A West African—extremely resilient. Adaptable to any environment - Part 4
The move to Oakmont Ridge went smoothly. The movers worked efficiently, carefully placing each piece of furniture and box where we directed. By mid-afternoon, they were done and everything was in place.
Unpacking took us three days, with our neatly labeled boxes making the process straightforward. Bit by bit, we added personal touches—books arranged on shelves, framed photos on end tables, and clothes folded into the spacious walk-in closet. By the time we finished, the apartment felt like ours: modern and luxurious, yet filled with warmth and our personality.
Our first week at Oakmont Ridge felt like a breath of fresh air. We stayed in to truly enjoy our new home. The gourmet kitchen became my creative space, where I experimented with new recipes while Destiny set the mood with her carefully curated playlists. Our cooking sessions often turned into lively dance parties, filled with laughter and the clinking of utensils—a perfect blend of fun and comfort that carried through our evenings and weekends.
Workdays felt more rewarding, knowing what awaited us after. Post-work, we made full use of the building’s amenities. I tackled the weights in the fitness center, while Destiny found peace in the yoga studio, stretching away the day’s stress under its softly dimmed lights. Afterward, we’d meet in the rooftop clubroom, where a crackling fireplace and steaming mugs of hot cocoa made the perfect end to our days. Through the panoramic windows, we’d gaze at the starry night sky and faintly twinkling city lights, appreciating the serenity Oakmont Ridge offered—a sanctuary all our own.
It was the start of our third week at Oakmont Ridge—the third week of comfortably settling into our new life—when things began to fall apart.
Destiny and I were sound asleep, the kind of deep rest that only comes with peace of mind, when a peculiar sound pulled us from our slumber. At first, it was faint—soft, rhythmic moaning that seeped through the ceiling. We both stirred, rubbing our eyes, the haze of sleep giving way to full awareness.
“Ooooooooo! Ooooooo!”
“What is that?” I murmured, still groggy.
The answer came soon enough. Purring noises, low and suggestive, joined the moaning. And then, unmistakably, the rhythmic creaking of furniture above.
“Are they being serious right now?” I asked, exasperated.
Destiny rolled onto her side, stifling a laugh. “I think so.”
I sat up, ready to head to the kitchen, but Destiny reached out and stopped me. “Babe, don’t worry about it,” she said. “We were young once.”
Reluctantly, I lay back down, determined to ignore the noise. But it was impossible. The moaning and purring grew louder, accompanied by the rhythmic squeaks of a bedframe, each sound like a taunt against the silence of the night.
“Ooooooooo! Rrrrrrrr! Ooooooo! Rrrrrrrr!”
Every groan and creak twisted my stomach into knots. I stared at the ceiling, futilely willing it all to stop. Sleep wasn’t even a consideration anymore.
By morning, the sounds had mercifully stopped. As we got ready for work and sat down for breakfast, the inevitable introduction came—not in person, but through the abrasive voices above.
“Fuck, yo!” a coarse, male voice bellowed.
“Stop fucking yelling at me!” a sharp, female voice snapped back.
“Where the fuck is my jersey?”
“How the fuck should I know?”
Destiny and I exchanged a glance, her raised brow mirroring my grimace.
“It’s probably nothing,” she said on the train ride to work, her voice calm and measured as she tried to soothe me. “Remember, we have Carrie. We can contact her directly if it becomes an issue.”
I sighed, my eyes fixed on the passing cityscape. “You’re right. I really hope I don’t have to.”
Oh, but I did have to. There was no ignoring those two dreadful nincompoops. And besides, we were paying a premium price—albeit within our budget—for luxury and comfort, so there was no way I was going to let it slide. I was at the leasing office door at precisely 8:30 in the morning, following another restless night of “Ooooooooo! Rrrrrrrr! Ooooooo! Rrrrrrrr!”
Destiny’s quip from the night before played in my head as Carrie unlocked the door and waved me in: “It’s never that good.”
“They’re doing it on purpose,” I said, wasting no time as Carrie gestured towards a chair in front of her desk.
Carrie tilted her head, giving me a curious look as she sat down. “What’s going on?”
I explained the ordeal from the past two nights—the moaning and purring, the creaking, even the expletive arguments we overheard during breakfast. “Absolute loud and crass. Have no regard for others.”
Carrie frowned, her brow furrowing. “Your unit is 3C, correct?”
“Yes,” I said firmly.
Her frown deepened, and she tapped her pen against the desk. “Hmm… 4C is above you. That’s Ms. Walton.”
“Is there a problem?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.
