CHAPTER 1

OF NEIGHBOURS AND TINGS. . . . .

Bola Odunowo lived in Clapham South London. A fact that didn't really
matter to him, say the way it would matter to someone who
lived in Hampstead or Belgravia or Dulwich.

But his area of London was not that bad either. Clapham was
a 'yuppy' area where up and coming young professionals loved
to stay. It had great shops, good restaurants, quaint theatres,
you know, those things that added a few extra thousands to the
price of a house.

Not that Bola cared for any of these things. It was white people who
cared for such amenities. But this was London, and wherever you are,
whatever locality you happen to be in, a block of council flats is not more
than a block or two away. There wasn't the crass segregation of a New York,
or the gated communities of other large American cities. It was evidence of the
genuine egalitarianism that undergirded British life and policy.

Bola lived in one of these council flats, a largesse from the government he had
benefited from when he was twenty after he decided he was tired of his mum's
nagging influence. He always counted himself lucky, cause five years on, and with
the deluge of migrants from Eastern Europe, getting a one bed flat like his, in such
a sought after area would demand more than an arm and a leg. Shoot, getting a one
bed flat in any area would be difficult.

And as council estates go, this one wasn't too bad. Built in the 1970's, post-Le Corbusier
architectural rationalism, it was no high rise like the ghastly Aylesbury estate on the Old
Kent Road, nor was it over ridden by immigrants either of the Indian, European or African
origins. It had a healthy mixtura, with a sizeable white population. So things were kept tidy
and estate meetings had a healthy attendance, although Bola never knew when they occured
let alone attend one.

Now one would epect in such a diverse community at least, that there be some neighbourly camaraderie,
you know, street parties, neighbourly banter across windows etc. Far from it, this was London, and London
was quintessentially every man for himself, mind your own business. For example, Bola had a female neighbour
whom he knew was clearly of Nigerian origin like himself from the marks on her face, and from the yoruba that
careened through the walls separating their flats when she was on the phone. But for the five years they had lived
close to each other, they had barely said more than hello and the habitual 'white man smile', you know that one
that impresses on the face for barely a second, and the uninitiated wonder why bother. Bola once had a cousin
from Lagos come visit, and he was left gobsmacked by the coolness not only of the weather but of inter-neighbour relations.

"Bola, you mean you can have a voluptuous lady like this close by, and you haven't even made a pass at her" the cousin inquired.
''You suppose know say Naija no dey carry last now'' he said, switching to pidgin to buttress his point.

As if to point out the absurdity of the state of affairs, Lanre made friends with Dami(the neighbour's name as discovered by Lanre), got her number
and even returned with some of her cooking back to Bola's flat like some sort of trophy. All this achieved on a two day visit, with
a woman Bola had lived within metres of, for five years.Bola really didn't take his cousin's machinations to heart. Lanre was a
J.J.C and really did not understand the way London worked. In London, your neighbour was a potential paedophile, a potential
serial killer, benefit cheat etc. What you hoped for was a neighbour who basically stayed out of your way, and did not intrude
too much in your personal space. And by and large for the five years he had occupied his Clapham flat, he and his neighbours
had adhered to this convention.

Paula, the mother of two daughters, Shanikwa and Beyonce(  Caribbean origins of course), said the customary hello, as did
Danita, a white English lady, who suffered from a most awe striking form of obesity, which left you wondering how she managed
to walk, albeit with the aid of  a walking stick. Right below him lived a Congolese lady, friendlier than most, to the extent she said
more than a word to him, but he hardly ever saw her.

He was hardly surprised when she told him she would be moving to the outskirts of London. He made the usual noises.''awww. . . . .
that's a shame'', ''I hope you enjoy your new place'', and so on, but his mind had already shifted to his new neighbour. He prayed
whoever it was, would be as exemplary, and stick to convention, stick to the way of doing things in London.

About a month later, and his old neighbour long gone, he was having a nap on a Saturday, windows open on a summery June
afternoon, when wafts of a pungent concoction assaulted his nostrils. It was weed, or no, the more potent variety, skunk. He quickly went
to his window, to look down at the garden of the flat below him, and standing there, top off, leaning against the wall, was a chap, about his
age, mid-twenties, a white roll sticking out from his mouth, surveying the surroundings. As if sensing the presence of Bola, he looked up, and he grinned,
revealing one or two gold teeth. . . .the insignia of rascals who terrorised folks across London.

''You alrite bruv. . . . .'' he greeted.''You live upstairs?'' he asked

Bola answered yes, and with that he grinned even wider.

''I am going to be your new neighbour. Me and you is going to get along
just fine''

Bola's heart sank a few feet, and he mouthed to himself.''This is trouble''.

He was right, but he sure underestimated how much trouble

Hmm

Who knew he was this good

Not bad, just came across this

_{i think you should put the jamo/Caribbean  twang in the new neighbours greetings sounds too plain and english
'wa'gwan bruv' the same way the jjc spoke pidgin}

lol i bet this is the same neighbour sheniqua's mom wants to make her new baby daddy
lol

@poster: nice,simple way of writing. Very easy on d brain,lol. 2 b contd?

nice