“Unajua mimi ndio caretaker hapa!” This is how Mureithi opens all his conversations with tenants residing in our building. Half of the time he is drunk to the point of speaking in tongues thus he will dive into a tirade of declarations about his mandate and responsibilities as a caretaker for the building. The title of building manager does not really suit this our drunken manager, so I shall stick to the term ‘caretaker’.
From the green hills of Meru County, Ritchie enjoys his position as caretaker. It allows him to turn on and off the water supply whenever he pleases, much to our consternation. It allows him to announce to whoever cares to listen that the ongoing blackout affects the whole estate and not just our building. It also allows him to make weekly memos to the tenants and sign off at the bottom with the words, “I Mureithi have spoken”. His position allows him to be aware of every squabble or misunderstanding in the building; even when a glass plate breaks in apartment 5A, Mureithi will know. He also knows who is responsible for the plate breaking. It is his job, he says. After all, he is the caretaker here. He knows whose house has roaches and who purchased their car on loan and who is being ‘sat on’ by his wife. More importantly, his position comes with a small stipend that allows him to be a loyal customer at the nearest liquor store. With the current pandemic, he has resorted to local brews from mysterious sources. This man, Mureithi, a walking manifestation of the phrase ‘I drink and know things.’
Among the many things that Mureithi knows is that, the woman in 4D is wont to hang dripping wet colored clothes in the middle of the day, clothes which wet and stain my almost dry clothes one floor below. Where I come from, such behavior is akin to witchcraft. See, I wanted to live on the third floor and escape this malicious treatment but that flight of stairs doesn’t just cut it for me. See, weight loss shenanigans are not meant for everyone, especially not for me. Mureithi too. Which is why he lives on the first floor and I am forced to make do with the second floor thus endure the torments of the witch upstairs. Her colored clothes always ruin my day. Paulo Coelho once tweeted that the world is full of idiots strategically placed so you can meet one per day. He was right.
The woman in 4D soaks her garments for weeks before washing and airing them out. When she does, these clothes stink to high heavens; not to mention the putrid smell that engulfs the air. I have to bear the brunt of it all because her hang lines are above mine. She makes me want to forget that I was raised in church. She makes me want to fight. I may just storm into her house like SWAT and have some words with her about it, maybe even a catfight. But I know she will win. Yes, she is louder than I am, very loud actually.
I know this because in the few months that I have been a resident here, I know just about every detail of her life. I know that her niece failed KCSE last year; that her uncle recently contracted gonorrhea even after she warned him about wasichana wa Nairobi; that some administrator at work does not like her because she recently purchased a car—same car that Mureithi swears ni gari ya loan; that satin panties make her ticklish and that she missed her period last month. I know that she is a lecturer at one of our esteemed universities. She does not shut up about it. Everything I know about her, I know against my will. Because she is always on her phone, on her balcony, talking ever so loudly that I cannot escape her voice from any room in my house, even the bathroom. Just like her wet colored clothes violate my almost dry clothes, her unchecked conversations violate my ears. And Mureithi knows. He is the caretaker here.
I have tried numerous times to address the matter, through Mureithi, the caretaker here. Every time, he chews on the ever present toothpick in his mouth like a tout before he makes away with your balance, then reminds me that he, Mureithi, is the caretaker here. He then throws in a lengthy sermon on being good neighbors and finally says he will talk to her. That’s all. He will talk to her. So we should all hold our peace because Mureithi will talk to her.
By now, you know that I am heading somewhere with this story. While it is true that life is not a Nigerian movie; and that the madam in 4D will not walk into an important office ten years from now and find me in it, there is such a thing as karma.
I must admit that mine has been an eventful weekend. I am going to be in good spirits for the better part of the week. Let me explain.
Mureithi was set to attend a much anticipated ruracio on Sunday. This auspicious event, had our drunken master, whip out his only suit and douse the treasured garments in a sea of detergents and then fabric conditioner. He even took some laundry blue from me so that his white shirt could look whiter. His preparations reminded me of my peers back in high school getting ready for school events. Funkies, we called them. Mureithi announced to all who would care to listen about the upcoming event and even had 3C lend him an iron box. See, this our caretaker does not only know everything –like the detergents I use and that 3C own an iron box—he also tells everything. Write that down, it is important.
Mureithi had his suit out on the hang lines for the better part of Saturday and after 3C being so generous with her iron box, Mureithi was ready to complete the preparations for his funkie, the next day. However, 4D had something in store for him. All we heard was a loud curse and the word ‘ghai’ repeated severally, followed by a loud incoherent monologue in Mureithi’s native tongue. There was the announcement that 4D had ruined his suit with her wet colored clothes. Then came the well-known reminder that he, Mureithi, is the caretaker here. And before we knew it, Mureithi was wailing and screaming at 4D. This time, he did not deliver a sermon on being a good neighbor. He did not call 4D by his usual term of endearment; ‘modo wakwa’. He did not talk to her. He screamed, and wailed, and cursed. A lot.
Then Mureithi opened the flood gates; and I am not talking about tears. I am tempted to quote the Bible verse that says, “out of the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaks” but I think it does not sit well in this situation. Nonetheless, Mureithi bore out his heart; and his heart contained all of 4D’s secrets. And more. He made us know that 4D had a crush on 4C and that she had attempted many times to woo him with her cooking. 4C had said that her chapatis were hard and dry like potato crisps. That she had been fired from work yet she kept bragging about her job. Mureithi sang. We listened. We learnt Mureithi’s opinion on why 4D could not keep a relationship, which items in her house were gifts and which she had bought with her own money, we knew about her M-shwari debt and the one time she had borrowed salt from Mureithi. It was a war and Mureithi launched every weapon in his arsenal. When he was done, he declared his new found mission to frustrate her life henceforth, “Hatutasumbuana na mimi ndio caretaker hapa”