A night of strange noises in Covid19 lockdown

It usually starts in the silence of nightly activities. When we are engrossed in an addictive series on Netflix, or nursing calming thoughts so we can sleep well. Perhaps we have been laughing at a joke on TV. Or unconsciously clenching our butt cheeks because of the unending thrill in a movie.

Suddenly we hear a scream, vague at first, so we ignore it because our minds might be playing tricks on us. Five minutes later, another scream. This one unmistakable, warning us that it was no error, someone is in trouble.

We pause the TV to make sure it isn’t just our imaginations. For sure, we hear insults hurling back and forth, voices loud and dulcet, soprano and alto, performing like a shoddy symphony.

 

 

 

 

We rush to the window, pulling back our sheer curtains cautiously to peek frantically at the other apartments. All we see are other nosy neighbours, huddled in twos or threes by their windows, also trying to catch a glimpse of the commotion. A few are gesturing the universal “What is happening?” sign with a palm raised high. We shrug our shoulders in response, “I don’t know.”

 

We don’t have to wait long because we hear a thump, and a loud wail filled with anger and desperation. The man, we assume, yells with frustration. We can make out the words “nagging” and “b***h” in between the shrieks. This could get bad, so we fish out our phones to chat where our windows wouldn’t be barriers. The estate WhatsApp group.

 

“Hey, anyone heard those screams?”

“Who has a type C charger anisaidie nayo?”

“I hear them too, sounds like it’s coming from block P4…”

“Muwache lovers wapigane, it’s none of our business.”

“*Forwarded as received. Reasons why coronavirus is a scam.*”

 

 

 

 

By our windows, we all crane our necks towards block P4 and try to make out which floor it could be. Three of the six floors have no lights on, so we assume it must be the other three.

The woman screams out, “Enda na huyo malaya… Takataka!” The man’s voice is muffled, and suddenly we hear a blunt thump, like a heavy box falling on concrete. We also flinch in unison with the sound.

“Woi! Nisaidieni…!” We, the nosy neighbours, look at each other in confusion. Inside our homes, a bedroom door opens and a sleepy occupant sticks a head out to inquire if we can also hear the commotion or are they dreaming. We go back to the WhatsApp group.

 

“Aki mtu amsaidie, huyo atapigwa hadi akufe!”

 

“Can the men go knock at their door, or call security?”

“Haki kama ulianua my uniform ya job from the hanging lines…”

“Security wamesema wamechoka na hizi cases. Kesho ni mwili tunaokota.”

“Where are you going with an airline uniform, jamani! Rudisha tu kwa line, please.”

“They should just separate, kwani ndo

WITNESS TO A MURDER?

The woman is now voiceless, either dead, blacked out or resigned to defeat. All we hear is the man ranting how he tries very hard, yet everything he does is wrong. We stand motionless like mannequins and listen to him keenly.

“There’s no peace in this house… I’ve been quarantined all week with you and the kids… Never enough… Going through my phone… Kumbaf!” The monologue lasts 10 minutes, with him declaring they are done.

It is such a powerful speech that some of us are tempted to applaud. By now we have confirmed which apartment it is: the one on the second floor that has the couple with adorable twin girls. Spectators retreat one by one behind their curtains.

In our apartment, we stay by the window a little more, taking in the situation and wondering if it really is over or if there will be a second round. We wonder what happened to the woman. Will we have to be witnesses to a murder when morning comes?

It takes us a while to get back into the groove of Netflix, or back into the softness of sleep. Surely, we wonder, how many times must we do this? But the situation is so normalised that an hour later, we have moved on and the nightly atmosphere is restored.

Some inconsiderate person is back to booming music, as if they are the exclusive owners of speakers in the world. A car drives by, and we can hear the soft rumba after a late night in the office for the occupant. Cats snarl and growl and the wind gently howls. Like nothing happened.

In the late weekend morning, we spot the couple from the previous night at the butchery, making small talk. The woman, obviously bruised behind her face mask chats with the husband. Him, a picture of gentleness, responds to her with such tenderness that one would think he wasn’t the one who had pounded her swollen face.

To make the setting even eerier, their twins are playing with each other as they hold onto their parents’ legs. A perfect family, it seems. But this is normal, this is our new normal. We have witnessed more domestic fights in the last few months than we have in a year.