I live on the ground floor of a 5-storey building, and at the furthest most corner no less. It’s cold as hell in here; sometimes I can barely feel my feet or my palms. Night-fall feels like bloody winter at the top of Mt. Everest. I cover myself with some light duvet I scored for a paltry one-thousand-bob in Gikomba, mostly because of its art-work. The guy I bought it from turned out to be gay; he gave us a crazy discount because, apparently, he was into my brother who – foolishly – gave him his number so he shoots him a text once the next batch of duvets arrived. That night the poor bozo’s inbox was flooded with messages of “Aki mimi nilikupenda sana”, “Uko na mwili msuri”, “Mbona hunijibu Kakangu”. He blocked him after the 999th message.
My building’s general tap is right outside my doorstep, which means I have to contend with noises from people fetching water every now and then when the water from their indoor taps run dry; even in the middle of the night. Who the hell fetches water in the middle of the night? What are you going to do with water in the middle of the night goddammit? Wash your ass? Sprinkle on the bed? Rinse your teeth?
As a rule of thumb [and from way back], I never get comfortable with my neighbors, especially female ones. I keep to myself, which always leads to people thinking I’m an ass. And, in a twisted kind of way, I like being considered an ass; it takes off the pressure of being held accountable to a lot of ridiculous expectations. I mean, just because you found out your boyfriend was cheating on you and I let you cry your lungs out on my couch doesn’t mean we BFFs now, aye? Don’t be knocking at my door at 7 in the morning asking for my toothpaste and shit. I’m your neighbor, not the f*****g Red Cross.
My immediate next-door neighbor is also a silent one. Medium-height bugger, dark, Mohawk hair-style, wears those long t-shirts that go down to the knees, doesn’t say jack, just goes about minding his own business. Always shuts his door when he walks in, like he doesn’t want anyone seeing his stuff. Shit, sometimes I think he’s cooking a bomb in there, or holding some first year chic with big tits hostage. The other night he had a girl over; an average-looking mami, a shy 5 on a scale of 1-10. Great shoes, walked like a cat on periods, designer handbag, carried the entire continent on her behind.
I walked into the gate of the digs at around 10 p.m., drunk as a fish, and with a grumbling stomach. I swing open the door and, what used to be my apartment, looks like a mini Lake Victoria [turns out I had left my tap running when I left in the morning, I know]; there’s water everywhere, it almost reaches my knees when I walk in, my carpet is literally floating above the water. I feel like calling someone to come help me clean up this mess, but Juja ladies are whiny good-for-nothing folk who think the only reason someone would call them at this time of the night is for one of two reasons; There’s booze, or You want sex. They’d probably think I’m making up the flooding thingy up just to get them to my digs. Pssst!
So, because I’m a bachelor and my crib is flooded at the middle of the night [on a weekend] and I have nowhere else to stay, I say Fuck It and I pick up the damn mop and mop the place. I take out my carpet and go hang it on the first floor. On my way back to the crib, as I pass by my immediate neighbor’s house, some strange sound strikes an alarm in me.
At first it’s low and muffled, sort of like a dog being strangled. Then the sound increases and it comes in gasps this time; you know, like when someone is drowning and they’re trying to catch some air? Yes. Then I hear sounds of utensils and glassware breaking, like they’re being tossed to the floor or something. Now my curiosity is definitely aroused. So I turn around and look into my neighbor’s house [did I mention he doesn’t have curtains?] and what hits me across the face is an image determined to stay in my mind for a looong time.
The mami was lying on the kitchen counter, one leg pointing towards the sky, another tied round Ken’s* [not his real name, I don’t know his real name, so let’s just call him Ken] waist, and her boobs leaping up and down like my pre-teen Sunday church bell. He was holding her hands up against the wall, like he didn’t want her to touch anything; like he wanted to run the whole show by himself. Selfish bastard!
He sprung her huge behind off the kitchen slab and threw her to the floor, fixed her into position and went about his business, with some Jamaican Reggae song playing softly on the stereo. I don’t know what that position that was, I have read and watched Kama Sutra more times than I would like to accept had but, I swear to you, that position wasn’t among any of them. It involved the girl lying face-down – with her legs wide apart – and the man lying face apart, entangling his legs into hers, supporting himself with his hands and pushing forward and forth. I don’t know, man.
All this while I was wondering, what’s wrong with the bed? Why can’t these two fuckers just have normal sex on the bed like everyone else? Or is there another couple also minding their own business on the bed? So I look further inside and I see the bed; neatly lain, with pillows and some fancy teddy-bear scattered across it. What is wrong with these people? I mean, why are you struggling on the floor when there’s a bed in sight? Do you just like your migwatos with a little touch of pain? Why don’t you caress each other with knives while you’re at it then?
Oh, and that carpet I went to hung on the first floor, somebody stole it. Whoever you are, wherever you are, I will find you, and I will kill you.