Bad bachelor: Two-timing goes bust

Have I ever told you that where I live, at Bedlam Apartments, the caretaker is a chap called Euripedes? How a parent in ‘ushago’ ends up settling on a weird Greek name is anyone’s guess.

My own birth certificate name is Arthur Amachore, but by the time I turned 18, I just cut it on my ID application to ‘Art Amacho’ – which sure works out better when you work in advertising as I do. And plays out better when you are a blue Subaru-driving, clean shaven, six-foot player bachelor.

Anyway, I think Yuri’s (coz who calls him Euripedes?) young Swahili wife, Shanice, has the hots for me. They live in the tiny flat on the ground floor that opens up to the parking lot, as part of caretaker privileges, I suppose. They have a two-year-old girl called Aisha. And ever since this Covid business started, Shanice has opened a cooking stall just outside the block that does booming business. She cooks from dawn to dusk – and does home deliveries to her ‘jirani.’

So she’s been delivering kaimati and andazi to me in the mornings. And deep fried potato chips and smokies on the lunchtimes I am WFH (Working From Home) and give her a buzz on mobile. ‘You want to give me a heart attack,” I told her the other day, after her high-cholesterol delivery.

Because her English is a bit Coastal-poor, she said: “Even you, you give my heart a attack, Mr Handsome!” And the look in her deeply-mascara’d eyes made the madimoni in my loins start jumping.

Maybe she also mentions me once-too-often to Mr Yuri, because the looks the caretaker gives me these days aren’t mzuri. He needn’t worry. I generally avoid married women so I don’t end up as a love triangle statistic in the news. Besides, I already am in that ‘Corona’ love triangle with Lucia the petite bar lady and Sonia the curvy salonist.

Lucia, on her days over, loves to cook for me – though I suspect her ‘Chef Ali’ act may be an exaggeration to make me see her as homely, especially as she’s always asking ‘si mi ni ka wife material?’

Sonia doesn’t even pretend to lift a spoon! Her work is to use the Glovo App for takeaway meals on the once-in-three nights she stays over. “I’m too tired from saloning to pika,” she complains, but by way of compensation, she does give me a massage to die for, once we’re done with our takeaway meals, which more than makes up for the expense.

So the other evening, shortly before 9pm, I am expecting the caretaker Yuri to come do a quick fix on the jammed loo – small stuff, but he’s the man with the screwdriver and the number spanners.

Doorbell rings, Sonia gets it, and it is Lucia standing at the door, with the Tuesday box of double pizza she’d planned to surprise me with. I am beyond surprised. I’m utterly shocked. I’ve lately spaced out my women well – Tuesday Sonia, Thursday Lucia, Saturday Sonia, Monday Lucia...

“What on Earth are you doing here, Lucia?” I stutter, sputtering to my feet.

“Who the HELL is this?” Lucia shrieks, jabbing her finger at Sonia’s ample chest.

‘Don’t touch me, little lady!’ Sonia shouts.

‘What are you doing with my hubby, you fat slut?” Lucia screams. And, just like that, all hell breaks loose in my Bedlam flat, just as Euripedes walks in with his spanners.

And that, my rafikis, is how I’ve ended up getting a notice from Queen’s Pride, the company Yuri works for, to vacate for ‘continuously creating a noisy and non-conducive atmosphere for other neighbours, by bringing women of questionable character in an environment with children.’

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