How it Should Be

A story by MUTINTA NANCHENGWA

A haze of heat settles over the city. I am not sure which city – I have spent my life in limbo across the COMESA states, but as luck would have it, I have been suspended recently between Nairobi and Lusaka. The city I am seeing now, awash in a sweltering heat that seems to bend the fabric of the air, looks like an amalgamation of the two. An artist’s rendition from memory. Or maybe my memories tend to seep into each other and create a brand-new thing. This hybrid-dream city has Lusaka’s charming expanse of still untouched land in what is fondly known as kuma yard – but standing in the background, just on the horizon, are Nairobi’s daunting high-rise flats. It doesn’t matter all the same because I can see outside the kitchen window.

I am watching a small girl play in the grass, it looks like she is at my mother’s house. Or what should be my mother’s house in this fusion-dream city of mine. The little girl has inherited my dark skin, but slightly paler, mixing beautifully with Trevor’s brown complexion. She is slight and tall––she inherited her father’s stature too. And his nose, thank goodness! Her lips are mine, though, plump and full when at rest but stretched thin into a boundless smile when she is happy. She is happy right now. Her small hands are bossing her companion around as she plays with toy cars that her uncles gave her. 

Watching her fills my heart with an affection so immense it stabs my chest a little.  I lean on the sink, and catch my breath, considering the skinny girl playing in the sun. I rub my chest and continue to watch her. I am unsure of where this instinct to watch a child this intently has come from, but I welcome it. Hadassah already has taken up so much space in my heart, that it aches to think that I am not holding her right now. Hadassah, I swirl the name around my mouth, and it seems to fit as naturally and easily as the name of her father did all those years ago, when I was still her age.

I realise then that the girl is not alone. Her companion is slightly bigger than she is, a year maybe two older than her. He stands next to her with a gentle familiarity. I know by watching them that this companion, who may be a stranger now, is important to my Hadassah. My brows furrow as he starts an argument with my fragile baby, reminding me of my own past, and I am transported to a time before now. 

*

There is a slight haze of smoke, either from the grill or from people’s cigarettes in the bar. The smell of nyama choma scents the air, and the meat compliments the beer in Trevor’s hands and the sweet red in mine. A popular gengetone song plays over the speakers,  setting the mood and giving me a headache.  I know already that sweet red is a mistake because I am more talkative than usual, more handsy and flirtatious. Trevor laughs each time but does nothing to bat away my advances. It’s our first real date together, after years apart. I watch his face intently, studying it in case I ever forget what he looks like. I laugh at the thought of this impossibility. 

He runs a hand over my crossed leg, stopping at my ankle, where a strappy heel hangs lazily off my foot. He fondles the strap, looking into my eyes as he does. “How are you feeling?” he asks. His voice is thunder, strong and commanding.

“We’ve been hanging out for hours, why are you only asking me now.” I giggle, taking a sip of my wine.

“It’s just––it has been a long time,” he says. He gazes into the distance and temporarily stops stroking the strap of my shoe. 

I want to command him to put his hand back and rush him forward, but is that appropriate? Instead, I ask, “Since what?” feigning innocence.

“I was holding you, for instance,” he says and returns his hand to my ankle. I sigh, and it feels heavier than I expected. I wish I could take all the air back into my lungs and remain aloof and sexy. I try to make it up by batting my eyes at him, but he has always seen beyond my charms.

“I don’t want things to be complicated,” he says. “In the morning, you will be at the airport, and then we’ll be in different time zones after that.”

A barrage of emotions wells up in my chest, and a flood of words gather at the tip of my tongue, but with more willpower than I knew I had, I swallow them, every last word. “What am I supposed to do with all this love then?” I whisper. 

The air is thick. Cigarette smoke continues to permeate the air, and patrons laugh loudly with each other. I look across the small restaurant at another couple. His hand is permanently on her thigh, and hers is on top of his. They are intertwined with each other, moving like one being. I realise with dismay that Trevor’s hand is no longer on my ankle. In fact, it is gripping his glass tightly. I gulp the dredges of my sweet red, and smile sweetly at him, tasting the wine on my lips and feeling reckless. Then, I grab his face, kiss him passionately and without restraint. 

He returns the kiss, and in that, we forge an agreement––we will find each other, eventually.

As he predicted, the next morning, I am staring at the boring grey walls in the airport. And as I expected, from one too many glasses of wine, a headache is slamming into my skull, pushing me further into misery.  

