My House Hunt Wahala

Getting the apartment wasn’t a problem. Two hours after meeting the agent at his barbershop at Olorunshogo junction, three mini-flats later, I had gotten one I liked. I paid fast, money wasn’t the problem. I didn’t know what I was getting into.
I moved in the following weekend. I had my bed, my sofas, table, everything behind a truck. I sat in the passenger seat with my box of clothes in front of me, the driver by my side. We arrived at the house and I alighted to throw the gate open. We drove in, no problem. My apartment was at the back and the driver had to drive back out then reverse in so we could get my things out easy.
First problem was my new apartment was locked. Odd. I tried to push and pull, perhaps door had jammed, but someone opened from the inside. Inside the empty apartment whose rent I paid the just four days earlier was furniture and fan and television and all that stuff. My God. I was confused. Very. “My apartment,” I said.
“Which one?” the short guy who opened the door said. This guy was practically a dwarf. I wanted to knock him and watch him burrow into the floor.
“My apartment,” I said. “What happened? I just paid for this. This week. Tuesday. I don’t understand.” I really didn’t.
We found ourselves in front of the landlord’s two bedroom apartment at the front of the house. He was a young guy about my age, probably inherited the house, first time I met him he was in a polo shirt and jeans, this time in a singlet and blue boxers. He had a cigarette between his fingers. God I wanted to slap him. “When you didn’t come early, I thought you were not coming again, so I gave it somebody else,” he said. “He paid and he moved in.”
“But my money,” I said, “give me my money.”
“Which money,” he said before entering his house and shutting the door.
I didn’t even worry. Me? First I called my agent, goat said, “What is my own?” Jesus. In this economy. Then I remembered I had a police friend. Small thing. I just told the truck driver to chill a bit. See, when policeman came, barked, “Where the boy, where the boy,” he opened the door sharp sharp. Who no dey fear police?
He was first doing shakara. Policeman vexed, said he did not want explanation. “Let’s just go to station,” he said. “We’ll settle it there.”
Two slaps. That’s what they welcomed him with at the station. Right there at the counter. Me sef, I pitied him. They emptied his pockets and what came out? Forty naira, bunch of keys, and groundnut shells.
After he made phonecalls and got me my money, a policeman at the counter suggested I used next time I was searching for a property, that he got his using them. Man, lesson learnt!

2 thoughts on “My House Hunt Wahala

  1. Dear Niyi,

    Nice Right up… Yes I did love it but I would have concluded that your contract with was over already? LOL.


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