I’m back. I have to apologise for the radio silence, but I had the minor challenge of birthing a child to attend to. Anyway, that’s done. I’m fab, if a little flabby. And he, well, he is just perfection.
Wait just one more sentence before you hit that little ‘X’, and you’ll see that I’ve decided to spare you the details of every new gurgle and cooh. I have, instead, decided to tell you about the time I arrived home to a house filled with hot, thick summer air…
It was just sitting there being its suffocating self. Something I was becoming fairly accustomed to. It’s what happens when you live in a tin-roofed Bo Kaap house and the temperature soars above 30.
I went around flinging open all the windows and doors. It sluggishly began to saunter out, making room for the BANG, DOOF, DSH that unexpectedly bombarded its way in.
“No! That can’t have been. Surely not. Not in my neighbourhood. Not right next door. Please say it’s not…” DSH, DSH, BANG. “…drums.”
The thing about the houses in Bo Kaap is that they’re like snuggle buddies. Personal space was clearly not an issue for the pioneer Bo Kaap peeps who laid the first bricks all those years ago. It’s handy if you want to nip over to your neighbour to borrow a cup of brown sugar. But if said neighbour’s playing, I don’t know, let’s say, DRUMS, then it’s kind of like they’re sitting in your living room laughing in your face while doing it.
It’s not pleasant.
The windows trembled with every BANG, DOOF and my mind started going mental. “How long is this going to go on for? What if it’s everyday? What if it’s everyday until 3 in the morning? What of it’s everyday until 3 in the morning and he’s tone deaf or can’t hold a beat? Should I complain? Should I call the police? Maybe I should just… move?”
Just as I had resigned myself to the fact that I had no other option but to put my house on the market, a bass guitar started to loosen up its strings. The intruding CRASH, BOOM, BANG then promptly fell into a rhythm and all of a sudden I was in the cheap seats at a Cranberries concert with a brick wall instead of a ‘brick shit house’ obscuring my view.
OK, so maybe I overreacted. Slightly.
This wasn’t too bad. This wasn’t too bad at all. The first song was leaning on the edge of old school, but the man redeemed himself with the next. And the next. And the next. I applauded loudly from my kitchen between chopping chicken and draining peas. Then just as it became far more preferable to pour another glass of wine than finish cooking dinner, it stopped. I glanced at the time, it was a very respectable 8 o’clock.
So started the Summer Sessions with Bo Kaap’s ‘Faceless Neighbour and his (and I’m assuming here) Funky Bunch.’
From that evening on, Wednesdays became a treat. We started to plan our social calendar around them, declining invitations out, preferring rather to invite people round so they too could enjoy a glass of wine whilst listening to Bo Kaap’s finest. No cover charge needed. We even went as far as to holler out requests (after one too many glasses usually) which at times were even entertained.
Then came the show of all shows. The Faceless Neighbour performed his heart out, giving it everything he had for an enthusiastic audience of 4. That was just before the Cape Town Idols auditions took place. Funny that, we haven’t heard a peep since.