Her biggest and only asset was her ass, perched seductively on her fragile frame. The protrusive anatomical feature that made her stand out and gave her a false sense of entitlement , earned her bragging rights in the midst of her shallow minded peers who apparently have a kingdom in the virtual world of Instagram. Through her eyes, she had made it, non essential personnel on earth, like us, had zero business engaging her ever pouted lips in anything in close resemblance to a conversation. To her, the society was a nuisance and her immediate family,an accident of birth.
Albeit being a next door neighbour,she never bothered to find out what I did for a living, anyway even if I was a terrorist,she would have been safe. You see in TV news after a terrorist has been killed, it’s the neighbours who give accounts of his life” he was a quiet, handsome guy, who kept to himself, he was cute though”….
Anyway back to my gazeniliniously obnoxious neighbour, to me she was this big assed woman clearly out of my league, just as every other woman is. The only male from the apartment whom she could speak to was the caretaker, and mark you,it was never a conversation, just the poor guy being threatened when water got lost. His pleas were usually met by her name calling and invocation of big names in the corporate world.
Anyway today as I was trying to placate my sweetheart, the vitz I bought with my last of savings to try woo Cynthia, the lady who later got married to my uncle, who had sold me the car after curving Cynthia in my place more times than I had borrowed that jalopy. So as I cajoled the car to start, it was one of the days during the cold season when the car needed some warmth to start, a neighbour, whom I had helped treat her child saw me and came to ask for another favour. Typical African behaviour,help them today, and they will look for you again when they are in need.
So as she comes to my oil spattered hands she twirls her non existent hair, man she owns a big forehead which she denies in her Instagram, and quips
” Mambo daktari, …” I can’t hear the rest, behind her, my obnoxiously wide assed neighbour stares, then smiles.
So here is the deal, I’m not a doctor as such. Im just a clinical officer, a step away from a doctor, I’m mandated to run a dispensary and can conduct basic surgeries. But to Africans everyone in a lab coat is a doctor. A title I carry with honour among mere mortals but shamefully in front of doctors. But hey it’s better than the sex you are not having.
Finally, my sweetheart accepts my smooth moves and moves. As common courtesy, I pick my neighbours enroute to town , it doesn’t make sense to drive around an empty car as if im giving a lift to the seats in the jalopy. As the gods would have it, I find the assman, my neighbour at the gate and wave her in. She is extremely chatty today, considering in our two years of cohabitation she has never spoken to me, except that day when she called me a retarded fuckwit for using her hanging lines to dry my only pair of boxers. Long story. I now own a few pairs of the same colour .
Her conversation drifts from her usual clusterfuckery of who is who on IG to who wore what. Seriously its like she could not see that all my clothes are black T-shirts, blue jeans and rubber shoes plus an Arafat I use as a curtain and scarf. Then I realise the cause of her chattiness. ” BTW for real wewe ni daktari? unaeza nicheck?. Of late sijakua naskia vizuri uku chini….”
; Of course that’s an STI, effects of being eaten raw to afford that rare, IG appropriate chicken at KFC daily. Normally your fisi instincts kick in here, this is where you ask to see it and do your diagnosis, but then medical ethics kick in.
Instead of that, the pedestal I had put her on ,crumbled. It came down slowly just like my jalopy does when it runs dry of the adulterated fuel I buy at Moha’s. The image of a perfect lassy, slowly shrunk to that of a high end escort, a fancy name for a pro-stitute.