The Landlord is Watching

There are certain moments in life that confirm you have officially become an adult.

Paying tax without crying. Knowing which painkillers work the fastest. Developing strong opinions about bread brands.

Renting, however, is where adulthood becomes a mystery.

As a grown person, you do not expect anyone to manage your bedtime. Not your parents. Not the church, and not even the government.

Yet somehow, the landlord who saw your ID, copied it, and still decided to proceed, feels spiritually called to do exactly that.

They will not put it in the rental contract because that would be illegal, traceable and potentially embarrassing in court. No, they will wait, observe and then strike. Usually on a Friday.

It is 22h47. You are not drunk or disorderly. You are just tired in that adult way where excitement ends at 22h00.

You reach for your keys, and then you hear it from the darkness near the gate: “My child.”

Your brain stalls. My child? You are 39. You have a back problem and a medical aid card you barely use. You have a fully paid rental agreement and groceries that need refrigeration.

Yet here you are, being summoned like a Grade 4 pupil.

“My child, what are you doing out so late?” she asks, arms folded, already disappointed.

You want to say “living”, but rent has taught you humility. Instead of risking being out on the street by the morning, you nod like a witness being cross-examined by Sisa Namandje.

“I thought you were a responsible person,” she continues, raising her voice as you reposition your keys, preparing to unlock the place you pay for.

“I will not allow this in my house.”

“Her house, ti?” you hear your inner voice go. That’s an interesting choice of words, considering the rent that left your account three days ago.

But before you can unpack that, she adds “Ahawe, not in my house”, just to make sure the message lands.

You stand there, holding keys that unlock your own space, listening to rules that were invented on the spot and will never be repeated in writing. Renting is like that.

Landlords get into real surveillance mode just as they hear the bathroom doors open and close. They have an intimate, almost romantic relationship with water usage.

They know when you turn on the tap and when you’re thinking too deeply under the hot water.

Three minutes in, there is a cough from the main house.

Five minutes in, a tap outside shuts off aggressively, like punctuation. Then the message arrives: “Are you okay? You have been in the shower for long.”

For long? Etse, are we in the army barracks?

You see, the thing with the shower is that you don’t bath for luxury. You are removing the day and its problems.

You soap, rinse and emerge slightly traumatised but victorious. Still, the next dayß it comes up casually: “You use too much water.”

And so, subconsciously, you start drinking less water too, just in case.

Visitors are the next offence. Landlords say they do not mind visitors, but this is a lie.

They hate visitors, especially when they bring good vibes she cannot be a part of.

Yes, they mind your visitors. One visitor is fine, but not of the opposite sex.

Two are suspicious. Three and above are an illegal gathering that may destabilise the neighbourhood.

Landlords go as far as counting the cars outside or the voices coming from your flat.

“I don’t like many people coming here,” they say, as if you invited them to share an opinion. You explain that it is your cousin or your friend.

Or a human you have known for years. They nod slowly.

“This is not a hotel,” they add, which is ironic, because hotels do not interrogate your social life.

Electricity bills arrive baked in judgement.

“This month is high,” they say, as if electricity is a personal failing. You explain that you use lights.

Occasionally a kettle. Perhaps a phone charger. They advise you to “switch off everything”.

You comply. Dreams included. Some landlords will unplug appliances while you are at work, just to assist you spiritually.

When the rent is due, you are family.

“You are like my own child,” they say warmly.

When you raise a concern, you are suddenly just a tenant. Family does not need notice. Family does not knock. Family does not complain. But do not get confused, family also does not pay rent late.

Renting teaches patience. It teaches diplomacy. It teaches you how to apologise while being right.

It teaches you to nod while your soul steps outside for air.

One day, you will own your place.

One day, no one will ask why you came home late.

One day, you will shower without a stopwatch.

Until then, remember you are paying rent for a stranger to own your entire life and happiness.

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