Aah, hiatus… What is the plural of hiatus? Hiatuses? Hiati? Whatever it is, they are good. I took a break from chronicling my awesome life this year and came back with even juicier tales for my diary, which is sure to become a bestseller once a notable publishing house notices it. Yes, that is the bulk of what I reflected on during my extended… hiatus.
Where did I stop?
Yes. My mum and Number One were planning something nefarious. Possible target is my father. My father and my mum spent a couple of days holed up in the master bedroom. Afterwards I was given a credit card and orders to move out. Trust me, it didn’t make sense to me either.
But move out I did. And I loved it!
I even did one better: I moved out of the state. I moved a thousand kilometers away from home.
But it wasn’t instantaneous. First, I made a couple of calls. I needed a job in wherever I was moving to. I called my friend Karla, with a k.
“Hey girl, what are the chances of getting a job in your area?”
“Hm, depends on a couple of factors. Age, marital status, meat preferences, accent, and eye color, among others.”
It was like Karla made it her life’s mission to be of no use to anyone.
I called another friend, Favor.
“Girl, you need at least twenty years of work experience AND some volunteer experience before you can think of applying here.”
Huh, a conspiracy.
I left my dearest friend for last. Eren (pronounced eh-REN, meaning ‘doing’, as in, present continuous) lived far away from her own family and seemed to be doing well all on her own.
“Hey dearest friend, you have got to help me, or I am done for. Absolutely done for.”
“Keesh. Drama queen extraordinaire. Your mum kicked you out yet?”
She knows me so well. And only Eren can call me Keesh and get away with it.
That was how I moved a thousand miles away, got a house, got some interesting housemates, got a job, and lived my life exactly how I wanted it. Well, mostly exactly how I wanted it. You know what, I lived. Let’s leave it at that.
Somehow, something happened that made it necessary for Eren to move to my house, making her my second housemate. I don’t know what, and I don’t care: she was more than welcome. It was a pretty big house, with five bedrooms and six bathrooms, so we all paid rent to co-exist in the building. My first housemate, who was there before me, was beautiful, strong, and mental.
Aisha woke up at 4 am and played grunge till 6. She did a series of exercises that required a lot of moaning and groaning from 6 to 7. She then proceeded to her ‘vocal exercises’ from 7 – 8. During this time, she would cook something that smelled like disease and death. And she would eat it. Or drink it.
This happened every. Single. Day.
After four days of this nonsense, I had to act.
I woke up at 3 and put my favorite Sasha Fierce album on high-volume-repeat. Then I took my yoga mat to her door and did my stretches as I sang off-key in a very loud voice. Aisha was tough though: she didn’t react till 4, when she opened the door looking like a confused cat.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing? My morning routine set on ‘Loud’.”
“But I was asleep… ”
“So was I all those days you played terrible music and grunted like you were having bad sex! As if that wasn’t enough, you cooked poison and screamed while you did that, in the name of vocal exercises. Vocal exercises my ass!”
I was really angry.
“But you could have told me that all that was bothering you! Isn’t this a little extreme?”
What the hell?
“You honestly didn’t think that you were being a world-class bother? You want to stand there and tell me that you did NOT know that you were being a pain in the auditory and olfactory asses!” (I am not sure I knew what I was saying at that point).
“I swear I have nasal damage from the smell of the death you cook in that cursed pot of yours! And your screeching would kill a banshee! And you have the nerve, the NERVE, to say I am extreme?! Let me tell you something, girl, this is not extreme, not in the least. Keep up with that rubbish routine of yours, and I will dance to a mix of Wizkid and Davido every morning IN YOUR ROOM. Shey you don’t lock your door. No wahala. Try me first.”
She winced at my music choice. I perfectly understood: no sane person likes those two musicians. And I use the term ‘musicians’ loosely.
But Aisha got the message. The next day I heard soothing strains of Enya floating out her door at the reasonable time of 5 am, and Aisha actually had a pleasant voice when she wasn’t screeching. The malodorous plague she brewed also stopped. In it’s place was the sweet smell of cinnamon and apple.
A week later she told me she had been testing me. Apparently, I over-aced the test. Aisha didn’t just respect me now: she feared me.
Cue evil laughter.