(A fictional sequel to Love in the Heart…)
By Haron Wachira
When he turned 60 Timothy decided to confront the one demon he had been unable to conquer since his teenage years. His children had grown up and had become responsible young adults. His wife, Grace, was secure in their 30-year-long marriage. They were of good standing in society, solid believers in Christ, and active in a local church. And their business had a stable cash flow and returned a predictable profit.
At the time of making this pivotal decision, Timothy happened to be in La-Huru, G.’s hometown, on a business trip there. If he saw her, he thought, see how she had weathered over the years, hear her voice — whether that soft laugh had changed —, see the hair that must by now be turning grey, and how her firm bust had braved against sagging, and how (he was sure) her tender palms had defied aging, he believed he would, at last, conquer his emotions, his fixation on the 14-year-old belle that had stolen his impressionable 16-year-old heart 44 years back. If he saw her now, he thought, he would be able to release her from his heart and move on.
He made the call. No, not to G. He did not know her telephone number. He called a woman friend of hers who had been in their circles as teenagers and who, Timothy knew, had maintained a friendship with G.
He had thought about G. nearly every day from that one ten-minute encounter in front of her elder brother’s house. He had dished out sweets (taken out from his mother’s shop) to her younger siblings, a boy and two girls. G. had smiled at him (despite his inept, uncoordinated, silly attempt at a conversation) and laughed softly, and did not invite him inside the house.
After 10 minutes, Timothy had left—with G.’s image etched in his heart, and had thought about her every day in high school; and had sent her letters “laced” with dried, sweet-smelling roses. He had thought about her while in college and had compared every girl he met with G. and found all wanting; all falling short of the standard she’d represented in his eyes those ten minutes they had spent together.
Then, at work in his mid-20s, a girl he met in a Christian gathering dressed like, and reminded him of, G. He made friends with her and their love grew and in time they got married.
Their marriage was good; stable. But every year they celebrated an anniversary Timothy found himself conducting a mental comparison between his two loves, one that was real and present and the other an imaginary projection of the girl he had met in his teenage. When he caught himself embroiled in arguments with Grace, sparked by unrealistic expectations influenced by his fantasies of G., Timothy learned to manage his imaginary lover. He rebuked her; told her he knew she wasn’t real. Grace was.
But he never managed to fully disconnect himself from G., even in his marriage. He thought about G. every time Grace missed an evaluation; every time he thought of what could have been different had it been with G….. He just learned to keep G. in her place; away from his physical reality.
But he kept track of physical G., from a safe distance. He knew she got married; and that she was successful in a business that she and her husband, whom he did not know, ran (it must be G. that made the business a success, Timothy believed). He wondered whether her husband was good to her, and sometimes felt actual pain when he thought of the possibility of her suffering in an unhappy marriage.
Yes, Timothy learned to live with G. And redrew her figure in his mind progressively as he imagined her aging.
One night he dreamed with G. They’d met at a swimming pool and he noticed that she still had a magnificent figure. She walked with a youthful gait and had shaken his hand and he had enjoyed the softness of her palm. But when she laughed—yes, still the soft, melodious laugh of her youth—her teeth were different. They’d browned. But he awoke before he could engage with her any further in his dream and he thought about her all of that day, and many others.
But at 60! Surely. He must face her. He must have a closure. He must move on.
So now he made the call — to get her telephone number.
“I just happened to be here,” he explained himself to G.’s friend. “In La-Huru, and I thought I could say hello to G., after so many years.” His heart was pounding, threatening to explode out of his rib cage.
He was expecting questions. But no. The phone number was given, along with the name of G.’s chemist’s shop
G.’s friend said: “They moved to Napengu. But you are near enough!….“ she paused, then added, “Say hello to her for me.”
Napengu was indeed not far; it was on his way. Timothy got there and called G. His heart throbbed like a teenager’s, and he played with his nose as he waited for her to answer. When the phone rang through its course and stopped ringing before it was answered he drew out a great sigh of relief.
But he knew he had to see her. He looked up the name of the shop in Google Maps (and felt very thankful for the technology) and found it…. He parked his car at a nearby parking lot and walked back to the location. And his heart let him down badly again and blasted heartlessly inside him as he stepped into the shop.
