Let Me Tell You About My Black American Neighbor, The Witch

I’m specific in telling you that this is about my Black American neighbor because I have a White American neighbor that I might write about later, if the story gets interesting enough. For now, let me tell you about my Black American neighbor. She appears to be in her early to late forties, and I don’t know her name, but I have nicknamed her The Witch. That should give you an idea where this story is going. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but she makes me miss Tatiana. Ugh.

So, about The Witch, our first encounter was on the day Igwe and I moved into into this apartment, Igwe was asleep and I was in the kitchen putting things into the cabinets. It was about 1:00 AM. The TV was on, but I wasn’t watching. There was a knock on the door that frightened me — because who expects guests at such an ungodly hour? I looked through the peephole and saw a Black lady. I opened the door slightly – with much trepidation – and did not take the hook off. She asked in a not-so-friendly way that I turn my TV down. That was surprising to me since the volume wasn’t loud, but it was the Mr. & Mrs. Smith movie showing, so I figured maybe all the gun shots were loud. I apologized and turned the TV down, and that was the end of that.

Several weeks ago, Igwe and I were watching TV in the living room, and The Witch came and knocked again. Now, I was sure that the TV wasn’t loud, but it was Igwe who opened the door and he apologized and turned the TV down, then we wondered how on earth she could hear our TV. By the way, she lives directly under us. Again, we continued jejely watching our television.

But then, there came a straw that broke the camel’s back, although compared to the other incidents, this one was definitely not a straw. It happened on that Sunday evening of the Emmy’s. Igwe and I were watching the Emmy’s when he decided to take the trash out. I was lounging on the couch in my leopard print nightgown after having just taken a shower. As Igwe was stepping out of the house, our White neighbor across us (the one I might write about) was walking his dog out. He owns a German Sheppherd dog whose barks shakes building, As Igwe was stepping out of the house, the dog was barking loudly. I thought to myself that I hope the dog doesn’t try to attack Igwe.

A few seconds later, there was a loud, violent pounding on my door. I jumped up from the couch, my heart in my mouth, and ran to the door. It was the kind of pounding you’d do when you go visit someone in Nigeria whose house is a mile away from the gate to the compound, so you have to pound really loudly so that the people inside the house will eventually hear you. In my case, I was sitting only a few feet from the gate. My first thought when the pounding happened was that the dog had tried to attack Igwe and he was trying to get back into the house in a hurry and he had locked himself out. I swung the door open, expecting to see chaos, and who was standing there? Yes, The Witch.

I yelled, What the hell is wrong with you? She proceeded to tell me to turn the TV down again. I asked, “This TV?” She looked surprised. I don’t know what surprised her more: the very low volume of the television or the crazy-looking woman that opened the door (me). I was livid. I told her she was crazy, told her to get away from my door, and to never knock on my door again. She didn’t argue. She turned away and as she walked away, she said she was going to call the cops, and I told her to.

When Igwe walked back in, I told him the drama he missed, and he, too was mad. To say that I was angry would be a gross understatement. I wanted to say so many vile things to her, but I held my tongue. I waited till past midnight for the cops, but they never came. Even as I type this now, I’m angry all over again. I wish she had called the cops because I wanted them to come and hear for themselves TV volume she keeps complaining about.

It also occurred to me that each time The Witch complains about our TV, she mentions our surround sound. We don’t have surround sound. I don’t know what my volume sounds like in her apartment, but I do know that when you live in an apartment, you hear your neighbors, sometimes very, very clearly. I can sometimes hear my neighbors’ conversations, and they’re not yelling. It’s just that we share walls, and the walls are thin.

I have never had a neighbor complain about noise in my house, nor have I ever reported a neighbor or knocked on a person’s door. For me, I figure people are just living their lives, and sometimes, it’s a little noisy, but it above all, it comes with living in an apartment.

I saw The Witch the other day, coming into the building with an elderly woman who might have been her mom or aunt or whatever. She was telling the woman that she had to move out of the building because a neighbor of ours got evicted. I hope she lives sooner than later. Whatever the came may be, The Witch better not knock on my door again. There’s no telling what I’ll tell her.