Okay, I wanted my roommate dead a while ago. Well, not dead. But if she had dropped dead, preferably under circumstances that could in no wise be traced to me: Electrocution, Abortion complications, a hit-and-run, I would have received the news with a detached calm. I would have said ‘eyah’ (which is the Nigerian equivalent of a ‘how sad’ that could be sarcastic, not sarcastic, or both. The laws of thought do not apply to Nigerian English. Almost no laws apply to Nigerian English, as a matter of fact; the statements ‘I told her to come and be going’ and ‘he fast-forwarded the movie back’ are both correct) and that would have been all about it. When people came to sympathise with the girls she allowed squat with her, I would not lend my ten Kobo in statements like ‘she was such a nice person’ and ‘oh the world will spontaneously combust now that she is no longer here’. Pretence is not one of my strong suits.
I thought my village people (the term for a well-established class of old, bitter people from one’s extended family who are unhappy with one’s success by default and use black magic to get them down and keep them under. You know, the depictions of Africa with starved people imploring malevolent gods to kill their fellow man? That’s what village people look like. Only, they wear clothes now) had specifically picked her out to give me a little pinch in my otherwise [relatively] happy life. Until I Googled ‘how to deal with a disgusting, thieving roommate’ and Google set me straight. My case is child’s play. But I will write about it, anyway, because... well, because I want to!
Image source: Pxhere, CCO.
She seemed nice enough when we first met. Scrawny. Had a little speech problem that made her words come out like blobs of phlegm, just as thick, just as laughable, and the icing on the cake: an Igbo accent. She laughed a lot. And I thought with a shrug, could be worse.
So I played nice. I’m really not, actually. But, everyone’s been saying change, change, so you will not miss your husband in this modern world, given the scarcity of smart, wealthy Igbo men with straight teeth. So I tried to change, change. I listened to her wack stories and laughed after them, with a mental palm on my face. Like, how does this girl’s conception of humour work? Something must be broken somewhere. And then she began to beg me for stuff. I made a list of begged-for items somewhere. Wait, I’ll retrieve it.
Aha, found it!:
- Hairbrush
- Gel brush
- Drinking water
- Bathing water (skipped a few lectures)
- Iron
- Electric boiler
- Garri
- Sugar
- Milk
- Spaghetti
- Paltry sums of money
- Substantial sums of money (still hasn't paid a dime yet!)
- Buckets
- Scoop
- Phone charger
- Spoons
- Scissors
- Tissue paper
- Wi-Fi password.
Wait, her name! it seems we haven't given her a name yet, have we? We’ll call my roommate Mgborie, because it’s one of the ugliest names I know. So, Mgborie basically does not respect personal space and this to me is the gravest of sins. Be stupid; it’s a constitutional right, my law professor once said, but only to the extent that it doesn’t mess with anyone’s enjoyment. He studied at Leeds, and his accent is a study in phonetic confusion. I imagine his Igbo speech organ thingies fighting with his American speech organ thingies when he’s about to speak. Yes, he went to the UK and got a US accent. Don’t ask me how. Stuff happens.
Image source: Goodfreepictures
So, Mgborie’s messy. Her corner looks like a hellhole. She once left a used sanitary pad on her fridge. One time, her soiled plates stayed for three weeks in a little open box by her bed. Her panties are hung on this hook at the very entrance, and so I cannot let the guys that come on evangelism visits in. I’d have to move them, you see, hide them, in true female solidarity. But man, they aren’t the sort of things I’d like to touch with a ten-foot pole. And that’s great! It’s no nuisance if nothing escapes from her Black Acre to my White Acre. Another concept I learned from Leeds professor. And then, she just did stuff that made me conclude she must be reasoning with her left buttock. Played loud trap music. Watched wack Indian movies and insipid Korean ones without headphones. Left noodle sachets on my cooking rack. Farted indiscriminately. And when we had to divide the carpet we had left after fixing up the room, she made sure she did the cutting, gave me the piece with a chunk missing. Ha! If only that chunk she kept was her missing brain matter.
Image source: Pixabay, CCO.
The first time she stole my water, I couldn’t believe it was her. Why, we were not on speaking terms, and I assumed one of the unspoken laws of 'not-on-talking-termsitude' was leaving the other person’s possessions alone. So when I saw my buckets half full, or rather half empty now (she hadn’t even had the decency to be modest in the taking), I formulated a lot of theories. Matter, heat, evaporation, science stuff I’d never had to think about since Integrated Science in Junior Secondary School 3. I called my friend, a badass Physics major at FUNAAB (a different university), asked him if it was possible that that much water could evaporate because of the heat. He laughed long and hard and cut the call. I saw red. The next time she stole some, I confronted her and she said “sorry o, but you should have told me since that you noticed nau.” Plain English translation: ‘Well, I’m sorry, but my stealing this time is your fault because you should have put it somewhere other than under your bed, in your own corner, whose privacy I would have to invade to get it. Then I would not have had to crouch, remove your other stuff, bring out the bucket, pour its contents into my own bucket, and then confidently put everything back. Everybody knows a faultless water owner would have to put it somewhere safe. On the moon, for example.’
And these are the bases on which my irritation at her existence stands. Not sufficient for wanting her dead, you may say? I realise this now. I wish I could throw in something heavy, like sexual harassment or insanity. Unfortunately, this is all I’ve got. I wish there was a better ending to this than ‘I’m going to fix myself a Pepsi on the rocks and ruminate on my extremely low level of patience for the antics of disgusting people’, but there isn’t.
Now, I’m going to fix myself a Pepsi on the rocks and ruminate on my extremely low level of patience for the antics of disgusting people.