In 2010, an army veteran (he may have been a wannabe for all I know) threatened to shoot me. After boasting how he had a gun and would finish me off that night because I called him a series of coarse names for being a bad-mannered neighbor and disturbing our peace, he swaggered out of the gate with his thin doggy-like waist.
The shooting didn't happen. Instead he vented his rage on his live-in girlfriend, aka wife. Anyway, I reported the incident to the Police- the police post was some small wooden shack- somewhere deep in Kalerwe, behind the market. The policeman there did not want me to speak in English. He said he only understood vernacular. So, I put on my best Luganda. And do you know what he did? In the middle of my narration, he got a call on his kabiriti and walked away to take it. He returned five minutes later, with the ‘Statimenti Book’, drew some lines in it- if I remember well, date, details etc, handed me a red Biro, and told me to write my statement in CAPITAL letters, and to clearly indicate where I lived- he called it “your place of residence”.
As I left, he promised that they would patrol the area in the night. He also gave me his telephone number (after I had asked for it).
Mr. Veteran (he may have been a wannabe for all I know) did not disappoint. As he was busy thumping his live-in girlfriend, aka wife, and screaming at her daughter, “Gwe Divaini, vvayo ndage akakazi kano empisa!”, I dialed the policeman. It was around 10pm.
“Who is this?” “Where did you say you were?”, “You are the who?”, “The one who…”. Seems he was deep in sleep. So early?
“Come quickly!” I urged, wanting him to witness first-hand the viciousness of the thug who was beating his live-in girlfriend, aka wife, punching her face in all the wrong places- in front of her two young children and maid, who were all screaming at the same time. The noise! Just like popcorn.
I did not dare to come out of the house to be Mama Divaini’s Joan of Arc, just in case Mr. Veteran (he may have been a wannabe for all I know) pulled out his ‘shotgun’ and peppered me with pellets.
Anyway, the policemen did come. Armed. What annoyed me most was that they told Mr. Veteran (he may have been a wannabe for all I know) that someone had called them. “Who?” he demanded to know. Oba what did they tell him?
Then, they walked him out of the house and started kuwozaring with him. I heard a little bit from my front window. “Ssebo, don't beat your wife like that, eh. You know there are people in the house and you beat her like that, eh?” I expected, and wanted, them to march him off to the police station and throw him in the cells, and then throw away the key.
Instead he came back about 15 minutes later, swearing to do away with someone, whoever had called the cops on him.
Mama Divaini had had enough of his beatings. She was a nakawere, her baby was barely three months old. From what I learned later, Divaini (Her name was Divine, and she was one and a half years old) was not his daughter. Mama Divaini packed her things and left after a week, housemaid and all. Chairs, tables, bed, mattresses, percolator, buckets, slippers. Kila kindu.
Mr. Veteran (he may have been a veteran for all I know) agenda okuda from his nocturnal jaunts, thumped on the door yelling for Mama Divaini to “come open up or else I’ma show you, I’ma beat the living daylights outta you!”. (I wonder who told him his fake American accent sounded cool) But Mama Divaini did not come to the door, nor did he beat the living daylights outta anyone. Instead, he looked for the warmest corner of his verandah, where he nodded off until morning when some of us, who went to work at 5am found him, cold and miserable. He resorted to playing Philly Bongole ballads to fill the void.
And then one day, Mr. Veteran (he may have been a wannabe for all I know) disappeared. Peace and heaven in the neighborhood. After a week and a half, I returned home to find a meeting of the neighbors. They spoke in low tones. Someone had pasted a picture of the good old Veteran (he may have been a wannabe for all I know), a newspaper article with his picture, with his buswiriri on his front door.
The story went that Mr. Veteran (he may have been a wannabe for all I know) had hired a ‘Special’ to Mayuge district, then he also took him deep into some village in Hoima and then back to his house on Mawanda road.
Mr. Veteran (he may have been a wannabe for all I know) said he was the DPC of Kira, the Division Police Commander. When it came to the time to pay, Mr. Veteran (he may have been a wannabe for all I know) pulled out a pistol and told the Special Hire driver that he was “gonna blow his bloody brains out so he berra shut the f*** up!” And then he disappeared into the night.
The Special Hire guy reported the case to police, and they came for Mr. Veteran (he may have been a wannabe for all I know) early one morning when he was still in his teeny nylon shorts that he called nighties.
And they carted him to the same Kira Police Station that he purported to be DPC of. A newspaper journalist looking for police report of the day wrote the story, took a picture of the suspect’s ID and the story was in the papers the next day.
And that was how some clever person got a hold of it and pasted it on Mr. Veteran’s (he may have been a wannabe for all I know) front door.
