“They are administrative.”
“That's not an answer.”
The room became restless.
Bettina looked at me.
“Mr. Okafor.”
I looked up.
“Yes?”
“Would you like to address the community?”
“No.”
She seemed surprised.
“No?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because this is an HOA meeting.”
She smiled.
“Very well.”
She turned back.
Five minutes later, another homeowner stood.
“Bettina, where are the financial statements?”
She sighed.
“They are being compiled.”
“They were being compiled last year.”
Another voice:
“And the landscaping contract?”
“Under review.”
“And the security contract?”
“Also under review.”
Someone laughed.
Bettina slammed her binder shut.
“This meeting is becoming hostile.”
A retired nurse near the front said quietly:
“No, Bettina.”
The room went silent.
“You're just not controlling it anymore.”
That sentence changed everything.
The Letter
Two days later, I received a letter from an attorney.
The attorney represented the HOA.
It accused me of harassment.
I read it at my kitchen table.
It demanded that I stop “interfering with neighborhood administration.”
I called no one.
Instead, I forwarded it to my own attorney.
His name was Samuel Price.
He had represented me during an earlier administrative matter.
He called me that evening.
“Darnell.”
“Sam.”
“You know this isn't really about the groceries.”
“I know.”
“She wants you gone.”
“Probably.”
“Why?”
“Because I don't cooperate.”
He laughed.
“No. Because you're not scared of her.”
I didn't answer.
Sam continued.
“Do you have documentation?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Fourteen months.”
Silence.
“Darnell.”
“What?”
“Tell me you didn't secretly conduct a personal investigation.”
“I documented my own interactions.”
“That's different.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
He paused.
“Now let me ask you something.”
“What?”
“Why haven't you left?”
I looked through the kitchen window.
The neighborhood was quiet.
Porch lights.
Trees.
Mailboxes.
People living ordinary lives.
“Because I bought my house,” I said.
Sam laughed.