“Oh, no problem,” Carrie said quickly. “It’s just… surprising. Ms. Walton is retired and widowed. She lives alone, and she’d be the last person I’d expect to cause any kind of disturbance.”
Carrie leaned back in her chair, as if trying to reconcile my account with her mental image of Ms. Walton. She reflected aloud on Ms. Walton’s reputation: a kindhearted woman widely known as a pillar of the community. Her contributions were numerous—volunteering at local food kitchens, deeply involved in her church, including serving meals to the homeless every evening. Local newspapers had even celebrated her efforts, highlighting her dedication to raising funds for refugees and providing essentials like clothing and toiletries to those in need.
I raised an eyebrow. “That’s all great, but it’s definitely not Ms. Walton we’re hearing. Either she has guests staying with her, or there’s something else going on. We are hearing two couples above us. Boy and a girl, around college age. Completely loud and rude. Like they think this is a frat house.”
Carrie tapped her fingernails on the desk, her expression thoughtful. “That’s strange. I’ve never known Ms. Walton to have visitors or cause any issues. She’s really the sweetest lady. You’ll often see her on her morning walks every day at 10 a.m. She always greets everyone she passes.”
I didn’t reply, letting my silence speak for itself.
Noticing my unwavering stare, Carrie suddenly straightened up. “Don’t worry,” she said briskly. “I’ll talk to Ms. Walton today and sort this out. You don’t need to worry about anything. I’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you, Carrie,” I said, getting up to leave.
Walking out of the office, I felt a sense of relief. This was the reason we’d chosen a place with an onsite leasing office—having someone to handle issues like this promptly. However, as I headed off to work that morning, little did I know this issue wasn’t going to be so easily resolved.
Another dreary morning at the station, the platform teemed with commuters, but the crowd’s movements blurred into the background. Every sound felt amplified, grinding against my nerves like the relentless screech of metal on metal.
A man stood to my left, his attire immaculate—a black trench coat, neatly pressed slacks, and polished oxford shoes. He looked like he was on his way to do a photoshoot for a men’s fashion magazine. But none of that mattered. All I could focus on was the obnoxious smack-smack-smack of his gum, punctuating every word as he chatted loudly on his phone.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, his voice rising above the crowd. Smack. “No, the deal’s fine.” Smack, smack. “We’ll close by Friday.” Smack.
The wet, sticky sound seemed to echo in my head. It was as if the gum was speaking louder than the man. I gripped the handle of my briefcase tightly, fighting the urge to turn to him and yell, “Spit it out, for God’s sake! You’d sound much clearer without it!”
I shifted my gaze, desperate for relief, only to spot two squirrels in the park across the street. The pair scurried beneath a sprawling oak tree, their tiny jaws working furiously as they gnawed on acorns. The sound of their chattering teeth reached me even here, a sharp, repetitive crunching that grated against my already frayed patience.
Above me, worse of all, two crows perched on a light pole. They squawked at each other incessantly, their shrill cries cutting through the morning air. “Caw-caw! Caw-caw!” One flapped its wings, sending a tremor through the pole as if punctuating its argument. The sound pierced my ears, pushing me dangerously close to the edge. Even the animals are loud in this damn state.
The train whistle blew in the distance, a brief reprieve from the noise that surrounded me. But it did little to soothe the storm brewing inside. Three months. Three months of this insanity. What had started as the occasional moaning and purring from our upstairs neighbors—“Ooooooooo! Rrrrrrrr! Ooooooo! Rrrrrrrr!”—had escalated into a cacophony of chaos.
The moaning never stopped, but now cursing matches, loud enough to wake the dead, joined it. Profane rap music blasted at all hours of the day and night, the bass rattling our walls. The boy upstairs fancied himself a DJ, spinning tracks at full volume in the dead of night when he wasn’t...occupied.
And Carrie? The once-friendly leasing agent who’d sold us on Oakmont Ridge’s “peace and quiet.” She’d proven utterly useless. Every time I approached her, she’d offer the same empty platitudes. “I’ve filed a complaint with corporate,” she would say with that rehearsed smile. “But I have to wait for their approval before taking action.”
Week after week, I heard the same line, her words like a broken record stuck on repeat. Eventually, I’d had enough. Last Friday morning, I confronted her head-on.
“Carrie, you told us, ‘At Oakmont Ridge, peace and quiet are paramount.’ Does that ring a bell?” I asked, my voice tight with frustration.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Fahnbullah—”
“It’s Fahnbulleh,” I snapped. “Not Fahnbullah.”
“Right, that’s what I said. Look, there’s really nothing I can do. This is out of my hands. You’ll have to call corporate.”
