My Apartment

…is a shit hole. When I first moved in, I was completely stoked at the independence but then the cleaning part without all the millions of household bleaches, detergents etc. that were mysteriously there in my previous apartment, has been difficult. First of all, the bastards painted the wall with primer only. So I’ve argued constantly and they’ve promised to send someone to come repaint it with at least two coats. This week, I’ve had to endure a typical Nairobi phenomenon. I have no water. Had none since Sunday actually and my caretaker has been a complete useless git. So I had to go over to my dad’s this week to wash clothes and take a serious shower and then when I got home, had to get the askaris to fetch two buckets of water so that I can have water in the house. I’ve been having cold showers and wow, those do actually warm you up better than hot ones. Urghh, Diani! You are sooo needed. At least there’s an ocean and cold water showers are welcome because of the heat.

So a lizard died in front of my bedroom door about three weeks ago and I’ve just come to terms with its traumatic death – traumatic for me! Screw the bugger. Eek! Thing is, I work late most nights and it took me about a month to buy a fridge and a stove ( I still haven’t bought the gas can yet!) so essentially, there was no food in my house. Now roaches are a Kenyan staple in most kitchens but I had (still don’t) none because there was absolutely no food. So this poor lizard must have starved to death because there was nothing crawling about. I remember seeing it when I first moved in and I was not squeamish and the thing moved very quickly to hide from me. But not anymore.

WARNING: DO NOT READ ANY FURTHER IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH! I’m still gagging retelling this story.

So this pale lizard died at some time during the night…why? Because I found the bugger at about 2 in the morning after I’d come home from a fun night and it freaked me out so much because it’s body is really pale and you could see all it’s innards heaving in quite a dramatic death rattle. EEEWWW! So I threw a bag over it, ran into my room, locked the door, stuffed towels under the bathroom and main bedroom door gaps and crawled into bed shuddering. I prayed that it would somehow recover its strength, walk out of my apartment and say, “Dude, get some food in here.” But oh no, the thing was there when I woke up late Saturday and deader than a door nail. So I went to my kitchen, got my cleaning gloves out – put on two pairs and grabbed a trash can, a plastic bag and a newspaper. I decided to pick the thing up by the tail and I did quite gently and then snap! Its tail cut off! EEEEWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW! I squealed-shrieked-cried as I hurriedly dumped that bit in and then looked down at it. I was gagging (actually, currently as well) as I looked for the newspaper. I managed to scoop it on the paper and then put in the trash can. I threw away the first set of gloves – even though I never really touched the thing, and then ran out of my apartment with that bag. I came back and scrubbed every inch of my floors with some serious bleach and hot water but I will still not walk barefoot in my own apartment. Sigh. I’m such a girl. And yet, I’m the one who goes camping, doesn’t freak out at snakes, holds millipedes, walks among the hippos, yawns with the lions, coos at the warthogs but a lizard scares me to paralysis.

Oh wait, there is something else. They don’t necessarily terrify me but they are unpredictable squawkers. Chickens. I like them very much. Dead, preferably roasted with some olive oil, fresh fennel, rosemary, garlic and on a bed of potatoes witha side of mash potatoes and mama's homemade gravy. One of my neighbors downstairs got one, very much alive and tied it to the rail of the main stairwell leading up to my floor. I didn’t notice the bird until I got home one night and was confronted by this shitting pissed off bird. I stared at it and it stared at me and angrily clucked its way to the side after I made violent arm gestures, mimicking flight. I dashed up the stairs, cursing for all to hear because I pay way too much rent for that neighborhood to be dealing with someone’s chicken. So I ended up playing chicken with a chicken for about a week. I would come downstairs, making as much noise as possible to warn her of my pending arrival and thus hasten her departure as much as her tether would allow and I would usually find her waiting at the bottom of the stairs. That last step was always covered in shit and I didn’t want to risk jumping over her because I was convinced she would somehow fly up and not to the side and thereby give rise for a very interesting injury. So I would stop halfway and we would size each other up. Her, quiet, beady eyes staring at me intensely, clucking occasionally. Me, sweaty but with a fierce gaze, reciting the ingredients that would best go with her. Then she would turn around lazily and move to the side. Urghh! Well finally one day, I got back to my place and there was nothing but clean stairs and no loose feathers floating around. I then got a waft of fried chicken coming from the neighbor’s window and I smiled and walked leisurely up my stairs. Inhuman you say? Was more inhuman for those people to tie a chicken up in a residential neighborhood and stress the poor thing out for a week before she was stewed.

Needless to say, I’m apartment hunting, but I think I’ll look for a small house now with my own yard so that I can get a dog. While I’m at work, he/she can chase all the lizards out of my apartment and will not engage me in a cock fight every time I come home. Also, the rent is just too much for such a small space…and I don’t have a bathtub! Ok, I’m being petulant now so let me get back to reality and just accept that I can afford a roof over my head (barely) and loads of cleaning supplies.