Belal Kabani v. Heather N Alsup and Stephanie Adamson and any and all other occupants

Let’s cut straight to the drama: a landlord is suing two women—and literally everyone else living there—for $2,550 in unpaid rent, which might not sound like a lot until you realize this is a full-blown eviction battle over what amounts to less than three grand. That’s right. Someone called the sheriff, hired a lawyer, filed court papers, and is now dragging multiple human beings into court over the price of a used car down payment or a single month of rent in a major city. Welcome to CrazyCivilCourt, where the stakes are low, the tension is high, and the pettiness is always premium.

So who are these people? On one side, we’ve got Belal Kabani, the plaintiff and presumably the landlord, who owns a townhome unit in the Fulton Park Townhomes in Tulsa, Oklahoma. He’s represented by attorney Nathan MLner (yes, spelled “MLner,” not “Miller”—we’re not here to judge names, but we are here to note that this man has a bar number and a law license, so we’ll take him seriously, even if his name looks like a typo). On the other side, we have Heather N. Alsup and Stephanie Adamson—two tenants who, according to the filing, are currently occupying Unit 5348, Building 2, along with “any and all other occupants,” which is legal code for “we don’t know who else is crashing on the couch, but they’re getting sued too.” It’s the civil court version of casting a wide net: if you’ve slept in that bed, sat on that toilet, or borrowed the Wi-Fi password, you’re potentially on the docket.

Now, what exactly went down? The story, as told in the sparse but dramatic language of a legal petition, is this: Kabani rented out his property to Alsup and Adamson. At some point, the rent stopped getting paid. Specifically, $2,550 worth of rent went unpaid. That’s not chump change—especially if you’re living paycheck to paycheck—but for a landlord, it’s also not a financial catastrophe. Still, Kabani didn’t just send a sternly worded email or a late fee notice. No, he went straight to the big leagues: he filed a forcible entry and detainer action. That’s legalese for “get out, you’re evicted,” and it’s the fastest legal path to reclaiming your property when a tenant won’t pay or won’t leave. According to the filing, Kabani demanded payment. The tenants allegedly refused. No part of the $2,550 was paid. And so, with the solemnity of a medieval decree, Kabani declared: “I hereby waive the 10-day period,” which sounds like something a villain says before launching a missile, but in reality just means he’s skipping a waiting period so the eviction process can move faster. The message is clear: he wants his property back, and he wants it now.

But why are they in court, exactly? Let’s break it down without the legalese. Kabani isn’t suing for breach of contract or emotional distress or anything fancy. He’s using Oklahoma’s forcible entry and detainer laws, which are designed for exactly this kind of situation: when someone is on your property, they’re not supposed to be there anymore (either because they stopped paying or their lease ended), and they refuse to leave. It’s not about proving someone broke ten rules of tenancy—it’s about possession. The court isn’t going to hear arguments about whether the dishwasher was broken or if the neighbors were loud. It’s a simple question: Who gets to live in that townhome? Kabani says him. The tenants, by not paying and not leaving, are saying them. So the court has to decide. And while Kabani is also technically claiming damages to the premises, the filing curiously leaves that amount blank—$NA, as it says, which is either a typo, a placeholder, or the legal equivalent of “we’ll figure that out later.” Suspicious? Maybe. But not uncommon in these kinds of filings.

Now, what does Kabani actually want? Two things: money and possession. He wants the $2,550 in unpaid rent—plus court costs and attorney’s fees, which could push the total higher. And he wants the tenants out. Like, out out. The court summons literally commands them to “relinquish immediately” control of the property or show up and explain why they shouldn’t. If they don’t show up, Kabani wins by default, and the sheriff can legally remove them—yes, with a writ of assistance, which sounds like a wizard’s spell but is actually just a court order that lets law enforcement physically evict someone. So while $2,550 might seem like a relatively small amount—especially in a world where people sue over millions for slander or emotional distress—it’s not nothing. For a tenant, it could be two months’ rent. For a landlord, it might be a drop in the bucket, but the principle matters. Still, let’s be real: this isn’t a case about money. It’s about power. It’s about who controls the keys. And Kabani is pulling out every legal lever to make sure it’s him.

Our take? Look, we’re not here to defend deadbeat tenants or glorify slumlords. But there’s something almost Shakespearean in the absurdity of this situation. A man sues two women—and, by the way, “any and all other occupants,” which could include a college kid visiting for spring break or a dog-sitter who stayed an extra night—over less than three grand, and does it with the full force of the legal system: notaries, sworn statements, sheriff’s returns, and courtroom showdowns scheduled for a chilly February afternoon in Tulsa. The whole thing reads like a sitcom plot: “The Great Eviction of Unit 5348.” And yet, for the people involved, it’s dead serious. One missed paycheck, one medical bill, one unexpected car repair—any of those could land someone in this exact spot. Meanwhile, the landlord has a lawyer on speed dial and is ready to send the sheriff to kick people out of their home over a sum that, let’s be honest, could probably be covered by selling a decent used motorcycle.

The most absurd part? That blank space where the damages should be. $NA. Not $0. Not “unknown.” NA. It’s like the legal version of “fill in the blank later when we decide how mad we are.” And the fact that this case is moving forward with such formality over an amount that wouldn’t even cover a week at a luxury resort. But that’s the American civil justice system for you: equal opportunity, equal drama, and absolutely no chill. We’re not rooting for the landlord. We’re not rooting for the tenants. We’re rooting for someone—anyone—to just Venmo the other person the $2,550 and go home. But no. We’re going to court. Because apparently, in 2025, peace is too expensive.