A Writer’s Life: On Giving a F**k About the History of A Place

When I moved to the city in early December 2018, it was with enthusiasm, hopes, ambitions, and feral affection for beautiful women. I was gay when I arrived the 3-floor- apartment building that would become my home half the decade. The place intrigued me.

Photo credit: Counsel

More than its seclusion from the noisy life of the University town, its bouldering name Castle Rock, looked a place of hiding, a somewhat safe space from everyone and everything that craved a peek into private matters. The building, a swoon pink color with chest facing east, even tho it looked like it preferred a westward look, was a three-story 40-room self-contained flat overlooking an expanse of nearly 200 plots of bare land barred from all expedition, save for herders who manage to find their crook and their cattle hooves on lush land. The fencing was thoughtfully low, allowing a full view of the particles of earth, plants, and animals from a balcony view. "The view is better from the last floor," the agent offered, “Why so many vacant rooms tho," "People say it’s too removed from the road, and nearer the bush," he confided, running a palm over his head, as tho pained he’d revealed too much that could mean bad business. He had an afro that extended to his jaw bones through a thick thread of hairs that clung to the face as taut as they were parched. He hadn’t shaved in days, he didn’t look like he needed one badly.

To be continued…