I try to get the airport Wi-Fi to work and the boarding call seems to never come. 

My mind is barely with me as I board the plane silently, shove my hand luggage in the overhead cabin and slump into my seat. 

I barely notice the tears as we fly back into Lusaka.  

I shuffle past immigration and baggage claim and sigh, knowing that I left my heart in Nairobi.

*

My heart does not call for days. The texts are sporadic––crazy day at work––sorry, love, been busy. You know how it goes when you’re living on borrowed time. Eventually, we slip farther and farther away from each other, and the quality of the air around me worsens. It’s hard to exist without your raison d’etre. 

The months pass and my hair grows longer, my temper shorter. I lose a job and stumble upon a better one. I grow tougher to the world, but sadder inside my own. 

He changes too. He shaves off his beard,  lands himself a promotion, and then another one after that. He rises through corporate ladders and quickly becomes a phenomenal business leader. We don’t see each other for ages. I fly in and out of Nairobi, missing him each time and then the next and then–– First, he has flown off to Madrid, and then Rome, then Mombasa, Lagos, anywhere I am not.

Time passes me by. A few years becomes many lives. I become a spectator in each of my own lives. 

And in the many lives that we were apart, my feet stretch across the SADC now. Little roots form in Namibia and South Africa, but like the coward I am, I never stray too far from the capitals. And in true coward form, I discourage any chance for the roots to grow, uprooting myself from commitments that seem too heavy. A whirlwind of life experiences - new responsibilities, new thoughts, and new takes on spirituality. I also develop a new outlook on romance, which is to say none at all. 

*

Loneliness is not something I am a stranger to. Even as a child, I felt like I was living on the periphery. Those months without Trevor felt the same. It was almost as if I was observing my life through other people’s eyes. Days went by in a haze, waking up to work, and falling asleep on the couch, some random sitcom playing in the background. I would say to people that I was on a journey, and I was happy, but what I really meant is that I wasn’t sad.

I’d often find myself, sitting alone in a cafe, sipping on a latte, working on something. The world was quiet on those days, the sound of people talking in the cafe was like bees in a hive. If I wasn’t focusing on my work, I would often observe the people in the cafe and ponder on their lives. More often than not, I would watch the couples, especially the ones that seemed most in love, and wonder if that was an alternative future for me and Trevor. 

The question sat in my mind, perpetually unanswered.

*

It’s s a sweaty night, in the heat of Lusaka in a swanky rooftop bar. The smell of shisha wafts through the air, mingling with slightly burnt michopo on a braai stand. Kalindula blasts through the speakers, the rhythm pounding on my head. Even though it’s our first time here, the chatter and dancing of the crowd seem safe, familiar. I am nursing a Malawi shandy, savouring the lingering taste of the bitters. Trevor smiles at me, next to me, on a low couch at the edge of the roof. His face looks different, more mature now without the beard. This time, when I find myself making sure I memorise every single feature, just in case I forget what he looks like, I laugh at that thought because I know, it is impossible. 

Again, his hand rests on my ankle, fiddling with the strap of my platform heels. I appreciate the show of affection, savouring the feel of his hands on my skin. The night is electric, the beat of the music infusion a sense of urgency into every conversation, translated into the speed of their gyrating hips. I am trying to relax, almost but failing to get it right because of the brick wall that I have successfully built in these months Trevor and I have been apart. 

I sweeten my voice, fill it up with emotion and whisper, “I wish I could tell you how much I’ve missed you, Trev. ”

“I wish I could tell you how much I’ve missed you,” he echoes. These past months have been difficult.”  Trevor smiles, looking right at me as he says it. His hand is still on my ankle, and the combination of his voice and hand starts to dismantle the brick wall, so swiftly I am left questioning why I built the walls in the first place. 

While we have the moment, I pull his hand from my ankle, and this time, my skin doesn’t scream from the loss of contact. Around us, Lusaka’s night rushes by, as intense as the heat, the music, the dancing. Slowly, I place my hand into his, savouring the feel of his calluses, palm lines, every place his hands have been.  “I don’t want to lose you again,” I say. I look into his eyes, surprising myself with the bravery to face him like this. “And I will do everything in my power to ensure that I never do. You’re my person, baby. And it stays this way.”

For a moment, he is quiet. Something shifts in the atmosphere, the air between us suddenly charged. But then he laughs and says, “You sound like you’re threatening me.” 

