*It’s morning 23rd May*
I’ve just been woken up by funny beastly noises. They sounded like ‘speaking in tanks’ (did that when I was 4), yet something near echoes but falling short of that; maybe mischievous mouse moans. A pair of the tightest yoga pants is at the balcony with a lady poured inside it, throwing hands up in this misty morning and exorcising the the meanest of her demons. Or what’s that thing called; where females (and some sissy males) jump -like a gazelle- the same rope a gazillion times?… I open my window.
She’s this slap-dash flesh-chinked affair patched up together with superficial muscles and her Creator’s good intentions. She claims she’s keeping fit but she ain’t keeping words to herself.
“Must you exercise your jaws alongside your paws ma’am?”
*excuse the rhyme. I wanted to be a rapper when I grow up*
“You woke me up!”
“Sorry. Can I reverse that?”
“Yeah. Come on in and do a lullaby.”
“Hahaha, wrong move. Try House No 352.”
See now my problem with the skirts? Very soon, like we did dinosaurs, we’re going to herald the exit of an endangered species; “good men”.
Though I’m the new tenant in these U-shaped block of flats here at Kasuku Centre, curiosity already fed a voyeuristic me; No. 352 is a flamboyant, fancy, frilly, girly house-help flickering with large-eyeballs with much curiosity and a playful glint lurking at their back. She’s so young and saying ‘hi’ has always felt like a misdemeanor – have to look left and right before i cross there. I think i make her forget she’s shy. Worse, she lives with a white-wigged drunk Caucasian philosopher (who’s actually called Otis) and his obviously lazy wife. No small kids. Enough other-people’s affairs. After all, everything else living here is a yawn.
You know, though it’s been only 4 weeks yet I just love this place. My rabbit-hole’s the only self-contained 1-roomed artwork on the block. Yes, I live right next to the water tanks, alone, 8th floor, and yes, at the balcony. Delves right into my virus of wild and crazy dreams? Perfect disease!
The rest of the starchitecture boasts 3-bedroomed heavenettes housing mostly middle-aged couples and a caged teenager. I thanked heavens when I met the caretaker who’s so fat that I anticipate null visits to my 8th floor den. I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with caretakers. Rent. Change. Water. Music. He lives -with the earth tremors- in the basement.
Nevertheless, this place doesn’t harbor the glamour of slipping off the coil of civilisation and ‘walking into the trees’ or the luxury of wandering alone in a wilderness in a distinct experience. That’s why I at times pitch my tent outside, at the balcony, at night; read a novel as the stargazers read the stars, and listen for irregular hits on my roof by falling half-eaten snakes, mole entrails and hedgehogs. This’ very common as hawks and vultures fly past and decide to tithe their fortunes because, well, only a god can live this high. Not much trouble though for a jungle-bred newt like me.
The other fun would be jumping from my 8th floor to the 7th floor balcony of the flats rightly adjacent, then onto the 6th floor one of the third block on the street so that I’d exit the estate through the wrong gate down the street. Even so, not much drama here unless the skies rant their thunders, the aliens flash us with their cameras and then pee on us dear humans. Then, from my window’s perfect view of enough sky and the entire lawn, I’d watch as women shoot out of their confines like grenade shrapnel towards the laundry hanging on clothes’ lines. This thing is ingrained in them. Mine always receive a thorough rainy run-down.
Obviously, the confused No. 352 would drop a bra, sock or both and I’d peep till she realises 15 minutes later and dashes out again, this time covered with an IEBC umbrella.
From thence, no more drama.
Curtains draw shut.
Then? Jump onto awesome loyal bed.