loudly while washing his clothes and splashing water all around like a duck. And he was always strutting around shirtless while being chatty with the other neighbors who annoyed me so much because they were trying to be nice to a monster. Mad Man had an old cassette player that always played the same songs (like the broken radio that it was) and it was always on full blast. I don't remember how many times I asked him to turn it down, and one day when it was too much, I walked up to his door, opened, and turned the blasted soundbox off myself.
All hell broke loose then.
I shot him an array of carefully picked very colorful words, curtly informing him about how fed up of him we all were, but that the others were too weak and scared to tell him, and that I would be their ambassador. He threatened to shoot me and I shouted at him to "bring it on!!".
And the foolish neighbors peeped at us from their windows not daring to intervene. Keeping quiet.
And the landlord, the mite that he still is, did not say anything even when I complained bitterly.
The last straw was when I discovered that Mean Teacher had fallen for Mad Man's shirtless torso, was cooking his meals and was even keeping his house keys.
God freed me from my cross, when Mad Man was arrested for posing as a police officer and fleecing a taxi driver of several hundreds of shillings, and his picture was posted in the local newspaper (and which someone cut out and stuck on his front door).
I had had enough and my hunt for a new place to stay took me miles away. The new house was more spacious, the area was very quiet and I had my very own space and privacy. I have no immediate neighbors but it seems my landlord has fallen on hard times and is taking in all the riff-raff. Sometimes I pray that they destroy the fittings in his houses before he finally discovers that much as you need the money, you also need to guard your investments well. And getting the right tenants is just one of those things.
My list of Neighbors From Hell is long. I am not distancing myself from this list, because to others, I may also be a Neighbor from Hell.
I have tried (and failed) to determine who tops the list, so please identify for me and choose.
Neighbour who minds MY business
This one, just like the description above, has no business of hers to mind. They are so interested in what happens in other people's homes, and not in a nice way. They know what you ate for supper, despite the fact that all meals are prepared inside your house, in the privacy, and safety of your kitchen. They know when you have defaulted on your kids' school fees payments, and how you have begged the headteacher who has refused to listen to your pleas for clemency; they know how you use Omo to wash your hair, and how your bathroom floor is cracked. And they have worked hard to see that your maids do not stay. This one abuses your children; she is always looking for a fight, however hard you ignore her; she sits inside her house the whole day cooking up her next line of attack on you and your children; the veiled insults she directs at you have since been unveiled, just because you have refused to give her attention. This neighbor makes the environment so wrong.
Neighbors from other lands
These arrive by the lorry-load on an hourly basis. Very anti-social, sticking to themselves and refusing to mingle and be neighborly. They consist of very many women, an even bigger number of young men- mostly teenagers who wear thin made-in-China trousers. And then an uncountable number children who do not wear pants. Mucous runs from their noses. Dark and dirty. The teenagers like gathering at the side of the road in the evenings, listening to a phone radio, speaking at the tops of their voices and calling their relatives in Sudan. In Dinka and Nuer dialect of course. Sunday mornings are so ruined by the younger children who play kwepena, while shouting and arguing so loudly that you can think its a marketplace run by young 'uns. I think they call me Mama Bitch because I take no prisoners- chasing them away and telling them to shut their little traps and go and play elsewhere. The big boys used to move away from their houses in the area in which they were herded and gather outside my gate, chattering away. Once, twice, thrice- I told them I would pour dirty water on their heads if they returned. They are so filthy, spitting endlessly and sweeping and pouring dirty water into the road. Free advice-when you live in an organized society, please try and fit in and remember that when in Rome, do as the Romans do.
(And surprisingly, they have penetrated even the more 'affluent' neighborhoods- Ntinda, Kiwatule, Najjera- the children playing loudly in the road in their bare feet and cheapening the place. Ugh!!!
Neighbor Who Has No Regard For Anyone (NWHNRFA)
This one is found mostly in flats. They light a sigiri in the corridor, just a few feet away from the staircase. So, there you are enjoying breakfast on Saturday morning, newspaper and remote in hand, and suddenly, the smoke appears from nowhere and you start choking.
This story was told to me by the neighbor who lives in the flat just below NWHNRFA. That they once left the taps turned on and went on a work trip for the weekend and the water suddenly decided to reappear in the middle of the night. This NWHNRFA lives in the top flat.. So water gathered and you know how it needs to find an outlet when it floods. It seeped out the doors, into and down the walls. Lower Neighbor told me that the water was seeping through his power sockets, dripping from the ceiling and perforating the walls. And when NWHNRFA returned from his sojourn, he acted like everything was alright, saying cheery "hellos", and did not even apologize to his distressed brethren who incurred huge costs to repair and replace their destroyed household equipment.