“Maybe I am,” I laugh, too, relaxing again because everything is as it should be. “But I mean it. I don’t want to lose you again.

*

I gasp and clutch my chest. I am once again in my mother’s house, in this hybrid-dream city. My beautiful Hadassah is seated on the lawn, cradling something in her hands and crying. I still feel like I am trapped in a dream. I want to run towards her and cradle her, protect her from the world, but her companion comforts her instead. He tries to hold her hand, but she turns away defiantly, sticking out her tongue at him. 

I laugh. Hadassah reminds me of myself, when I was little. When Trevor and I first met, I was just an awkward child, high-spirited but shy. Trevor always seemed to be the one to get me to slow down a little bit. He would often try to hold my hand, and I’d just as often run away from him, frightened by the hammering of my heart in my chest. Little did I know that I would feel the same hammering as a grown woman, whenever Trevor would hold my hand. 

The sound of my laughter is alien, and I watch the scene unfold like an old roll of film. My head spins, as I try to find my bearings in this dream, holding onto things that are poor recollections of a life that I forgot to live. I stumble around the house looking for a seat, until I find a modern living room with ancient decorations. I recognise some of them, like the wooden crucifix my mother gifted me when I got married. 

Married? That feels new. 

I continue to examine the room, rapt. There is a picture of Hadassah on the wall, laughing at something off-camera. Next to that picture is one of my wedding. I am wearing the gown I had always dreamed of. I am awed by the life that we have built without me even realising it. This is a life full of love. 

I stand up and continue walking through the house, the pain in my heart easing with each step. I recognise my style choices in the way that cushions are arranged on chairs, the colours of the walls, and the decorations we’ve hung up. I see some of him, too, adding a balance to my eccentric design choices. Then, I wander back into the kitchen, a satisfied smile on my face. 

The sun is shining on the large garden, one I am suddenly grateful for. Hadassah is playing happily with her companion again. I notice that her dress is getting dirty, and I will have a hard time washing the grass stains out, but my heart bursts at the sight of her happiness. I am living a life of happiness. 

*

An alarm rings somewhere in the distance, and Trevor groans. I open my eyes slowly. I am in Nairobi. No, that’s not correct. I know I’m not in Lusaka, the air here seems lighter. I sit up in bed and look across the room. A pair of crumpled clothes are draped across hotel chairs, next to an assortment of our suitcases. I piece the memories together. We left our hotel at the break of dawn, barely sleeping after a fairy tale wedding. I glance at the suitcase again and see a pair of white wedding pumps. Memories of our wedding night flood me all at once. I remember saying my vows, my finger trembling slightly as he slipped the beautiful rose gold band on it. How the world stopped for us once again, as he kissed me for the first time as my husband. The warmth that flooded me as he held me later, under the stars, our first dance.

There is an open champagne bottle on the nightstand, and I moan––That accounts for the headache I feel forming. Slowly I drag myself out of bed. Trevor is a light sleeper, something I discovered from our many nights together. I tiptoe to the window and peep out the curtains. The world is still grey with early morning, but the rising sun casts a red glow over the coast. It takes me a while, but now I remember,  we are in Zanzibar, for our honeymoon. I giggle a little bit as I remember the dream I had last night, of my daughter, Hadassah, realising now that Hadassah was me! I shake my head, thinking of how far Trevor and I have come, arguing in his mother’s garden over toy cars and trivial things, to me waking up next to him. 

I am surprised to feel a little flutter in my belly. It feels like butterfly wings across my tummy and sends a shiver up my spine. I have no proof yet, but I know that I am closer to holding the real Hadassah soon. I hope she really does have his nose. 

Somewhere close by, a radio plays an old RnB song that I recognise. I open the window and savour the scent of salt water and sun-baked sand. Mpenzi, hakuna matata. Kila kitu kitawa sawa sawa. I sing along to the song under my breath––My lover, you don’t have to worry. Everything will be alright. 

The alarm blares again, and Trevor groans louder, mumbling for me to turn it off. 

I oblige happily, trying my best not to hum, and slip back into the bed, snuggling into the warmth of my raison d’etre’s back. He reaches his hand over awkwardly and pats my thigh, and I suppress a giggle again. I am full of those lately. 

Trevor snores gently, and I laugh at how quickly he falls back asleep. 

A wave of contentment washes over me, must be the post-wedding glow, it doesn’t matter anyway. My world is at peace, and everything has fallen into place. Everything is the way it should be.