#gwangamujje!

“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.