“I already did!” I said, my voice rising. “I took an entire day off work just to sit on hold and be redirected back to you. Isn’t this your job?”
Her expression shifted, and for the first time, her polished exterior cracked. “I understand your frustration, sir, but my role is limited. I’ve sent all your recordings to corporate.”
“This is ridiculous! How is no one else complaining about this? They’re DJing in the middle of the night. Middle of the night! Do you even care?”
“If other residents had concerns, we’d act faster,” she said with a shrug, her tone infuriatingly even.
I stared at her, incredulous. “Are you serious?”
“Why wouldn’t I be? And honestly, have you tried speaking directly to Ms. Walton? She’s really a nice woman, practically a saint in the community.”
I said nothing, my silence a boiling mix of disbelief and anger.
“And if that doesn’t work,” she added with a sly, almost vindictive smile, “you can always call the police.”
There was something unsettling about her now—her cheerful facade was gone, replaced by smudged lipstick, dark circles under her eyes, and a spiteful edge to her tone. She was no longer the vibrant Carrie who had once sold us on Oakmont Ridge’s charm. Her smile felt forced, her demeanor more bitter than helpful—a look I had recognized all too well from Destiny.
I walked out (all I could do, really), defeated and seething.
At work, I remained unaffected by the chaos at home. If anything, I thrived. My sharp attention to detail and ability to deliver results earned me accolades, bonuses, and even the suggestion from a senior partner that I could one day be the youngest partner in firm’s history. But my success didn’t lessen the weight of the growing tension at home.
The noise wasn’t the real issue—I could adapt. I always had. I was a West African, extremely resilient by nature. No environment could break me. But Destiny? The noise had eaten away at her. At first, she started calling in sick, then taking days off, until she stopped going to work altogether. When I asked her about it, she waved me off with vague mentions of a “sabbatical,” a claim that made no sense but that I didn’t press further. My income could sustain us both, though it meant delaying our financial goals by a few years. That was manageable. What wasn’t manageable was watching my wife deteriorate before my eyes.
She stopped laughing. Her hair was perpetually unkempt, her eyes rimmed with exhaustion. She barely left the apartment, cooped up in that noisy hellhole. I tried to help—taking her out to dinner, exploring nearby towns, rekindling the spark we’d shared. For a time, it worked. We laughed, we joked, we made plans for the future. But then, everything unraveled.
“What the hell are all these charges?” she yelled one afternoon, laptop open on the dining table.
“Which charges?” I asked, walking in from work.
“Restaurants! $125 here, $100 there. We’ve spent $3,600 in six months! What the hell, Emmanuel?”
I chuckled nervously, loosening my tie. “That’s us, babe. We know how to have a good time.”
She wasn’t amused. “Bullshit! I know for a FACT we didn’t spend that much. Who are you taking out, Emmanuel? Who?”
Her accusations hit like a slap. “Are you serious? Destiny, it’s just u—”
“Don’t fucking play me!” she screamed, jabbing a finger toward the screen. “You cannot use your bullshit tactics on me. I am a lawyer too.”
I sighed and sat beside her, opening my meticulously organized budget spreadsheet. Every expense had a corresponding scanned receipt—proof that every dollar went toward our nights out together. What could I say? I took pride in being a budget aficionado, carefully tracking where our money went. I showed her how I’d accounted for everything and reassured her that, despite our spending, we were still firmly on track with our savings.
She didn’t argue further, muttering a quiet “Hmm.” But from that moment, she withdrew. Night after night, I suggested we go out, but she refused.
“What I WANT,” she finally said, “is for you to stop pretending everything’s fine. What I want is for you to fix this mess. You’re the one who trapped us in this two-year lease, Emmanuel. You did this.”
The look Destiny gave me that day—sharp, cutting, and full of something I couldn’t quite place—stayed with me. At first, it was fleeting, but over time, it settled in, becoming more permanent. I noticed it most when I’d come home from work. Behind the dark circles under those brown eyes, her frustration and resentment simmered. My wife was starting to hate me, and I ignored it—or maybe I chose to.
“Two years, Emmanuel. Really?”
The words hit like a sledgehammer. And she wielded that hammer mercilessly, using it as ammunition every time the noise from above erupted. There was no counterargument, no strategy to mitigate it. All I could do was sit silently and absorb the blows.
I deserved it. Signing a two-year lease had been a monumental misstep, one of the biggest regrets of my life.
At Oakmont Ridge, the penalties for breaking a lease were steep: paying out the remainder of the term, forfeiting the security deposit, and covering cleaning fees. Worse still, it would leave a black mark on our rental history—something that could derail our financial goals for years. The risk of leaving was too high.