I dunno when he ever got out, because I moved house at the end of the week, but the remaining days were sheer bliss.
But I do know he got out because, six months after that as I was waiting for the salon lady to do my hair, I heard a familiar voice. I tell you, I nearly jumped out of my skin. It was him. He popped his head into the shop and I ducked.
You ask me why I did it. I don’t know why. But I did.
Showing posts with label neighbors. Show all posts
Showing posts with label neighbors. Show all posts
Tuesday, 3 October 2017
Tuesday, 6 June 2017
#nocturnalshifters
So, after a nice long day of farming, you return home, past 7pm, with the boot full of food, knowing that you are ‘safe’ for the whole of the next week.
As you drive past the gate, your neighbor, the one whose child always comes by your place to play with your nieces and nephews during the holidays, waves you a “hello”.
You haul the stuff out of the car and lay it out in the backyard, apportioning what you will give to the neighbors. Sweet potatoes for these ones, sugarcane for the house with so many grandchildren, beans for that house, arrowroots for the old lady - she loves them so much.
And because you are exhausted, you decide that you will take them over the next morning, Sunday.
So the next morning, Sunday, you start taking the food over.
Madam Arrow-roots says she will put them on the ntamu for lunch, the sweet-potato batch receive theirs with much appreciation, and the so-many grand kids immediately pounce on the sugarcane and start chewing loudly even before you leave their house.
Then you walk over to the gate of the neighbor who had waved you “hello”.
There are no curtains in the windows. The house is empty.
Why do people like moving at night?
Friday, 2 June 2017
#offilipinonames
But not so Paloma, Angel and Sula’s granny. Bannange! She is very experienced with the cane. Like she went to school for special lessons. So much that the kids are terrified when she asks a question about why this wasn't done, and why that was not washed. The caning can happen at any time of the day- morning, noon, evening, night.
The kids are the permanent fixtures in their gran’s house. There are others who come over for a weekend or during the school holiday, but these ones are always there. They go to one of the local schools on the kaalo. The others are treated like little kings and queens. The only ones you hear being constantly threatened are the three musketeers- Paloma, Angel and Sula.
One time they were sleeping when she arrived after a long day. The power was off so the poor things had retired for the night. She knocked about 30 times, going from the back door to the front, to the windows, to the walls.
“Sula!! Sula!! Naye this child. Oba he’s not there! Paloma! Angel! I swear abaana bano can sleep!”
She marched back to the front and pounded on their bedroom window. Then she noticed a light. “Ho! These kids left the candle burning!! She mumbled some swear words and charged for the door with a stone. “Bam! Bam!! Hammer! Hammer!!”
The morgue suddenly came alive. “Wanji Jjaja!” someone replied.
“Jjangu ogulewo olugyi! Kalabe! Mwebaka ki bwemutyo? Nakonkonye dda nga temuwulira! N’genda kuba sabula kale!”
Grandmother was livid. She delivered on her promise with much gusto and the yelps and cries carried far into the night.
Another time Paloma got the thrashing of her life when she made the daring "mistake" when she for a few minutes, she abandoned the sigiri she had been instructed to light, to go and laugh with the neighbor’s kids. “Palooomaaaaa!”
You could think the woman was having a heart attack.
“Come here, you miserable child, I am going to beat you so hard today!”
And for sure, Paloma received about 10 of the best. It sounded like a really hard rubber slipper amid the screams of "I won't do it again!"
As for Sula, I think he can write a fat book on the canes he has received in this his short life.
I think their mothers watched a lot of bi-Filipinos. Not with those names.
Wednesday, 17 May 2017
#frog
Frog has become very unpopular of late. So much so that the village has decided to banish him. His family have vowed that they will stick with him through thick and thin, and so they will all be leaving the estates before their two weeks’ deadline expires.
Frog has caused the estate tenants a lot of distress in the three years since his family moved from South Sudan to escape the war. His black book is filled with a multitude of sins that keep growing. He has stolen a countless number of chickens, wrung their necks and cooked them in the dark over a wood fire at the back of their house. Frog has been accused of sneaking into a passion fruit shamba and stealing fruits.
One of the locals said she caught him asking her little girl for a kiss. Another person said she has seen him twice, walking along the walls that separate the houses in the estate.
The latest atrocity happened last week. The one that got people all wired up, talking and hating. The one that forced Frog to spend the night in hiding. The one for which he was captured from his hiding place and brought before an estate committee, and later a village committee. A barrage of questions was fired at him from all directions as he sat on the dusty ground. He could only answer “no” to everything he was asked, as his eyes scanned the ground in terror.
