About nine months ago, I moved from my bedroom to my first house. It’s a house that sits on the second floor of an old housing block; eleven years to be exact. I love most things about it but there are things that make me want to slit my wrists with a Nacet razor in my non-existent bathtub.
I’ll start with what I love.
First, the rent. Let me say I hit a lick with this one.
(For the older guys who I’ve stumbled onto this blog, ‘hit a lick’ means I got it for a steal.)
Anyway. From what I’d budgeted for as rent based on my humble earnings, I got a house that’s significantly less than I what I’d planned for. And it’s not ati a shack. It’s spacious enough for three mid-size elephants to fit, and the natural light that flows in in the morning is nice.
The Wi-Fi’s also fast enough that on cold forlorn nights, I can stream those videos no one admits to watching. That’s what I love about my house.
To the things I hate.
I don’t know if you read what I said earlier but my building is eleven. That means that when the first tenants moved here, I was in class eight – or as locals say, stadardy eight. I was a candidate and had some small meat on my body that I don’t have today. Later that year, that little piece of flesh would be removed by an old sage looking doctor with hanging glasses and silver hair.
Chaos would also ensue in that small operating theatre when the local anesthesia administered would run out mid-surgery. I don’t remember much after the excruciating pain kicked in, only some male nurses holding me down and them giving me some spongy object to bite into. I wrote about it all here.
So when I say it’s an old building, you know it’s an old building.
I have no problem with old buildings, though. Only mine because Kikuyu landlords do have a way of setting the bar low when it comes to house maintenance. Some parts of this house aren’t maintained well enough for me, just the bare minimum. I know you’re waiting for me to get into details but I won’t. Hehe.
There’s also no bathtub; only that death instant shower people talk about on the internet.
I also don’t like my neighbor’s two year old baby. It’s a mean thing to say but it’s true. The boy cries 24/7 like an emergency landline.
He’s so loud that I think about knocking on their door and asking his parents to add some whiskey in his next meal so Baby Ivan can pass out and we can all enjoy some silence.
This situation’s also made me wear a condom more often.
I love living alone though. Take what inspired me to write this piece for example. I got home from listening to loud music in a studio and as I’m pissing, I see the empty Harpic bottle that’s been lying on the floor for the past two weeks. I could throw it away but I choose to leave it there because it ain’t hurting nobody and more importantly, because I can. It’s also a way to express myself because I’ve always loved a little disorder.
As I looked at the bottle on the floor, I thought to myself, “I wouldn’t dare do this in my mother’s house. This is why I love living in my own house. I should write about this.”
So yes, a shit detergent bottle is my muse.
You can’t make up this shit.