New neighbours. Yay!

It’s a couple. Young – late twenties, maybe early thirties. The girl is sanguine, all giggles and frills and cleavage. She has a loooovely African figure. African here means soft and curvy, nice ribs, wide hips, round legs, teeny little waist… lots of cushions. Kind of like a plus size sponge-made coke bottle in a figure belt. Deeeeeeelightful. And she flaunts it too. Bit of a princess – she hires the neighbourhood jobless-corner boys to do her laundry, and her man doesn’t seem to mind – he’s all cute and mel and power drills. We see her most mornings serving him hotdogs and mandazi, late, on the way to the car. They sleep in and have their meal in the traffic jam.

I do have one problem with them though. They’re deaf. They play their music at crazy volumes – though I do like their taste. They play their TV loud too. They were watching Slum Dog Millionaire the other day, and I came that close to going over and borrowing said DVD. Of course, they like it so much that after 12 viewings, I can pretty much sing Jai Ho by heart. My naughty mind suggests that the … volume … has less to do with their hearing and more to do with … other things. After all, the Plot 8 walls are rather thin.

This weekend, I learned a lesson in passive aggression. See, Mr. and Mrs. Lovebird are joined at the hip. They drive off together each morning, drive back together each evening, and rave together on weekends. The other day, they came in late, and, for some reason, couldn’t get the gate open. They proceeded to hoot and hoot and hoot and hooooooot. I could hear them, but I figured if they came in that late, they ought to know how they were getting in.

After maybe 30 minutes of hooting, my grumpy landlord let them in. I don’t know what juju they have on him, coz he doesn’t take kindly to that kind of thing, and has been known to lock out tenants, and even his own children. So I was shocked silly that he made no comment about getting up at 2 a.m. to open the gate for them. They must be paying some serious rent, that’s all I can say.

But back to this weekend. Saturday morning, round maybe, seven o’clock, Babu, the landlord, was banging on the door. I jumped awake, wondering what I’d done now, and was glad it wasn’t my door he was banging. It was the Lovebirds’. Babu kept ‘knocking’ for maybe 15 minutes without results, then he started yelling. At first it was polite, ‘Waheshimiwa!!’ But after half an hour it degenerated to a point where I was worried he’d break the door down. Still, the Lovebirds heard no evil.

Eventually, grumbling to himself, Babu took alternative action. He walked to their bedroom window and…well, he’s far too polite to holler at them. So instead, he grabbed a bunch of sufurias and bottles and dropped them ceremoniously, then proceeded to clang them noisily against each other in the name of ‘tidying up.’ Nothing doing.

Then he brought his bike to the same window. It’s a … well, I’m sure I could get more effect by explaining the number of horses in the hood, and the CC of the tank, and the va-va-voom the thing carries, but I’m a girl. All I can say is that it’s big, red, probably Suzuki, has fat raised tyres, takes three tries to start, and is preeeeeeeetty!

So here comes the bike, right to the window. He revs it into starting, then vrooooooms it so hard that princess plugged her ears! Lord, I thought I would die giggling, sitting at my window, peeping at the goings on. And keep in mind that in plot 8, due to the heat, we have no glass in our window panes – just wooden frames and mosquito mesh, so there is no padding or muffling. Still, the couple ‘slept’ on.

Eventually, Princess and I had to go to the salon, so we left Babu and his Lovebirds in their ‘silent’ wars. On the way out, we noticed that the Lovebirds had parked at the entrance, and were blocking Babu’s car from exit. Hence the early morning chaos. They probably came in late ans assumed everyone sleeps in. They’re too new to know that Babu routinely wakes up at 5.00 a.m. for prayers, and locks up at 9 or 10 p.m., even though he’s up as late as midnight. I don’t know how he does it, but for an Over-60 that walks around topless and rides a big noisy mo-bike, nothing is impossible.

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This is me thinking aloud. Pay no attention.

I, apparently, am weird. Of course I always knew that, it’s just that it’s hit me in a whole new way. Today.

