The daily symphony

Sometime around 5.30am the cock crows and the pastor over the wall starts crooning ‘Good morning Jesus, good morning Lord…’ Within half an hour, the neighbours are up and about, doing the washing, clanking pots and pans and exchanging hearty greetings. By 7am, the traffic’s getting going with horns aplenty. Not long after that and the hawkers start their rounds. ‘Buuuuuuuuuuy ke-ro-seeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeene’ they cry; ‘buuuuuuuuuuuuuy plantain’. Then it’s the moin-moin girl, whose call reminds me vaguely of a hungry seagull: ‘moin-moin’, she squawks. A merry chain of ‘hello-oyibo!-goodmorning-howfar?’ tails me from the house to the road where I join the masses on their way to work and school. Then it’s on to a bike and off into the clouds of dusty exhaust fumes and the cacophony of car horns as drivers vent their anger, greet friends, tout for passengers and just parp for the sheer bloody hell of it. And so to the office. If there’s light [electricity], it’s pretty peaceful; if not (as is often the case), we exchange our daily greetings over the roar of the generator. Through the window I hear the clanking of the shoe-mender’s basket or the tailor’s scissors and the rat poison-seller’s whistle as they ply their wares. Occasionally an argument breaks out on the street below and people rush from all sides to join the action. Last week it was a would-be thief, the week before a careless motorbike rider. Whatever the cause of the ruckus, crowds gather quickly and word of the disturbance spreads like wildfire. The drama usually subsides as quickly as it flared up and we all get back to work. As the day draws to a close, the church across the street gears up for yet another evening session. Rhythmic clapping and exuberant drumkit bashing join dubious keyboard playing and somewhat garbled hymn-singing in a crescendo of Jesus-adoration. This is the pastor’s cue to crank up the PA and share his wisdom. It is also my cue to pack up and head home. The traffic on the way home always seems louder, more hectic, more choked so it’s a relief to step back into the estate and be met with the chorus of greetings, clucking chickens and tinny radio jingles. A little later, as dusk falls, the generators get going for the night – unless, of course, NEPA is feeling generous – as the neighbours switch on their TVs and ceiling fans. These diesel-chomping beasts roar until the last neighbour heads for bed, at which point the neighbourhood falls quiet. And so to bed.