Being a film director and creative writer, I love a quiet life especially when I’m not on a film location. My love for privacy and tranquility in any environment I find myself asides being on location is so extreme that I left my 6-bedroom family mansion immediately after my youth service because we had too many relations around.
In fact, seeing my nieces and nephews jumping around the house like unchained chimpanzees makes me more prone to malaria than when bitten by a blood-thirsty anopheles mosquito that needs no initiation before practicing witchcraft.
I could live alone on an Island for years and still lose track of time, as long as I have my favourite gadgets and books with me. So, opting for a compound with spinsters and bachelors who were gainfully employed as tenants isn’t far-fetched, though not the perfect life.
My compound is devoid of couples, or couples who have children and that was what I loved most about the residential rental building when I moved in. In fact, my neighbour was a deeper life faithful whose only gadgets when he’s at home were his I-phone 5, Samsung Galaxy tab and MacBook Pro.
Asides those gadgets, his apartment was no different from a graveyard. You could even hardly tell when he’s around. For someone that wore designer clothes and carried expensive gadgets around, it beats my imagination that he didn’t have at least a 12-inch TV in his house, not even a radio.
He even drove a 2009 Toyota Camry car, yet the same doctrine that stopped him from buying an LED screen and home theatre in his apartment, was supposedly the same doctrine that allowed him own an I-phone, Samsung galaxy tab and a Macbook Pro.
That notwithstanding, Kunle was the best neighbour I could ever wish for. His quiet life suited me well and I secretly loved him for that. Albeit, things took a different turn when Kunle’s company transferred him to their head office in Abuja. The young man had to leave Lagos ASAP.
Kunle had not as much as hired a vehicle to move his property when prospecting tenants started inspecting his apartment, and that was when my nightmare began. The manner of people that came by to inspect the property gave me the jitters.
And when my landlord’s anointed one finally moved into the apartment, I knew there was going to be fire on the mountain but I wasn’t certain if my legs would be gallant enough to run!
In two shakes of a lamb’s tail, the serenity I enjoyed on the property soon became an illusion. Sly, as he is fondly called by the many thugs he calls friends that throng his apartment is sadly an advocate of noise pollution. The dude is nosier than a locomotive train.
His conversations on phone is louder than the preaching off the megaphone of the white garment pastor on the street where my family house pitches tent, his love making sessions sounds like Terry G on the mic, and when Sly snores you may wonder if there’s a jungle nearby where a pregnant elephant is having painful labour.
Sly hosts random parties in his apartment and sometimes he extends it to the premises. If he is not celebrating his dead cousin’s birthday, then he’s probably celebrating his girlfriend’s sister’s graduation even if it happens that the celebrant is somewhere in Cyprus.
I’m sure the tenants are fed up with his excesses too, as they complain to each other under their breath like some covert-op cops. But, they never let it out their frustrations to the rugged Sly, whose appearance could pass for an ex-convict, with the many tattoos on his body and that octopus-looking dread he has as hair.
The way Sly hosts parties in that compound, I could swear he was destined to be an event planner but the witches in his village obviously had other plans for his life. The dude’s source of livelihood is even questionable, but that is not the major challenge I have. That my landlord has paid deaf ears to Sly’s excesses even after several reports and complaints gives me migraine.
The last time I voiced my displeasure about his nonchalant attitude towards my plight, the old man asked if I was the only tenant in the compound, since according to him I seem to be the only person complaining about Sly’s excesses.
I can’t even sleep in an apartment I pay rent for anymore, worse still I renewed my annual rent few days before the terrorist moved in.
What do I do now? Should I confront Sly or I should just go ahead and report the matter to the nearest Police station since my landlord is indifferent? Please I need you advice!
If you have a story to share, please send to firstname.lastname@example.org