Why I Want an Apartment With Big Windows

Copyright Arts Development (Sefton Metropolitan Borough Council) / Supplied by The Public Catalogue Foundation
Copyright Arts Development (Sefton Metropolitan Borough Council) / Supplied by The Public Catalogue Foundation

Right now top of the list on my agenda is to move out. Yes, move out. I’m sorry if I came across as someone that’s living on their own but do you know how hard it is to carve out a living off of writing? Okay, maybe I am just too comfortable to venture out and cook my own meals – a remedy to this would be to get one of those house girlfriends. You know the ones that have a key to your digz and come over on Friday evening when you’re out with your boys? Then after you’ve had enough of the bottle you stagger your way home, fumble with the keys and open the door stand in the middle of the door way for a couple of seconds admiring your crib. You ask yourself why your big ass TV is not on, you declare that since you pay electricity bills power saving should be left to you. You cuss kidogo under your breath then walk in to the kitchen, okay not walk but stagger into the kitchen before you realize the house is spotless. You know Nyawira is there or shiro or maybe Mwende. These house girlfriends, I hear you do not call by their first name. Food is in the microwave waiting for you to hit the quick start, eat, and then jump into a warm bed. Come Saturday morning she would leave you there as she does the laundry and beef up her wife material C.V. (or so she thinks). You know you will dump her as soon as it gets old – again that’s what I hear.

But then again a house girlfriend is so much work. What if she makes a copy of your key and you dump her then she comes over when you’re away and breaks your big ass T.V? Maybe she’s more sinister and will put salt in the sugar dish and garlic powder in your lotion bottle. You end up going to work having salted tea and smelling like you’re Buffy’s side kick. So no, I do not want a house girlfriend. So for now I will have to deal with having to take a girl to their actual place when they drunkenly say “Take me home” because I am not looking to be sneaking at 6 a.m. in the morning trying to get her out before my mum wakes up. There’s the walk of shame and then there’s the ‘my mum is about to wake up, ni mkali!’ walk of shame. You will never recover from the latter.

So I figure when I move out I want a crib with big windows. There’s something about a house with big windows that’s endearing. You can wake up in the morning and stand in front of your magnificent window, draw the curtains and soak in the sunlight. Even when making small talk with a bunch of snooty business men over a glass of whiskey you can talk about your large windows. You can say how the other day you woke up, walked up to it and took a peek and saw this fine lady in sweat pants jogging (yes, that’s what sweat pants are for, unless you consider the club some form of exercise). You’ll say you think she’s your neighbor and get encouraged to join her the next time. You’ll never join her you’re perfectly comfortable staring out of your big window at the sunshine between her two hills. But that’s the window in your bedroom.

In the living room there is an equally big window. It overlooks the apartment parking. I imagine and you’re on the third floor. Every time you look out of the window you see this silver Toyota, maybe the 2014 corolla, parked.  You don’t know who drives it because every time you hear the gentle purr of the engine you’re watching something on your big ass TV and it’s dark. You could always peep through the curtain but you have big ass windows he/she would definitely see you peeping.  So you know nothing about them. Every often they do not come alone so you hear laughter, mixed, both male and female which adds to your confusion.  In the morning when you leave the silver Toyota is parked. A few times you have stayed in your car waiting, maybe you’ll finally see who they are but they never show and you risk running late for meetings. You’re probably meeting your snooty friends for a drink and business. They said never mix business with pleasure but they never said never mix it with vodka – you can mix vodka with anything. I have this illusion that life as a writer would mean a lot of unorthodox meetings with unsavory characters, snooty bankers and lots of alcohol – so far the latter is true. You swear to one day stake out in your own car and wait for whoever gets into the Toyota, you will then fender bend them and have a conversation – it might be on whose mechanic is competent but a conversation all the same. You will mid argument say “By the way, I live in block C apartment D3 come over sometime for beers.” And hand him/her your number. You will want to mention your amazing windows but remember they live in the same block so they more or less have the same. Maybe over beers you will ask them if they ever see the jogging lady (unless it turns out it’s a lady or beforehand you learn that he has a wife and you’re not sure if that could be her, or it actually is her and you end up looking like a stalker putting in question the whole fender bender business.)

With a big window apartment I’d go out on Friday evening to some joint that looks expensive but really isn’t. The main reason it looks and feels expensive is because it is frequented by college students who are out to splash their pocket money and find 300 shillings for a beer preposterous.  However, I’d go there at around 6 P.M when the college kids are still in the back road trenches sipping on liquor that has a Maasai moran as the logo. I’d find a likeminded lady enjoying a beer (If I lived in a big window apartment I wouldn’t go for the wine drinker – article coming soon lol) preferably a sierra, tusker-lite or a Heineken. We would talk about the art of beer brewing and why multinational corporations have ruined it then I‘d mention my large windows back at home. She’ll ask if that’s my way of inviting her over and I’ll say no I am just talking about large windows and throw the question back at her “Why? Did you want to get invited?” Long story short we’d go back to my place (with the big windows) and in the morning as she does the walk of shame I ask her “Imagine if I was living with my mom” then we’d both laugh – Her at the joke me at the fact that I’m never going to see her again. After she’s gone I’d wonder if my neighbor heard me coming in and wondered whether I was male or female. In the process I’d figure out that I am as mysterious as they are then go back to sleep with the curtains drawn because fuck it big windows bring in a lot of light.

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