There were, perhaps, six people inside the small but busy shop, and he wondered how he would go about asking for her. Buy something, pay with his phone money so she could see his name? But when G. looked up from behind the sales counter he recognized her clearly and, it appeared to him, that a quizzical look surfaced on her still lovely face, like she was trying to remember…
“Hello,” he said, “G.?”
“Yes,” she said, still bent down at the counter, her head straightening to face him. “And you are?” That stung…the thought that she had forgotten him.
He smiled, mentioned the name of their mutual teenage friend and she smiled back, recognizing him; remembering their 44-year-old encounter, Timothy thought.
She extended her hand, calling him by his short form: “Tim!” A customer gave him way. He approached the counter, with both his hands extended, and accepted her still soft palm like he was receiving a precious gift.
“This is a classmate from primary school,” she said to the man who had given him way and was now standing next to Timothy across the counter.
“No way!” The man said. “From your primary school days, mum?”
“Yes, that long ago,” she said.
The man sized himself against Timothy. He was taller than Timothy, but, considering that he had addressed G. as “mum”, clearly younger. She had a good rapport with her customers, he could tell.
“You have kept yourself well,” the man remarked.
“It’s God’s grace,” Timothy responded modestly, then quickly shifted the focus to where it belonged. “See how well G. has maintained herself?” he said, although his view of her figure was limited, obscured by a waist-high counter, over which she bent.
G. smiled again, this time showing more teeth. And Timothy’s heart skipped a beat as he noticed: her teeth were stained; exactly as he had seen them years back in the dream.
“And that one there,” she said, referring to a nicely built man who looked younger than what must have been his years, “is the father of my children.” Before Timothy reacted to the introduction, a young woman, in her twenties by Timothy’s expectation, stepped into the sales area from inside a back office. She was a near replica of the girl that had stolen Timothy’s heart.
“Your daughter?”
“Yes, G. said, “last born.”
“You are the exact likeness of your mom in her youth,” Timothy told her, immediately regretting the careless output that had spilled out of his unruly mouth, without due greetings… “Ah, I’m sorry, young lady,” he corrected himself, “we knew each other in our youth, your mom and I.”
The girl acknowledged him with a curt look, then walked out of the shop.
“I guess I must get going,” Timothy excused himself. “Just happened to pass by while doing some work here.”
“Thank you for passing by,” G said, still bent over her papers. “We will look you up when we come to your county.”
“And when might that be?” Timothy enquired, hoping for a “soon” answer.
“Soon,” she said. “We have a land succession dispute before a court there.”
They exchanged telephone numbers.
“Please make sure to call….”
“Will do,” she said…
He left. As he made his way along the uneven pathway back to the car park, he stumbled repeatedly, burdened by a torrent of self-condemnation that weighed heavily upon him. The thoughtless pout he had issued to G’s girl; for failing to acknowledge G’s husband. But above all, the agonizing regret of failing to capture a moment with G. in a photograph.
You could have easily ridden on the moment when she referred to you as a classmate, said the accuser to his miserable heart. Definitely, Timothy admitted. He hadn’t thought fast. He had made a fool of himself. Exactly like 44 years ago.
Back in the car, Timothy attempted to drown out G.’s presence in his mind with thoughts of work, church, and family, but to no avail. She loomed large all over his thoughts, intruding repeatedly, dominating his mind all the way back home.
At last, he arrived home. Grace, his wife of all those years, welcomed him warmly and they ate a delightful late lunch— as they had for many years. He was very tired from the long drive so he excused himself, took a shower, and intended to sleep early.
But the shower refreshed him—enough for him to postpone his sleeping plan.
As he was coming into the sitting room from the bathroom, he heard a voice he knew: of Rasha, an old woman who still retained the melodious voice Timothy had known since she was a young mother—a beautiful voice of an 80-year-old who spoke like a girl.
Rasha was no longer well. She suffered from a progressively worsening state of Alzheimer’s illness. She’d forgotten most people in the neighbourhood, except Grace and a few others, very few others. Every time she had a reason to worry—which was very often — she came over, and Grace gave her attention. And food. And talked to her kindly. And then escorted her out. Nearly every day. And Grace had never once complained or showed impatience to Rasha.
He stopped within earshot, realising that Grace had allowed her into the kitchen and sat her on a chair.
“It’s something I ate,” she was saying. “I think it stuck itself somewhere between my throat and stomach.”
