Whenever there’s a commotion, my mind snaps to attention like a cat catching a whiff of trouble. I could be miles deep in thought or lost in my phone, but the moment I hear a commotion, my ears prick up like antennae, ready to catch every nuance. It was one of those evenings, the kind that you think will be uneventful, but the universe has other plans.

I had dropped by a friend’s apartment, commonly known as plots or ‘ploti’ in Kenya, only to find he was not home at the time we agreed to meet. No problem—I parked myself on a worn bench in the lobby, scrolling through my phone, watching life trickle in and out. People walked by, some chatting, some lost in their own worlds and I paid them no mind—until she appeared. A woman, somewhere in her mid-fifties, bustled through the door. Let us call her Ann. She had that harried air of someone who is juggling too many thoughts at once. She darted in, then out, then back in again, and this time, disappeared up the stairs. I thought nothing of it, not until the next character entered the scene.

A woman in, her late thirties, stormed into the lobby like she was on a mission, moving fast—no, sprinting. Let us call her Jane. Now, here is where my internal radar flickered. Something about her urgency, the way her heels clicked against the floor with purpose felt…off. But hey, not my circus, not my monkeys. Or so I thought.

Minutes later the quiet lobby was shattered by the sounds of raised voices. The argument carried down all the way from the second floor—or the third, if you’re American ha! . Despite the distance, I could hear every word as though the drama was unfolding right next to me. It sounded like they were right outside one of their doors, locked in a verbal battle.

Apparently, Jane—the one who had dashed upstairs—was confronting Ann and another woman, let us call her Joan, accusing them of gossiping about her. The tension in the air was palpable as though this was a storm that had been brewing all day. Jane was new to the building and it seemed she did not take kindly to neighbors whispering behind her back. How she knew? Well, who knows—but whatever intel she had, it was enough to ignite this fire.

Ann, not one to back down, shot back, her voice dripping with disdain.

“Just because you find people talking doesn’t mean it’s about you! You’re not that special,” she snapped. “Do you even know how old I am? I’m someone’s grandmother!”

But Jane, oh, she was not having it. With the kind of quiet confidence that is more unsettling than a shout, she responded,

“I am special. And I know you were talking about me!”

While Jane kept her cool and her tone steady, Ann was teetering on the edge of fury, her voice rising with each sentence. Joan tried to chime in, but her attempts to mediate were drowned out by the escalating chaos. It was a storm in full swing, words crashing like waves.

And then it happened. A slap. The unmistakable, sharp crack of hand meeting cheek. Silence. Then another slap, quick on the heels of the first, followed by a torrent of voices all shouting over one another. At that moment, the drama was so thick you could cut it with a knife. I had forgotten all about my friend. I was too deep into the unfolding spectacle, sipping the tea like a seasoned gossip connoisseur.

A few neighbors began trickling out of their apartments with curiosity etched on their faces, drawn by the sounds of conflict. It was clear that this scene was not going to die down anytime soon.

But as much as I was tempted to stay for the encore, the day had worn me out. It was getting late, and I was tired. I left the building, resolving to catch up with my friend another time—because I had to know how the story ended. Did I come here just for the drama? Maybe. But let me tell you, it was sizzling, and I soaked it all up like a pro!