But in hindsight, I should have taken that risk.
I should’ve said, “To hell with the penalties,” packed up our belongings, and left the noise and this cursed state behind. At the very least, I should’ve trusted my instincts, put on my lawyer hat, and negotiated a way out. I knew landlords hated litigation and preferred quick settlements. Regardless, moving back to Georgetown, the city where our love had blossomed, would’ve been worth every cent of the $66,000 in penalties.
Looking back, I knew why I didn’t act: Destiny. At 5’2’’, my wife terrified me. Confronting her with a plan to leave was akin to cornering a tiger, at night. Since moving to Oakmont Ridge, she’d grown more combative, and every day was a fight. Exhaustion—physical and emotional—consumed me as I tried to manage both work and home. But I couldn’t give up; I was committed to this marriage, no matter the circumstances. I wasn’t some deadbeat, like my father.
The arguments were relentless, though. Destiny’s tirades were fiery, laced with every curse word imaginable. I sat there, absorbing her anger like a worn sponge, until she’d tire herself out and retreat to bed. But I didn’t just endure; I tried to make things better. I planned movie nights, cooked her favorite meals, and brought home fresh flowers every Friday. For brief moments, these gestures broke through.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” she’d say, her voice cracking as she wiped away tears. “I don’t know why I’m acting like this.”
Those rare apologies kept me going, even though I knew the situation was my fault. Signing that lease had trapped us both, and every week, Carrie—the once-friendly leasing agent—reminded me of my mistake.
“There’s nothing I can do,” she’d say, her tired face betraying no sympathy.
I hated her for the deception. The smiling, bubbly leasing agent from our tour had vanished, replaced by a cynical woman who couldn’t care less about our suffering. Eventually, I stopped going to her office altogether.
Destiny, too, grew tired of my futile visits.
“Why do you keep seeing her? Do you like her or something?” she spat out one morning.
Her insinuation hung in the air, another painful wound in a marriage that was already bleeding.
Matt and Angie’s arrival had seemed like the tourniquet that would stop the bleeding and save our marriage. But hindsight was cruel, and looking back, I could see it differently. Their surprise move wasn’t a lifeline—it was the fatal blow. How could I have known at the time that their arrival would shatter the fragile bridge holding our relationship together?
When Matt called to break the news, I was confused. “We’re here!” he exclaimed for what felt like the fifth time before I asked him what he meant. Patiently, as if I hadn’t heard him the first four times, he explained that he and Angie had missed us. Both of their jobs had offices in New York City, and with that convenience in mind, they decided to move to the next town over from us.
At first, I was ecstatic. My best friend and his wife—Destiny’s best friend—were going to be neighbors. Yet, if Matt had asked my advice before uprooting their lives, I would have told him to reconsider—vehemently. The noise was already destroying my marriage; I couldn’t bear to see the same happen to theirs. Matt might’ve been able to endure it, but Angie? She was every bit as sensitive to chaos as Destiny. I had no doubt the noise would break her.
Destiny and Angie’s bond ran deep. Best friends since high school, they were more like sisters. They were inseparable, moving through life in tandem: college, applying to law school at Georgetown together, choosing careers in family law, and supporting each other through every step of the journey. Both came from well-to-do African American families in D.C., raised in an atmosphere of privilege and high expectations. Angie, though, had a slightly different upbringing—her father was white, and her mother African American—but their shared values and ambitions cemented their friendship.
Matt was my anchor in law school. I still remember our first day, sitting in a packed lecture hall while the professor launched into a dizzying, jargon-filled diatribe. Everyone around me seemed to be furiously scribbling notes, their heads nodding in understanding. I stared at my empty notepad, utterly lost. When I glanced to my left, there was another blank sheet. The guy sitting next to me ran a hand through his messy, sandy-blond hair, turned to me, and muttered, “I’m not cut out for this shit.”
I couldn’t help it—I laughed. He laughed too, and that was the beginning of our friendship. “Matt,” he said, offering his hand.
From that day forward, we were bros. Matt had a way of making even the most grueling days bearable, his easygoing humor a constant balm against the pressure of law school. He was the kind of friend you kept for life, and he proved it when he stood by my side as my best man on my wedding day.
It was Destiny and me who introduced Matt and Angie. From the moment they met, sparks flew. Matt’s laid-back charm and Angie’s fiery intelligence were an unlikely but perfect match. They fell for each other instantly, and soon after, they were planning their own wedding—just months after ours.
Now, as they settled into their new home, I should’ve been happy. Yet unease gnawed at me. The curse of this place had already taken so much from Destiny and me. Would it now claim our best friends, too?
To Be Continued
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