“Is it choking you?” Grace asked, speaking with kindness that could be felt.
“No, it’s not,” Rasha said. But it’s there. It’s right here,” she paused. Timothy imagined her pointing, touching the spot, “Exactly between my throat and stomach. I know that’s where it’s stuck.”
“We can push it down,” Grace said calmly.
“How?” Rasha asked. Her curiosity was palpable.
“With this sweet banana,” Grace said. “Here, chew this one and swallow it and it will push down the piece that is stuck in between your throat and stomach.”
“I don’t like bananas,” Rasha said. “I have eaten bananas all my life!” How does she remember that? Timothy thought, wondering how Grace would handle that one.
“This one is for your treatment. Just one bite, a quick chewing, and a swallow.”
“I don’t like bananas,” the patient said. “I have eaten bananas all my life!”
“An egg?”
“Oh no,” Rasha exclaimed, “you will take all that trouble just for my sake?”
“It’s no trouble at all, Mum,” Grace said, getting busy. “In just one minute.” Timothy heard the sounds: cookware; a fire being lit; a crack of an eggshell and the sizzling of frying.”
“You are going into too much trouble for me,” Rasha said melodiously.
“It’s no trouble at all, mum…. Here, your egg is ready. But wait a little for it to cool down…. Excuse me just a bit.”
Suddenly, Grace appeared in the corridor, halting in her steps as she caught sight of Timothy. He gestured for silence, placing his index finger to his lips, smiling knowingly. Grace winked at him mischievously, playfully smacking his waist as she breezed past him and vanished into their bedroom. Shortly after, he heard the toilet flush, the tap running, and the guttural noises of water gushing down the sink. Moments later, Grace returned, brushing herself against him playfully as she made her way back to the kitchen.
“Haiya,” he heard Grace say, “Mum, you haven’t eaten your egg! It’s cold already.”
“Oh, the egg,” Rasha seemed to wake up to reality. “Did you have to go into all this trouble for me?”
“It’s no trouble at all, mum…. Here, eat your egg.”
He heard her eat while Grace washed the pan and wiped it for hanging on its place on the rack. Timothy knew the sounds; and his wife’s meticulous routine.
“Well done, mum.” He heard the sound of the emptied plate and fork as they were slid into the kitchen sink. “Now, let’s get you back home. It’s getting late already.”
He heard the sound of the kitchen door closing. In his mind, he could see Grace’s right hand on Rasha’s shoulder as her left hand pushed the door shut.
Timothy walked across the corridor to the dining room, positioning himself by a window overlooking their front porch. From there, he saw the two women walking side by side, like buddies, until they disappeared through the gate.
The sun’s rays streaked through the tall trees on the other side of their house, casting their splendor across the compound. Even the shadows cast by the trees seemed to signify that the sun was in charge of the day, now announcing the passage of time. Soon darkness would descend, granting a respite from the day’s labours.
Shortly, Grace showed back up and closed the gate. Timothy opened the kitchen door and welcomed her into the house with a big hug.
“You are a real angel,” he said and immediately found himself wondering how G. would have dealt with the situation.
“She is not well,” you know.
“I know,” he said. “And she has no better friend.” He meant it. And respected his wife greatly for it.
They slept early, after a session of prayer. They prayed for Rasha and others in their church whom they knew to be in distress. And their children, with their young families. And thanked the Lord for the brand new newcomer in their lineage, a bouncing boy grandchild.
Timothy dozzed off while Grace was still praying, feeling very grateful and content for all that the Lord had done for them.
He woke up suddenly, in the middle of the night, as if he had been roused from sleep. Grace was fast asleep, facing him, her right arm on his chest, breathing softly and very peacefully.
It was a thought that woke him up. It must have been playing in his subconscious mind because he was already anxious and breathing hard. Why, he was struggling to figure out, had G. bent over whatever it was she pored over the whole time he was at her shop? Why had she not seen him out, a customary performance in their culture? Had her back gotten bent? Was it the reason the man with him across the counter had looked surprised that G. and he were teenage mates? He got very worried over these questions. He turned over to light the l bedside lamp, and his movement roused Grace.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“I am ok,” he said. “I guess we slept too early.”
“You woke me up,” she said.
