The good, bad and ugly life of living in a bedsitter

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I miss breathing loudly. It’s something I wish I did often. It’s not that I live with those people who don’t want you to breathe near them. No. It’s just that, the last time I breathed loudly, my neighbor broke into my house, thinking I was having an asthma attack. And I was like, really, can’t a fat girl just breathe in peace? And the next time I’m constipated, will you break into my house again, thinking someone is strangling me in the bathroom? Surely.

And that’s the thing with bedsitters. You can’t live your life in peace. There’s barely any privacy. The walls are too thin. You can’t afford to snore or scream during sex. Or even call your daddy since everyone is daddy nowadays. You will be the talk of town. And it’s sad. I think everyone should be allowed to express themselves freely. Just like everyone deserves a good orgasm.

Bedsitters are too small, it’s like living in a shoe. A big shoe. Like those who wear a size 11 or something. I know they get a lot of praises, but is it even legal to have a foot that big? Si they can crush a crawling baby? Or a short person?

No human was designed to live in such a house. You can’t toss and turn in your bed. If you do, you’ll fall and find yourself in your neighbor’s house. Sometimes if you fart loudly, they will hear it. And if it’s bad, or if you had taken Gilbeys the previous night, it will serenade their room for like thirty minutes. Or probably choke them, before the air gets fresh again.

It takes me three steps to cover my whole house. Three. Sometimes I don’t even need to walk. I just rotate, to access everything in the house. Cause all of it is within my reach. And you know, there are things we can’t relate with. Like losing something like a phone. If it’s not on the bed, or on the table, then you never had one to begin with.

Si you’ve seen those movies where a guy hears a voice in the living room, and when they go to the living room, the bedroom door shuts itself and when they go to check it out, the TV turns itself on? Like I do. Ghosts can’t dare play these jokes with us. There is no room for such games.

You can’t even argue and get dramatic in a bedsitter. You can’t bang the bedroom door and refuse to be seen for like an hour. The only thing you can do is hide in the bathroom and probably flush yourself down the drain.

There are two types of people. Those who like to cuddle after sex and draw a map on their lover’s chest, and those who don’t. Someone will come and jump off the bed immediately, maybe after realizing they forgot to reply their girlfriend’s texts. Or because their team is almost playing. In a bedsitter you have no option, but to lay there and pretend you are a romantic person, concerned about her wellbeing. And because the universe plays like the universe, the guy will be served something else to eat, while enjoying the warmth of the bed. How luckier can you guys get?

You can’t excuse yourself to pick calls in another room. Either you ignore them or pick them. And if you ignore them, you know that’s another issue. Or a fight. Cause who the hell is that that you don’t want to talk to, when I’m here Joseph? Who? Doesn’t matter whether her phone has been on flight mode for three hours.

Whoever came up with bedsitters considered the cost effectiveness, but some of the designs are wanting. Like how can a grown human being survive with only one window? One? Even a bird in a cage is better off. This makes it hard for a smell to leave the house. A neighbor will cook Omena, and since most people don’t know how to cook it, the smell will fill your house and stick on your clothes, the mattress, sufurias, your skin. Everything. You will be taking tea wondering why it tastes like Omena, kumbe it’s the sufuria.

Someone joked and said that, when you are cooking Omena in a bedsitter, the radio will automatically tune itself to Ramogi FM because of the smell.

Halafu It’s always the bad smells that fill the building. Harufu ya Sewage, matumbo. I have never understood how people eat matumbo. It’s like eating a tasty blanket.

You can’t also stay two or more people in a bedsitter like the Nigerians or Congolese. It’s like living in Archives pale Town. You’ll need a timetable to survive. To avoid colliding with each other. Or running out of air to breathe.

The small space is good sometimes. Like you can wash the dishes, while watching your favorite show. Or get some while washing clothes. Multi-tasking at its best.

It’s also bad, if you are not the type of person to lock doors.

It was August the 27th, when I had just hit the shower. I was standing in the living room, one leg on the bed the other on the floor. You know, the towel trying to cover all bases. Then someone opened the door. I was shocked. So I froze. And the guy froze too. So did the towel. He was staring at me. I was staring at him. Time stood still. At the back of my mind I’m thinking, the Lord has heard the cry of my vagina. He has even sent a stranger from Bethlehem. Then as if he read my mind, he quickly shut the door and walked away. My breasts booed me, then went back to sagging.

Here, you don’t need to set an alarm. People will always wake you up. Whether you want it or not. If someone is waking up at 4 AM, they will wake up with you and everyone else.  If the hooker hasn’t been paid, she will make sure everyone knows she wasn’t paid. Despite there being two or three participants. It’s even worse on Saturdays, when everyone plays their music loudly. Doesn’t matter whether it’s shitty, cause everyone thinks they have the best playlist.

The best thing about a bedsitter is the toilet and the bathroom. If you have never shared a bathroom with thirty other people, then you don’t know how gross it can get. How dirty it can be. And slippery. It’s like walking on sperms. Wait, are sperms slippery?

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