A few days ago, *M* noted that my entire life has been an endless drift from one crush to another. True. *M* figures that means my capacity for love is endless. Er…nah, I think it just means my hormones are stupid. And immune to dogbites. Clearly. But then, *M* is the perpetual optimist, it’s one of the things I adore most in *M*

[You might note that I persistently refuse to identify *M*. By name. Or make. Or gender.]

So my latest crush is a super-mel INTJ. Weird. They’re the deepest, darkest, broodiest, scariest, moodiest, most complicated, most frustrating, and most fascinating beings on God’s green earth [or anywhere else for that matter], and why I would fall for one is quite beyond me, but here we are. Again.

The object of my affections – if I can call them that – finds me annoying and blonde, but still agrees to talk to me. I’m not sure why. I suspect he wants to see how [b]lo[w]nde I can go. Right now I’m a very thin peroxide and teetering close to transparent. Perhaps he is drawn to the dark image I was as a child, when everyone thought me wise, sensible, and too old to be 8. Right now, most days, I feel more like a tantrumming 3.

So Anyway, what was I saying? Right. Crushes. Well, according to my profiles, my ideal match is an ENF/TP San-phleg. I’m supposed to go for Es and Ps. But it seems I fall for anything but those. I find Sangs annoyingly bubbly. Makes me want to hit them with a fly swatter. [Sorry *M*, you know I don’t mean you, right?]. Phlegs, who are supposed to be my naturals, are bothersome in their obstinate refusal to get worked up. Plus, they usually have very low sex drives, which is a no-go-zone for me.

Cholerics are interesting. They shouldn’t be, but they re. I like their confidence, their take-charge attitude, their sense of control. I don’t like that we argue 24-7 coz I’m a lot choleric myself. And as for my fellow mels, well, they’re just deep. Like me. And while they say like poles repel, I’m more drawn to mels than to anyone else. Odd.

Odder still, for that matter, is that I tend to fall for introverts. I’m a hermit myself, so I’m supposed to fall for party-busting energy bunnies. Instead I fall for my co-house mice. Weird.

So, let’s see. I have now fallen for a mel, a mel, another mel, another mel, a fake sanguine, a phlegm, another mel…no cholerics so far. Oh wait, that mel was choleric. Er…okay, let’s simplify this. ISTP, another ISTP, INTJ, ISFP, INTJ, INTP, two more INTPs, ENFP, ESFP [though I could swear he was an I]…I’m yet to figure what all the others are…and I need to meet an ENTP. I’m quite wondering WTFuss.

Okay. I’m done murmuring now. As you were.

PS: Agony is a private joke and no one to share it with. I am lol-ling myself silly in an office full of people and I just can’t explain it coz nobody saw it! Sigh. Waste.

Also, my concentration levels are scaring me. Apparently, I accidentally clicked on my i-tunes a while ago – no headphones – and didn’t even notice it. I could hear some music coming from somewhere far away, but I figured it was all in my head. Till I heard the clip of maniacal laughter that can only be found in my therapy folder, and noticed everyone staring at me. Oops…

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My daughter goes to a very interesting school. For one thing, her teacher – lovely woman – routinely says things like “Chudren, A B C…follow me back.”

It took me quite a while to correctly decipher ‘follow me back.’

For another, the school has four separate campuses, and since the primary campus is overloaded, my daughter, a Grade 1 student, has her lessons at ——- Girls Secondary School. The huge campus is pink from head to toes, literally, and contains Grade 1A, 1B, 2A, and a bunch of teenage girls. Teenage girls who, btw, have their boarding facilities in the nursery campus after the baby-class has gone home…

But best of all is the schoolbus. Apparently, there are two schoolbuses on our route, and they’re not quite sure which bus picks which student. So some days, she’s picked by bus A, some days by bus B, some days by both…and some days by none! I had a minor stroke the other day when fifteen minutes after putting her on Bus B, I got a call at work asking where my daughter was.
“Si you guys came and took her?”
“Which guys?”
“You guys, with the bus.”
Shocked voice “Which bus?”
My heart froze for a second – my daughter had been kidnapped, and I didn’t even know the number plate!
“Si the brown bus…with the skinny guy.” As opposed to the blue bus with the unskinny lady. Sigh. Thank God that ended well.

