The day I was moving into my new apartment a lady came to my door and addressed one of the movers in the kitchen in an urgent voice. “Excuse me, excuse me.” She said over the sound of the drilling. I was having my TV hoisted up on the wall while I sat on the couch, frustrated because that’s your constant state when you’re moving. She was wearing an entitled look, someone used to pointing at things and someone moves them. “Excuse me, Hi? Hi? Hello?”
“Hi,” I said and she turned to look at me as she took a step inside the house.
“Do you mind not doing that, please?” She said with faux-politeness.
“I’m sorry?” I said.
“The drilling. Kindly stop doing that.”
“I’m putting up my TV.” I said and I hated that I sounded like a child talking about his toy. “I’m moving in.”
“Yes, but you can’t move in on a Sunday.”
I wasn’t sure if this was a universal rule or just hers.
“I don’t know about that. Nobody informed me about that,”I said.
“Well, you have to stop the drilling. It’s a Sunday.”
Generally, I’m not the type who engages neighbours. My mantra has always been; only give neighbours an inch. I’m from the school of thought that people should mind their own bloody business.
I lived in my previous apartment for close to four years and never knew the names of one neighbour. It just never came up. We nodded at each other with my opposite door neighbour – a tall burly chap whose laughter I could hear through walls and doors – whenever we’d run into each other. My immediate neighbour to the left was an Ethiopian girl who walked her dog every evening. We only started saying hello because her dog would get excited whenever she saw me; leaping at me, wagging her tail, inviting me to play. I’d pet her head and she’d offer me that smile that dog owners wear. Otherwise everybody kept to themselves. I liked that.
Now there was this stranger standing in my house, making demands. I felt violated. I was ready to cross swords.
“I’m sorry, who are you?” I sat up because my couch-posture is rubbish.
“I live here.” She said by way of introduction, her name being, “I live here.” The sub-text was clear: this is my home. I have lived here for so long. You just moved in. This isn’t home for you yet, it’s a house. Stay in line.
“You can’t move in on Sunday,” She repeated. “This banging is disturbing the rest of us.”
“Who said I can’t move in on a Sunday?”
“These are the rules of the apartment.”
“Well, nobody made me aware of these rules of the apartment.”
“You have to stop the drilling,” she insisted, “do it tomorrow.”
I disliked her immediately. I hated that she was standing in my house making demands. That she had refused to introduce herself properly and was impolite.
“I’m going to do it today.” I said firmly. “I don’t have time tomorrow. I have work, like everybody else who is productive.” You might be reading this in a calm firm voice. I wasn’t calm, I will tell you that. My voice had acquired an emotional edge in it. We had crossed the mark of common decency. Now we were on the dark side where savages live and eat raw meat.
She was taken aback by my tone. She wanted to say something but thought the better of it. We eyed each other like animals in the wild.
“If you have a problem, please take it up with my landlord.” I said.
“Who is your landlord?”
“Mr Shaffy.”
“Can I talk to him?” She extended her hand because in her universe she can demand to use people’s phones and talk to their landlords.
“Sure, get his number from the security at the gate.” I spat.
She sighed and gave me a withering look before stomping out the door. I turned to look at Tamms who had a wide eyed look. “The hell?” I said. She smiled, shook her head and went back to TikTok. The mover who had stopped drilling to wait to see if I would get punched in the mouth smiled and shook his head too. “Continue,.” I told him.
Then my intercom started ringing off the hook, security was calling me because “neighbours” had started complaining. I eventually unhooked the phone and left it dangling from the cord like fish on a bait. Then my mobile phone rang with the management of the apartment. Now I was in trouble. I was going to be asked to kneel with my hands up under the stairwell.
The gentleman said neighbours were complaining about the drilling. I pointed out that when people move into new houses they drill. Besides, I’m not putting up an art gallery in my house. I’m putting up my TV and my bar. Surely, how precious are these people?
“They want you to do it tomorrow.” He said. “It would be good neighbourliness.”
“Look, a lady just kicked in my door moments ago and gave me a stink. Dark, medium height, very cocky. I don’t appreciate neighbours coming to my house to harass me. So, please ask them not to come to my house or I will throw someone off the balcony. Or drill a hole in their forehead.” I heard him smiling on the phone because he thought this was a joke. “Look, Joshua, did you say you are Joshua?”
“No. Josh.”
Yeah, missed that by the length of a river.
“Look, Josh, I’m not here to make friends. I have no interest in being friends with people like them. Tell them that when they call you. And in those words.”