“I am sorry,” he said. He hadn’t meant to. She had looked so peaceful in sleep. He, on his part, now felt very lonely over the reality that the burden he bore in his heart wasn’t one he could share. He remembered a Bible lesson in his youth in which they had explored the two types of burdens cited in the New Testament: in Greek, Baros (βάρος); the burden that can be shared (Romans 15:1) as opposed to Phortion (φορτίον)—the burden that one must bear alone (Galatians 6:5). His was a phortion. He couldn’t talk about it. And it was lonely to bear it alone.
***
When G. called a few weeks after that anti-climax of their reconnection and told him she and her siblings would be coming over to the office of the director of intelligence about their succession case, Timothy said, nonchalantly, “See you when you do.” But inside him, the call triggered a colossal explosion, like a volcano erupting in his soul…
“Do you know the director?” G. asked.
“No, I don’t,” he said. “Why?”
“There is something fishy going on in his office.”
“We will go there and find out — when you come,” he said.
He and Grace were reclining next to each other on a sofa seat after dinner, sharing a mango fruit dessert, and he did not want to incite Grace into asking questions.
“Who was that?” Grace asked.
“A lady whose family land was grabbed and needs help.” The truth.
“With?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps with an intro to our lawyer.” The thought was forming as he spoke.
“Can she pay him?” They helped several needy people, most of them poor. In the village. At work. In church.
“I should hope so. She runs a shop.”
“How did she think you could help?”
“Someone reconnected us—from the past,” Timothy answered. It was like walking through a minefield. Every step could trigger an explosion. “We were in primary school together. But they now live in Napengu.”
All true. So far, good.
The following morning, making the call from their spacious garden, Timothy called his lawyer, looped G. into the conference call, and had her explain the case.”
“Wakili, can we do something about it?” Timothy asked.
“We will do what we can. I agree that some monkey business is going on.”
She did not come or call him for two weeks, so Timothy called her, and she told him that court attendance had been fixed.
“When?” He asked. She told him
“I will come over,” he said. “The Lord will see you through it”
“He will,” she said. “Thanks for your support.” What support? Timothy wandered.
***
He arrived early in the morning, an hour before the court hearing. He had worried of coming late; and may have driven faster than he normally did. But he had not noticed the speed; only the speed of his heart as it raced in anticipation and excitement. Now, realising he had time on his hands he became aware of a little upgrade he needed on his looks and stopped by an optician’s.
“How long would it take to change my glasses?” He asked the pleasant girl at the reception desk.
“If it’s a standard prescription, less than an hour,” she explained. He had an hour.
“It is,” he said. “Mostly for reading, but I need them to be progressive…”
“Let’s have you checked first,” she interrupted him in a polite but authority-stamped tone. “We don’t charge for checking.”
He got checked, had a prescription made and they got to work. He paced about the small shop, hoping that they’d keep their one-hour promise. He perused the array of frames on display, and with the girl’s assistance, settled on one — an opulent top frame on which the glasses below nestled snugly, enhancing his appearance with “an air of dignified refinement,” she told him. Smart girl.
After another long time Timothy sat down on a reception bench in the waiting area and kept himself busy: with his phone; observing the girl work, stapling payment receipts to prescriptions; listening to grinding-like sounds from the inner room, which he associated with the making of the glasses that would give him a more dignified look.
When it was nearly 9 am Timothy stepped out of the shop and watched for the yellow dust coats of Kanjo ticketers and clampers wielding the menacing tools they’d definitely put to use as soon as the ticketing time for parking set in. He wasn’t ready to entertain the possibility of getting grounded.
“Should I pay for parking?” He asked the pleasant girl.
“It’s still too early,” she said.
But looking at his watch he noticed that it was now 9 am and his glasses were not ready and he would get late for the hearing.
“How much longer will it take?” He asked.
“Let me go check,” she said, sounding very responsible and dashing through the partition door to the inner room.
“Ten minutes,” she said as she came back.
He would be late, he realised and wondered whether he should abandon the pursuit for a dignified look and come back for the glasses after the court hearing. No, he needed that look. He reckoned he would go directly to the court, hear the proceedings, and meet G. and her family after the hearing. That settled him.
Ten minutes later he asked again and the girl went in and came with his glasses. He wore them and liked his dignified look and paid with mobile money and left in a hurry.
The parking was full when he got to the courts. A lot of people milled around the plaza.