Anyway, today was one of those days when neither bus came. I got tired of waiting and called Bus A, who told me Bus B had picked her. Then I called Bus B, who claimed Bus A had picked her!! Then they both suggested I take her to school myself.

Now my house is about ten minutes from the bus stop [five if you walk briskly] and the bust stop is ten, fifteen minutes from the school – by car – bila jam. On foot, well, it’s a lot further, and dustier. But at 8.00 a.m, there’s a very bad jam, and I don’t have a car. PLUS, while I know the primary and the nursery, I have NO IDEA where the Girls’ Secondary Campus is!!

I grabbed my baby’s hand and we started the ten-minute walk to the bus stop. There’s a bunch of cabs that hangs out there. I tried calling my on-call cab driver, but he was deep asleep. I called another cab driver who claimed to be in Mwenge [though I suspect he was asleep too.] Muttering curses at the schoolbus, we got to the taxi-stand to find…nothing! Not a vehicle in sight. Well, there was one car, but it had yellow plates.

Let me explain. In Dar, there’s a terribly complex number-plate system. The usual plates are T 123 ABC on a yellow background. Diplomatic plates are CD, on green. NGO plates are DP, on red. Zanzibari plates are ZNZ 123456 on white. Government plates are anything from SU, ST, W, WJ and goodness knows what else. CID have no plates at all.

PSVs and rentals have white plates. That includes dala-dalas (matatus) and cabs. I was pissed, PMSing, and half high on coldrex [or rather it’s local equivalent] so I was in no mood to get into a strange car with a strange man with no white plates.

A few dala-dalas zoomed by, packed solid even by Dar standards. Dar is strictly pre-Michuki, and dala-dalas look like sardine cans on wheels. Besides, the Daughter had made it quite clear that the school was veeeeeeery faaaaaar from the stage.

In the end, we hailed a red bajaji to get us where we wanted to go. When I say hailed, I mean we stood in the traffic jam, scrutinized the drivers for an empty car, and waved frantically till it stopped. A bajaji, btw, is Kenyanly known as a tuktuk.

The trip to school was quite eventful, almost like a field trip. All flying skirts and wind-in-the-dreads and flying over bumps and following my six-year-old’s directions. She, fortunately, is a far better ‘director’ than her mother. We found the school in five minutes flat, deposited her in class, ignored the curious teenage stares, bonded with her teacher, and went back to my ride. Now to get to work.

The bajaji, apparently, is more stable with babies in it. Either that, or my baby girl is heavier than I thought. Because all of a sudden, I was being thrown six ways south of north in the name of driving. And no safety belts. I was clinging to anything I could, which generally meant the driver’s seat, and possibly the driver, if he hadn’t been leaning so far forward. The thing was tilting at insane[ingly] angles, and I half thought I’d fly out the …doors? More like entry spaces.

And the driver suddenly decided to make conversation (why, now?! He was stone silent when my baby was here), his topic of choice being why a classy lady like me, in fancy hair like mine, with my kid in a fancy school like that, living in fancy uzunguni neighbourhood like this, would be riding to work in a bajaji. I half expected him to double the fares!

I made it, in one piece, at 8.30 sharp, just as the register was marking me punishably ‘late’. And since I usually report between 7 and 7.30, they just had to know where I’d been…!

In other news, the sound on my laptop is dead. I fear I may have burst its eardrums. Everyone I ask goes on and on about soundcards and drivers hardware and software and things that cache and things that run…kwani ni hide-and-seek? When it comes to technology, me blonde, and not in the ‘have all the fun’ kinda way. Just call me BC for Blonde-and-Clueless in all matters [finance and] IT. A dear friend tried to walk me through computer parts, online, and after ten minutes of ‘software = MS Word, hardware = C drive’ on my part, the poor dear pulled his hair out, gave up, and sought comfort food.

But one boy did help me out. He couldn’t fix the problem, but he did explain patiently till I got it. I can now say that a sound card is the green, chippy thingamajig with grey pointy dots that converts electrical signals into sound. Kind of like a translator. There’s one for video too. Yay! Now, why can’t everyone talk like that? How I love this boy. He couldn’t fix my fried card, but he sure did make my day. Thank you dear! **Hugs**

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