A Chance Encounter

Chidi kept walking. He had kept at it for close to an hour now. He struggled to ignore the early morning winter chill that gnawed at his skin despite having on his heavy Daniel Hechter jacket. Not that it was snowing – ever since he came to Pretoria he had marveled at how sunny but cold it was in the winter. Nairobi was similar in August, but not quite as cold and definitely not as sunny. It only made him yearn for the hot and humid Mombasa where he grew up. He bit his lip, rueful at this memory. He sorely missed Mombasa, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to go back.

A playful bark made him look up from the dried grass on his path, and his eyes met those of a woman walking her German shepherd. The dog rolled his eyes in wild excitement, the leash on his neck not dampening his freedom as he surged in the morning freshness. The brief annoyance that flashed on Chidi’s dour face at the interruption of his thoughts was quickly replaced by interest aroused by the warm curiosity in the woman’s eyes: she was smiling at him.

“Hi!” she called out gaily.

He almost misstepped on the curb lining the grass that would have been lush in the spring. He thought he heard a car approaching from behind and tried to keep his balance off the street, all the while attempting to smile back and summon a reasonably gay voice.

“Did you keep him in all week?” His eyes were on the big dog, bristling with masculinity, tongue flapping about loosely in tandem with quick, short spurts of breath. The dog’s masculine energy was incongruous with her frail femininity. He felt manly as they approached each other. He straightened himself to emphasize his already tall frame. Her eyes were a striking blue, and he was momentarily lost in them. She was surefooted for her young and innocent face: he figured she could be around twenty-one, twenty-five at most. There was something fresh about her. He wished she had dressed light so he didn’t have to settle for the hint of curves his trained eye detected.

“Oh, don’t worry about him, he’s just being him.” He recovered himself enough to hear the last tapering of her elegant, high-pitched voice. Urbane. Faintly tinged by an Afrikaans accent. She saw he was distracted, and chuckled as he fought the busted look on his face.

“Hi, my name is Chidi.” He stretched out his hand, and couldn’t help it that his handshake was firm. He found hers soft and even more inviting.

“Chidi? What a name. Where are you from?” Her curiosity was refreshing in its candidness. He found himself opening up more than he normally did. He told her about Mombasa, about Nairobi and how he wound up in Pretoria in a well-to-do neighbourhood like Waterkloof, snug with his own house. He understated his success despite her friendly prodding.

The German shepherd whimpered, impatient and unhappy at the unwelcome intrusion into his world with Michelle, as Chidi gathered her name was. She told him in exaggerated nonchalance that she was a student at the University of Pretoria, studying Law and Politics. Their conversation charmed him; her ambivalence towards him all in the space of a few minutes, and her unsuppressed, infectious cheer. Intrigue seeped off her pores, and he felt himself drawn without resistance. Genuine laughter escaped freely from his temples: he couldn’t remember the last time it felt so good to laugh. The morning sun accentuated his ruggedly handsome features, further ensnaring Michelle who was already hooked on the promise of his athleticism. He was a picture of the exotic.

As she walked off he felt so good he didn’t remember what it was they had talked about in all of half an hour. A knowing promise to keep in touch was made. Numbers were changed. He felt warmer now; there was a spring in his step. He resisted looking back as he used to do back in Mombasa to catch a glimpse of an unmissable behind or to confirm if the feeling was mutual.

The curbs, grass, and driveways alternated successively as he continued his walk in the affluence of the neighbourhood. He met a group of dreary-looking ladies walking to the local Woolworths shop, ready for a day’s work. A couple among them glanced at him, hopeful that he might be their ticket out of the struggle. They knew about his car, that he wasn’t from around, and that he seemed harmless enough to smile at in subtle offering. Even better, he bought bachelor food. He smiled back, polite and non-dismissive. After all, he saw them every other day at the shop.

Michelle lingered on his mind. Perhaps next time he would tell her about his struggle. As they got to know each other better maybe he would tell her about Rahma and how he loved her; would always love her. God willing he would muster the courage to tell her how her family blamed him; how Mombasa reminded him of her; and how the eyes of his own family had followed him with an accusing burn. Man has the choice to redeem himself, and he had made the choice, but it didn’t matter. She was gone. She had been his Bonnie, him her Clyde, but the story didn't fit because she was gone.

Maybe Michelle would understand. Maybe she would not be encumbered by the unseen but ubiquitous Rahma in his life, as Lerato had been, or Nolitha before her. He hoped she hadn’t seen the haunt in his eyes in that brief half-hour. It had been almost perfect: Rahma had not been on his mind. He tripped and almost fell on his guilt.

He walked on and away, as if from a past. The chill, conspiring with the wind to torment him, descended upon him again, making his eyes wet and his nose run.

Picture Credit: ratfinkle.deviantart.com/art/