Timothy asked where the succession cases were heard. A disinterested policeman pointed down a long flight of stairs. He sped down in the direction, taking two stairs at a time.
Court was not yet in session. But people had come and were waiting.
Timothy moved about the crowded plaza, surrounded by a sea of somber faces. Amidst them uniformed police officers stood watch, their steely gazes scanning the crowd for possible sources of trouble. Lawyers, clad in sharp suits, hurried to and fro, burdened by the weighty stacks of papers they carried. However, the true emotional weight showed on the faces of the middle-aged men and women who anxiously awaited justice, their patience wearing thin as time seemed to crawl by. The few young people in their midst were all peering over their smartphones.
But there was no sign of G. or anyone who looked like her. Or the man whom she had pointed out at the chemist shop as the father of her children.
Timothy stepped out of the crowded area and dialled her number. Calling her had gotten easier. She answered promptly, triggering a smile on Timothy’s face.
“I am at the courthouse,” he said.
“I got held up a bit,” she said. His heart sank; he had so much wanted to see her! “But our other family members are there.”
“So you are not coming?”
“I am! I have to. Just got a bit late. We are at Karandii.” His spirit revived. He estimated they’d arrive in thirty minutes.
“You are not late,” he assured her. “Court has not started.”
“Thank you for being there,” she said. Although there is no value I am adding, he added in his mind.
He sat on a hard stone bench outside the successions court and tried to keep himself busy with a Sudoku game on his phone. But his mind was not functional. Every other minute he scanned the crowd to see if he could see a person who looked like G. He saw drably dressed old men; heavy-bodied women who struggled to move; impatient young people who trailed motherly women, most likely chasing after their late husbands’ estates. None fit the description of likely candidates he had in his mind.
Thirty minutes on, Timothy strolled out of the court area and positioned himself at the bottom of the stairs, to await G.’s arrival.
The sun had ascended from the Eastern horizon above the tall buildings, shortening their shadows, and now casting its warm glow. Timothy adorned an exquisite navy blue jacket over a charcoal shirt, paired with matching khaki trousers. The intense sun rays prompted perspiration beneath the edges of his stylish glasses and in the creases of his armpits, unsettling him. However, driven by the anticipation of seeing her descend the stairs, he stayed put, choosing to endure the discomfort.
She came. Not after thirty minutes. Not in 45 minutes. One hour later.
It was her alright. He had seen her greying hair that day of the reconnection at the chemist shop. But the counter over which she had bent had hidden the rest of her body. Now he saw all of her. Yes, she slouched a little, like an old woman, and wore a loose, mediocre dress that hung sloppily to below her knees. And, dark blue, unmatching stockings that covered her legs.
She limped down the stairs. Very slowly. Realizing that she was in pain, Timothy ran up to her and offered his hand. He meant to support her. She halted her walk, stood upright, and extended her hand in greeting, smiling pleasantly. Then she pulled it back, indicating that she did not need help walking.
“What happened?” he enquired, concerned.
“Arthritis,” she said, restarting her tortuous walk down the stairs. He walked along. One slow step at a time. A very slow descent.
“Have you sought medical attention?”
“Yes,” she said. “I am on medication. But they say my final solution will be… what do they call it?”
“Knee replacement?” Timothy suggested.
“Higher up,” she said, pointing. “Waist replacement.”
“Wah!” He said. He knew several people who had gone through a waist replacement. All were much older, in their seventies.
They got to the bottom of the stairs and G. got busy, assembling a clan: a brother and two sisters, whom she introduced; all younger than her. That’s what she meant when she said “I have to!”
“Remember them?” She asked. He thought he heard a chuckle and a glimmer in her eyes, and he remembered. All three were the kids he’d given sweets that pivotal afternoon when they had met for ten minutes.
“Do any of you remember me?” He asked them.
They did not.
“My primary school classmate,” G. explained, and further associated him with the mutual friend who had given Timothy G.’s telephone number. They knew her.
Their lawyer showed up with a big file and other loose papers and took G. away.
Timothy conversed with G.’s relatives, Beth, Jeremiah, and Lina, the youngest. Beth, in her early 50s by Timothy’s estimation, explained the succession case: how a deceitful in-law, the wife of a deceased brother, had colluded with corrupt government officials to unlawfully transfer their family land and other assets into her possession.