The story goes that Frog, his brother Jimmy and an older relative hatched a plan against one of the girls in the estate. This older relative who had been staying at the Frog’s house for nearly three months, had his eye on a neighbor’s new housemaid, in the house opposite theirs. Whenever he spotted her going to the shops, he would stand in the corner near the gate, and touch or tap her, and tell her in broken English that he loved her. She always repulsed his advances, telling him to leave her alone or she would report him to her “Auntie”- her employer. The boys laughed and made fun of her as she took off in fear.
On this fateful afternoon, after ensuring that the neighborhood was “safe”, Frog had jumped over the neighbor’s back gate, and then proceeded to open for Jimmy and the relative. While Jimmy played sentry, the relative pounced on the girl, threw her against the dining table and back-handed her hard. Then he flung her to the floor, tore off her skirt and her panties and took advantage of her as she screamed her lungs out. Frog watched all this unfold.
When Auntie returned from work at about 10pm, the maid was crying her eyes out. She was so traumatized that only bits and pieces of the horror she had endured could come out. She narrated to Auntie what had happened and they reported the matter to the police. A doctor’s check the next day revealed that the girl had been forcefully penetrated and she was immediately put on post-exposure prophylaxis.
Frog and his relatives had got wind that something was wrong, and the “rapist” fled. When the police came, they found Jimmy in one of the bedrooms, pretending to be asleep. He was arrested and frog-marched to the station where he was locked up for six days.
Meanwhile, Frog’s uncle, white-haired and using a walking stick, had gone to the police station to plead for Jimmy’s release. He argued that Jimmy is only 15. Also that he and his family have no knowledge of the young man who was accused of committing the violenct act. One of Frog’s older brothers then made the mistake of threatening Auntie, “What can you do? Do you know what we can do to you? If you want money, tell us how much and we give it to you!”
The villagers were enraged when they heard what had happened. How could someone be raped in their own house in broad daylight? That was unforgivable, they said. These people are seeking refuge in a foreign land and have been accommodated in a good estate for three years, and tolerated by their neighbors in spite of their bad manners. The villagers also say that instead of apologizing for their relatives ill manners, they are offering money, which is admittance to the crime.
The first meeting was convened in Auntie’s house. Someone calling himself the head of the South Sudanese Community in the area apologized for what had happened. However, what incensed the tenants was that he demanded that Jimmy must be released because he is only 15. “How dare you?!” the tenants railed, “That 15-year old stood guard while a 16-year old girl was being defiled. Don’t you even have a bit of regard for her?”
The landlord refused to attend both meetings. He pleaded illness. One of the very concerned tenants who was baying for his blood, called him up personally. He refused to pick her calls. She called him a day later, on another number, and when he picked up, she narrated what had happened. He told her to take charge and relay to him what the tenants would decide. They knew why the landlord was being evasive and reluctant. “You know, these South Sudanese pay in dollars! And they still owe him two months of rent, so he doesn't want to let them go!” But the other tenants were threatening to give their notice if the Sudanese did not leave.
Being a refugee is not easy. The Sudanese have been called all sorts of names. Dinkese. Obudinka. Xenophobia? They have been accused of failing to assimilate, and some have been told to “go back to Juba!” They have been accused of trying to steal electricity fixtures for money, after all “where do they get the clothes they wear?” They were accused of sitting in other tenants’ compounds and littering them with chewed out sugarcane fibres, and refusing to learn the local language.
The village meeting, held late on Sunday, summoned the head of the house, the elderly uncle, who hobbled in on his walking stick. He came along with an interpreter who struggled to get in a word edgewise because the villagers were so incensed and accusations were flying left and right like stones. The uncle apologized profusely and continued to deny that he didn't know the accused “boy”.
“Someone who has been living in your house for a month?? That’s inconceivable! Don’t lie to us Old Man!” He said that his nephews had lots of friends who came by, even after he had locked himself in his room and gone to sleep at 8pm after having a strong drink.
“And that is one of the reasons we want you out of this place!” The tenants yelled. “The stream of young men walking in and out of that house is too much. We don't know any of them, but they keep walking in and out at all hours of the day and night! Who are they? Where are they registered? Does the village LC chairman even know about them??!”
The Old Man gave up and walked back into the house. His interpreter looked lost, the sea of enraged faces staring back at him, snarling mouths demanding answers was too much for him.
Then the announcement came. You have to leave, they said. Within the next 14 days. In that time, there will be no visitors in your house. There will also be no playing Ludo in your compound. And, if anything befalls Auntie and her family, you will be held fully responsible.
One week later. The Frogs have left.
Wednesday, 15 February 2017
#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.
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.
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???
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