That neighbour I won’t ever look at differently

If you died today, will you be genuinely missed? Aside from the initial shock of death to those who know you, will anyone’s life changedeteriorate because of your passing? What do you think you will be remembered for? Being generous, kind, selfless, hardworking, God-fearing, for the hair and body extensions you wear so religiously, for the people you groomed, the loving person you were? Or will it be gossip queen, drama king, Mr stingy hands, office clown, arrogant boss, nosy neighbour, miss know-it-all or man-whore?

Every single one of us will be remembered for something, however, what it will be is for us to decide.

I once had a neighbour who I remember for his straying eyes and lispy lying tongue. No, he is not dead, but if he were, this is how I would remember him. I had finally managed to wean myself off family and had moved into a house of my own amid silently violent protests from people who said moving into my own house was going to turn me into a Ugandan Jezebel and that no decent man would want to marry me if he discovered that I was not cowering under my mother’s skirt.

Well, I moved anyway, if not for anything else but out of curiosity whether this evil Jezebel would actually emerge. I was busy waiting for Jezebel to come forth when one of my new neighbours did. He looked nothing like the temptress I was waiting for, however, his words and crooked sly smile were obviously full of dirty ole lust.

This male Jezebel, who I knew had a wife and six children, two teenage girls and four little boys, stood there at my door, swinging his car keys and chewing louder than a goat, trying to look like Denzel Washington, but ended up looking like a caricature of former LRA commander Dominic Ongwen. He asked if I liked my new neighbourhood, if I would like to have coffee with him and if he could visit me from time to time.

So with my teeth, I smiled and told him it was very kind of him to suggest these things but that there would never be any coffees or visits and with my heart, I despised him.

For what manner of man disrespects his wife that way. My neighbour-whore continued to throw pathetic lines at me, offering to drive me to work, pick me up after, take me to coffeedinner, sing me lullabies at bed time, tuck me in and even watch me while I sleep. He began to inquire after my visitors. He wanted me to hook him up with the female visitors and aised that the male visitors stay away as he did not trust them.

His wife, a tall woman with a muscular-build, seemed oblivious of her husband’s ways. I wondered what she would do if she discovered that he was trying to sleep with all the women in the neighbourhood.

Looking at her tight calves, chiselled arms and tough stance through the window, I shudder at what a confrontation between her and my little self would be like if she ever thought that I had indulged her philandering man.

Thankfully, my house was broken into while I was at work and I had to hastily move to a new place, leaving that man with his tired lines behind to prey on whoever would unluckily occupy that house. To this day, all I remember him for, is the whoring.

SOURCE: Daily Monitor


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