In trouble with D.M.I

It is 3:00 a.m. I have just sneaked into my rat-hole trying to catch up with sleep. Suddenly there is a loud bang at my door. I am certain that officers from the Directorate of Military Intelligence (DMI) have come to arrest me. I think it is the DMI because last week someone was selling my autographed picture and when the intelligence people saw my goatee that resembles that of Osama bin Laden they didn’t want to take any chances. So I jump out of bed, naked like dressed chicken, before combing all the corners in a desperate search for a razor blade to chop off my goatee. Suddenly, the bang gets louder and at one point it gets my door reverberating violently. “Wewe fungua olete pesa yangu,” (open and give me my money), a woman rants. It is that hell of a woman every tenant dreads — the landlady. She keeps me under surveillance and I have since nicknamed her D.M.I! “You gu maani, openi disi door, I wanti mayi mane, you sinki za hawusi is for bwerere,” She roars in an anglo-luganda dialect. “Excuse me madame, it is 3:00a.m. now, why don’t you come back in the morning and we talk about it?” I suggest as she proceeds to pour out a litany of insults at me to such a point that I cannot hold it any more. So I dress up and open for her. The landlady is looking so mean that you would think she is of the Local Defence Unit on duty. From the white thrush lurking at the corners of her lips, it is evident that she spent the whole night caught between enjoying her sleep and timing me — the rent defaulter. Her breath could make a hen sneeze! Her boobs stand out like a World Bank project — Milk for all by the year 2025. “Who do thinki you are, how kani you kiipu mayi mane for ollo disi taimu?” She asks while holding her gomesi at the verge of throwing it off and showing me her nakedness as a sign of anger so I quickly cut in while holding my nose (not with that breath). “But nyabo, I don’t have money right now, you see the money I had was used for buying drugs to treat my small brother, why don’t you try me next week?” She then suddenly takes a pitiful stare at me and asks what my brother is suffering from (trust my guts to know what melts land ladies hearts). “He has Anthrax, he now cries moooooo, mooooo, mooooo... like a cow,” I tell her as she stands perplexed wondering what exactly I am talking about “Is iti da diziz cozed by Osama binu Laden,” she asks. “Yes madam,” I answer not knowing what crazy things can at times crop up at the backs of some people’s minds. “So Binu Ladeni write letter to your braza? Binu Ladeni she is rich man, she write letter, she sendi money nawu I wanti mayi mane,” she roars in anger while vibrating like an Ericsson phone. Now if you didn’t know, my landlady — yes, the owner of that rat-hole I call my Rwakitura — is like an anthrax attack on my personality. Whenever I hear about or see her, chills do a ndombolo jig on my spine. I owe her loads of money in unsettled bills and for this I no longer buy meat at my place. Whenever she smells the scent of boiling meat, she is right at my door breathing fire. “Nawu you are buyingi meati weni you haventi paid mayi money,” she screams before confiscating the entire saucepan and vanishing with it to her house. This woman is not only ugly but also plain mean, she would scare away an attacking police dog with her looks. Every morning she comes hitting at my door and whenever she does this, the poor door suffers her brunt. Right now there is a gully in the damn door created by her unrelenting jabs at it. I no longer wash my clothes because when I put on a clean shirt, her kids will go and tell her that “the guy has acquired a new shirt,” . Due to her frequent naggings I have mapped out a procedural rigmarole of leaving home at 5: 00 a.m. and coming back after 3:00 a.m. the next day. Right now I am thinking along the lines of relocating to a place where I am in good books with the landlady. A place where no one is going to give me sleepless nights again. In fact I am going to shift to Angenoir or Club Silk! To hell with that goon of a landlady. SAGARA’S WACKY WORLD ends