Big Mouth Neighbor
A special type. Mostly female. Stay at home mum. Once kids are dispatched to school, her wandering eye and equally-inquisitive mind has all the time to dig into the business around her. She knows who is harboring 30 illegal immigrants in their house, what disease that old man is suffering from (courtesy of being a part-time nurse); who stole who's television set and mattress and fled on a boda-boda; who was a prostitute in her former life; where that neighbor who drives a Premio works, and what time he wakes up. Eh! And when she accosts me on my way back from work, I know I am done for, because she can gossip for an hour-plus. And it is not helped by my character which forces me to feign surprise at her every statement. So whenever I return early, and just before I turn the corner near her house (which is strategically placed to net any unsuspecting victim of her lugambo) I reach into my bag, take out one of my two phones, switch it off and put it to my ear. I tell you, I am forced to start acting- holding a conversation- which normally goes like this- "Yeah, okay, let's see what we can do, yeah, okay, let's see what we can do..."- with an imaginary person. It IS that bad! And this type will probably tell others about you and how much you earn. I recently bumped into her as she came up the road, and she told me that I no longer like her. Whatever!
Neighbor Who Comes Back Late
This one leaves the gate unlocked. And his car is always blasting local Luganda kadongo-kamu music. He usually arrives at midnight or thereabouts. When he has noisily unlocked the gate which he leaves open after I struggled to lock it, he drives in and parks outside his house. Then he opens the car doors and bellows "Lodgerzi" (Luganda for Rodgers), about five times before a sleep-ridden Lodgerzi emerges, rubbing his red eyes to open the door for his master. And in the midst of the bellowing, the car radio is blaring kadongo-kamu stuff and this could go on for 20 minutes. Poor Lodgerzi then starts to ferry the stuff his boss has bought, into the house. Bunch of matooke, kaveera of milk, loaf of bread, paper-bag of nyama, five onions and two green pepper bells.
Neighbor who doesn't greet neighbors
This one has moss in her mouth. They pass you like you don't exist. It is like they are a love rival of sorts. You speak the same language, and you know you do, because you have heard them talking loudly on their phone and calling to their little child who likes to play in your house. But they never greet you back, even when you offer a smile. The first day they came, you wanted to welcome them and give them some welcome buns, but their standoffish-ness makes you back off. On the positive side, they make it easy for you in the mornings, because you can, without any pinch of guilt, pass them in your car, standing at the bus-stop on a rainy day. You just purse your mouth, rev the engine and roar off.
Neighbor who fights and beats house girls
Big Mouth Neighbor first told me about this one- that she comes back very late. On a bodaboda. And she tells the bodaman to "first wait" till she has entered her gate and then into her house, bolted the door woken up her children and said 'Hi, how was your day?' first, before she shouts to the bodaman to go away-" Kale genda!"
Then her little sister comes to visit. She is nice to the kids, very cheery, brings them cookies and nice clothes and shoes, cuddles them, and tells them how much she loves them. Fighter Mother as usual, has had a late night. One day she woke up grumpy, started yelling at the kids and took offence when she asked one of them to pass her a slice of bread. Next thing I heard was the girl (Moleeni) yelping like a hurt puppy. Then Fighter yelled at her to shut her mandibles. The kind Auntie who was still asleep, was woken up by the noise from the sitting room that was bila chairs, and with her eyes still bleary, rushed to save her niece, imploring Fighter Mother not to beat. But Fighter Mother had cotton wool in her ears. She was not about to let up. She chose to interpret this as her sister daring to question her authority. She reacted with a ferociousness not even seen in a grizzly bear. Bam! Slap! Grab! Pull! Throw! The Fighter Mother was deaf to her children's screams as they witnessed their “mothers” going at each others' weaves and dreadlocks. Suddenly, the strap of Little Sister’s black nightie snapped and her boob popped out, out there for everyone to see.
Fighter Mother now like possessed devil moved in for the kill. Her fingers tugged at Little Sister’s short black weave and she would not let go. Little Sister was in such pain that her face started to go red. She dropped to her knees but refused to beg Fighter Mother to leggo. There was so much noise in the house. Fighter Mother was grunting, Little Sister was whining, Moleen and Mimi were bawling out their little lungs. And the maid came to the door to try to explain to all and sundry how things had gone out of "hands".
Neighbors!!
What kind are you???
Wednesday 1 February 2017
#formeIjustkeptquiet
Not a week goes by without a report in the news about a murder, rape,
fight, etc in Lwengo, Mityana and Mubende districts. They seem to have
booked slots in the TV bulletins. At one point, it used to be Mukono and
Luweero. One story that really caught my attention was about a father
in Lwengo who defiled his 8-yr old daughter then stabbed her repeatedly
(He confessed later). She didn't live to tell the tale. He hid the body
in the house for days. His heinous act was only discovered when a
curious neighbor passing by, smelt the stench and reported to the
village chairman. (Meanwhile, the man was hiding in a ffene tree
watching all the drama in his compound unfold.)
On TV, the neighbors were saying: "Yeah, that man was very strict, nga he used to cane the kid so hard!"
Another one: "He had a very bad heart! Kale, now seen what he has done."
Others were shaking their heads, as they covered their noses in disgust.
