Whoosh! Clang! The screaming was deafening. Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh! Clang! Clang! And breaking of objects had been going on for hours. I lived across from the Mayais. They were a noisy lot. I remember the day Mayai carried his bride into the apartment, the sparkle in their eyes could light up the night skies. But now 6 months later it was some form of violent Olympics; who would wake up first and cause the most damage.
That’s number 13, next door to the violent duo, is Mr. Roit, fancy name, as dark as charcoal. He moved in to the flat as an immigrant from some European country that he claims was erased after the fall of the Soviet Union. Most ignorant Kenyans believe it. The last I checked No-over-scotia did not exist, what did they care? He was a chocolate mzungu living in the ghetto; more like seriously broke and maybe a European fugitive if you ask me.
A few days ago after 3 years of living in that flat, I saw Roit bring company home. It was a cute caramel looking child. I initially brushed it off thinking that it was one of his girl friend’s children. Then I heard the boy scream, “Papa!” Hold up! I looked a bit closer at the child, yeah I have military assigned binoculars, deal with it. That boy looked like Akinyi who came over to clean every week. The dirty devil! Hahahaha! How did I miss that? I spend every waking hour by the window. The walls are thin, so half the time I can hear every conversation and every erotic evening people have.
Then at number 15, sandwiching, nasty Roit, there is this Lego Maria lady. Her house really does look like a religious shrine; candles lit. She is always garbed in a purple gown and huge black rosary draped around her neck. Even though I don’t understand her religion, I find myself respecting it just because of her. I call her Maria. The last I heard she was divorced, had 3 adult children, all dead beats with bastard children of their own. But on silent nights when she gets home from her religious missions she would pray for each child and grandchild fervently. I always wanted to meet her and talk to her. It was always a good idea, but…well…maybe.
Then number 16 my all time favourite; and heart throb. Mr. Shirare; dreadful name; but he is jaw droopingly gorgeous. He is such a great dad. I just swoon thinking about him, sigh! Why wasn’t he created for me. Oops! Been at the window too long, let me draw the curtain, people will know I have been watching them.
You see I am a military amputee with one amputation gone wrong, I can’t really interact with people, with a colostomy bag to boot. I just live life vicariously through the people I observe. Some call it being a voyeur. I am neither proud nor ashamed of it, it is an immutable fact.