I have been asked countless times to recount how it all started – I mean, M. and me, me and M., us. How did I – the sentimentally-challenged French girl – and him – the reserved Kenyan guy – meet and match? I would be tempted to reply: randomly, as all good real life stories begin. With hindsight, I had a feeling you wouldn’t quite be satisfied with a single word so here goes.
I was on the verge of tears when I hung up the phone on this conversation with a dear friend of mine. After about half an hour of random chit-chat interspersed by fits of laughter, the tone of his voice suddenly changed and this came around:
“Kancil, I have something to tell you. Big News.”
“Good or bad?” I ventured.
“Good and bad at the same time. I haven’t told anyone yet. I’m not sure how you are going to take it.”
“Please, spare me the suspense. It’s already become unbearable. What is it?”
“Alright. There: I am…leaving town. I got a job in Dubai.”
I clang on to my phone like a plane crash survivor to his useless oxygen mask.
“You are what? I mean, when?”
“Hum. Next Friday…” His voice was almost reduced to a whisper. I could hardly believe what was happening.
“Oh. Ow. I don’t know what to say, apart from: please tell me you don’t mean this Friday, as in, three days from now.”
“I’m afraid that’s what I mean. Look, I am having a farewell party of sorts with the usual crew on Thursday night so why don’t you join us for tea?”
The first thought that crossed my mind was that I was going to collapse on the very spot. Well, I didn’t. I merely replied in a hurry: “Ok, you can count me in. I am going to hang up now.”
“Are you ok? I know it’s a bit sudden but I am in no position to negotiate the terms and …”
“Please let me hang up. I’ll see you on Thursday.”
“Kancil…” That’s the moment I chose to press the red button on my phone so he wouldn’t have to hear the first sob.
That Thursday evening, I happened to be the first guest to show up … and out of breath on top of that. This obsession of mine with keeping time had played yet another trick on me. Because I thought I was late, I had run all the way down from campus and climbed the three flights of stairs under the bewildered eyes of a couple of security guards. Let me not wonder any longer how come people I have briefly come across usually remember me while I have not the faintest idea who they are.
The lively mood of the troops cheered me up a bit, although I was dreading the moment we would have to part ways. As it were, a latecomer I didn’t know decided to take the seat next to mine and strike a conversation. I was far from imagining he would be the one to save me from a night on the streets. This would not be the first nor the last of my misadventures with matatus but that is another story altogether. That night, we stayed out late chatting and the matatus to my neighbourhood were out of service. Quite to my demise, I had only spared enough money for my fare and none of the remaining pals were able to put me up for the night. That’s when M. stepped out in the most gentlemanly manner to offer to hire a taxi and accompany me up to my place. I insisted on paying him back and we exchanged numbers.
Money owed got transformed into my buying him coffee a couple of weeks later. I was wondering what this was all about –the car rally “date” (?) the week before, now an evening coffee meet-up – but I am always up for coffee anyway. So I am here waiting up on M. feeling jazzed for some reason or another. Probably the smell of coffee and that cafe atmosphere bringing back to mind so many other places long left behind. I’ve had time to pry into my neighbour’s newspaper, dislike the design of the wall paper and steal a glance at passers-by without a sign of him.
He’s here. His presence is all around, reaching over from the other side of the table. He tells me tales of his, I drown. My images are no longer of friends gathering in European cafes, they are of somebody’s leap into my half-table. This M. guy just made the invisible divide line blur. We chat the evening away. At times, eyes are locked and there’s a million things said and unsaid. They come in, they come out. The TV screen on the wall goes back to its natural black silence.
The dark has crept upon us in layers. An army of waiters buzz around the interface to finally pop the bubble. We are mopped out on the streets of Nairobi at nine something in the evening. It was good while it lasted!
April 23rd, 2011 at 11:45 pm
Lovely story but I’m a little confused is this the same guy you were going to get married to in the previous post?
April 26th, 2011 at 12:12 pm
Yes, he is the same guy! It’s the story of how we met. A flashback of sorts!