And that was that. The phone never rang again but the leader of the neighbour’s association, an Indian lady in a saree from her profile photo, sent a document on rules and regulations on the group whatsapp with a cryptic passive-aggressive message obviously directed at me. Something about the illegality of moving in on Sunday and the common sense around noise and interference on a family day. I was tempted to write a strong well crafted paragraph in response instead I made tea. Always make tea instead of violence.
Once the movers left, the kids and I burnt sage in all the rooms, and we silently wished away bad energy and invited happiness, contentment and good health in the new home.
And good neighbours.
My perfect neighbour is someone who doesn’t mind my business. Someone who is friendly yet mysterious. You run into him at the parking lot and you exchange pleasantries. Maybe talk a bit about that massive tree that fell on the fence knocking off power lines during the storm last night.
Did you see it?
Yeah, man. That thing was the size of a ship.
Someone you admire from far for their stoicism. Or how clean their car always is. How mannered their children are, always saying hello, always saying sorry, when you find them seated at the stairwell. Someone you help carry their groceries upstairs and they hand you a red apple as gratitude. Or a big baguette that you lean in the corner of the pantry to use as a weapon against potential burglars. Someone who if your visitor parks in their extra parking lot that they don’t eat the guard for that. Someone who keeps plants on their balcony, not someone who kills plants on their balcony.
Neighbours are just not limited to homes.
In planes I like neighbours who don’t think domination of the armrest is a show of might. A me-versus-you, kind of thing. Someone who knows better than to strike a conversation when your nose is already in a book. Or cranes their neck and reads your newspaper. Someone who will tell you that they are carrying their mother’s ashes in a small package in their left pocket and not make it sound weird at all. I don’t mind someone who regularly excuses themselves to go use the washrooms because it allows me to stretch as well. I don’t mind those who drink the whole way, unless they want to chat the whole way. I don’t mind if someone falls asleep with their head on my shoulder. Of course, it would be ideal if they were a woman.
And naturally it would be great if you were in Business Class. Nobody drools on you there. Nobody hardly talks to you in Business Class. They are always reading something or napping or listening to something. They wear great expressions of purpose and intent. They carry habits that have brought them this far to be able to afford an exorbitant ticket or have an office that accords them that privilege. And you will witness those habits in very mundane actions; like how they fold away their headphones or how they wipe their spectacles. Or wave away champagne when it’s offered. It’s a great life to be able to fly Business for work or pleasure.
The only other way to enjoy a Business Class lifestyle without necessarily flying Business is to possess the Standard Chartered Visa Infinite Card because then you will run into the Business Class traveller in one of the over 900 airport lounges worldwide. The card offers you that access. This is a paid post, you might have figured out, but this is also useful information, especially for people who prioritise travelling as an experience over buying another plot in Joska.
Take me, for instance. I have been planning to visit Vietnam for a while now and probably will next year. It’s far. I probably will have to catch three or so flights which means lots of time spent connecting through airports. When you have been on your ass for eight hours or more, in a small space with unopened windows and bland food, you often crave a warm meal that isn’t unwrapped from a foil when you land at an airport. And a shower. That’s where airport lounges come in. If you can’t pay for a lounge, you will be forced to sit on another hard airport seat, or walk aimlessly touching stuffed animals in duty free shops until your flight starts boarding. If you have this Standard Chartered Visa Infinite card you could access lounges and have a buffet, take a shower (I once took a shower in a lounge in Amsterdam, the soap smelled like new romance) or just have a shut-eye in a darkened area where travellers take power naps. And it’s even better now because
Stanchart has allowed travellers to add a second person to this lounge access. They call it Visa Airport Companion. And should you fall sick, the card comes with a complimentary travel insurance for up to 2.5million USD.
Folk who pay lots of money on air travel like silence. Lounges are always so quiet. Apart from being carpeted, there isn’t any louty behaviour going on. It commands decorum. People sit reading or on headsets, listening or watching something. And there never is any drilling. Your neighbours keep to themselves and you keep to yourself and everybody gets along. You could say the Stanchart Visa Infinite Card offers you more than just convenience but silence.
I’m in the village as I write this. No nosy neighbours here. Just birds and clouds. I hope you are with loved ones. I hope you have had a great year. I hope your hearts are full. I hope the year ends for you without any incidents.
Thanks for the company this year. Let’s do it again next year.
Merry Christmas.
You know the rules here; last one to leave switches off the lights.