"Actually, he had started acting extra weird of late. He had even chased away his wife."
And so on and so forth myaa myaa.
But why did they turn a blind eye when they were all aware that they had a monster in their midst?? If they had alerted the authorities, the little girl would maybe, just maybe, be alive today.
That disease of "For me I just kept quiet," is so ingrained in us. Oba is it the fear to poke the leopard's nani? Is it because we are selfish? The "nfunira wa?" syndrome perhaps? Can I blame it on rural-urban migration, rural-rural migration, urban-urban migration? Are we too busy for others, or do we see this as meddling in other people's lives if we intervene?
Anyway, whatever it is, "For me I just kept quiet" now has a permanent places in many people's lives. We feed it, we clothe it and it has a well-laid bed in our houses.
Just like these mizigo women with their scrubbed slippers and clean verandahs who spend the day at home cooking supper on their small sigiris and in immaculately-scrubbed sufurias. Someone told me a story that when her maid ran off (she is a businesswoman in Jinja) with one of the builders from the next door plot, her mizigo neighbors started recounting to her how the maid was always eating her children's food, giving them karate kicks, and threatening them if they reported to their mum. So if they knew all this was happening, why did they 'just keep quiet’?
Then we have these men who bring their crass talk to the workplace - asking a pregnant woman how she got pregnant, commenting on women’s ass-ets, speaking vulgar and enjoying it. And the women smile along, even if they hate it so much. She just keeps quiet because she wants to keep the peace and be part of the band.
The taxi conductor raises the fare by 500 shillings, we all keep quiet. The taxi driver is pounding the accelerator so hard that the passengers are clinging onto their seats in terror, we all keep quiet. The vendor’s stack of tomatoes has two nearly-rotten fruits, we keep quiet and pay.
The neighbor’s maid brings men into the house when the masters are away, we keep quiet because “munnange, that is not our business.”
Someone forgot to close their zipper and is parading around the whole place like that. You look there and look away embarrassed. And just keep quiet.
Wealthy government officials receive large presidential handshakes, we yap about it for a while, and then shrug our shoulders.
Your workmate comes in with a black eye, you don't bother to ask because “her matters are her matters”, so you just keep quiet.
You hear thieves breaking into your neighbor’s house and the neighbor yelling for help, but you can’t help because that’s their business.
So you just keep quiet. And moss grows in your mouth and life goes on. Quietly.
On TV, the neighbors were saying: "Yeah, that man was very strict, nga he used to cane the kid so hard!"
Another one: "He had a very bad heart! Kale, now seen what he has done."
Others were shaking their heads, as they covered their noses in disgust.
"Actually, he had started acting extra weird of late. He had even chased away his wife."
And so on and so forth myaa myaa.
But why did they turn a blind eye when they were all aware that they had a monster in their midst?? If they had alerted the authorities, the little girl would maybe, just maybe, be alive today.
That disease of "For me I just kept quiet," is so ingrained in us. Oba is it the fear to poke the leopard's nani? Is it because we are selfish? The "nfunira wa?" syndrome perhaps? Can I blame it on rural-urban migration, rural-rural migration, urban-urban migration? Are we too busy for others, or do we see this as meddling in other people's lives if we intervene?
Anyway, whatever it is, "For me I just kept quiet" now has a permanent places in many people's lives. We feed it, we clothe it and it has a well-laid bed in our houses.
Just like these mizigo women with their scrubbed slippers and clean verandahs who spend the day at home cooking supper on their small sigiris and in immaculately-scrubbed sufurias. Someone told me a story that when her maid ran off (she is a businesswoman in Jinja) with one of the builders from the next door plot, her mizigo neighbors started recounting to her how the maid was always eating her children's food, giving them karate kicks, and threatening them if they reported to their mum. So if they knew all this was happening, why did they 'just keep quiet’?
Then we have these men who bring their crass talk to the workplace - asking a pregnant woman how she got pregnant, commenting on women’s ass-ets, speaking vulgar and enjoying it. And the women smile along, even if they hate it so much. She just keeps quiet because she wants to keep the peace and be part of the band.
The taxi conductor raises the fare by 500 shillings, we all keep quiet. The taxi driver is pounding the accelerator so hard that the passengers are clinging onto their seats in terror, we all keep quiet. The vendor’s stack of tomatoes has two nearly-rotten fruits, we keep quiet and pay.
The neighbor’s maid brings men into the house when the masters are away, we keep quiet because “munnange, that is not our business.”
Someone forgot to close their zipper and is parading around the whole place like that. You look there and look away embarrassed. And just keep quiet.
Wealthy government officials receive large presidential handshakes, we yap about it for a while, and then shrug our shoulders.
Your workmate comes in with a black eye, you don't bother to ask because “her matters are her matters”, so you just keep quiet.
You hear thieves breaking into your neighbor’s house and the neighbor yelling for help, but you can’t help because that’s their business.
So you just keep quiet. And moss grows in your mouth and life goes on. Quietly.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)