Eventually court got into session and they all crowded inside the courthouse. Lina, a slim, well-dressed town-type, stayed out.
The magistrate spoke very faintly. Timothy strained his ears to catch what she was saying. G. sat on the second row, leaning forward. But the lawyer seemed to hear, and Timothy determined he would catch up properly after the hearing.
He walked out and joined Lina on the hard, stone bench.
“You’re not interested in the case?”
“Of course I am,” she replied, her nod sharp and her jaw set firmly, dispelling any doubt about her commitment. “But my contribution will truly matter when I’m called to testify.”
All of a sudden Timothy wanted to but overcame his temptation to tell her he’d given her sweets when she was a tiny kid. Instead, he asked her about her family.
“Two kids,” she said. “One works as a data analyst. The other is in college.”
“And their father?”
“He is about to retire. A teacher.”
I am old, Timothy thought, then voiced it. “I am retired.”
Court was over in ten minutes. G. and Beth and Jeremiah trudged out after the lawyer and gathered around him at a quieter corner. Timothy and Lina joined them.
“What transpired, Wakili?” Timothy inquired.
“We’ve been granted another hearing date,” the lawyer responded, his index finger tracing the magistrate’s hastily scrawled handwriting on a paper that was clipped to the thick file he held in his other hand.
“And, in the interim, what about the transfers the defendant was attempting?” Timothy questioned.
“All transactions have been halted,” the lawyer affirmed. “Each property reverts to the deceased until after the hearing.”
A wave of relief washed over Timothy. He was now one of them, experiencing their pain. He could also feel the depth of the relief in G. and her relatives.
“Meanwhile please schedule time soon to come write your statements,” the lawyer added, then departed shortly after.
They had lunch at Beth’s. Timothy sat diagonally across from G., close enough for conversation.
“Your… treatment,” he ventured after some small talk. “I mean the hip replacement…. When might that be?”
Lina looked their way sharply, clearly provoked by his question. “Leave G. alone.,” she said, alarming Timothy, then, noticing the wide smile with which she spoke, he relaxed. “Instead of having her hip cut, plead with her to cut out food?” She said viciously.
G. picked up a banana on the coffee table and threw it at Lina, dismissing her with “Enda huko!” (Go away!)
Lina skillfully snagged the banana in mid-air, peeled it ostentatiously, and took a theatrical bite. “Behold, I’ve just rescued you from gaining another 10 grams,” she proclaimed with exaggerated flair.
Sister mock fight! Timothy realized. He also now saw and understood the reason G. wore the loose-fitting dress. The tummy beneath. She had a serious weight problem.
“I am not that overweight,” G. Protested. “Am I, Tim?”
“She lives in self-denial,” Lina cut in mercilessly, laughing but making her point succinctly.
“Please defend me,” G. implored, looking Timothy in the eye. He felt her. Deeply.
What’s your BMI?” He said tactfully.
Her sister laughed out loud. “I dare you to answer!”
“You are brutal,” Timothy said to Lina. “I would hate to be in the boxing ring with you.”
“I am a crusador for honest self-evaluation,” she announced.
“We, we, wee,” Jeremiah broke in, the first time for him to butt in. “That’s the lawyer she never became.”
“And, instead?” Timothy asked.
“I became a nutritionist. Proudly,” Lina said.
“Ahhh!” Timothy said. “So shall we now come up with a weight reduction plan?” He noticed that G. flinched at his words, and hastily made amends: “For me, see?” He said, patting his tummy, which protruded a little.
Beth placed the last of the dishes on the table and asked for quiet. She said gracefully and then invited her guests to help themselves.
This created the opportunity for Lina to strike the crushing blow on her elder, ailing sister — cleverly, all in jest. Just as G. had selected two chapatis, Lina reached over deftly and plucked one from G.’s plate, flashing her a malevolent grin like a sinister queen. “I cannot allow you to worsen your discomfort,” Lina chided. Before G. could respond, Lina swiftly heaped a serving of vegetables onto G.’s plate.
It was a most happy afternoon for Timothy, one spent in the company of a very close-knit family, one that had expanded his social circle by welcoming him into theirs.
***
“Who is sending you a message this late at night?” Grace asked in response to the ‘ding’ sound from Timothy’s phone.
“We will find out in the morning,” Timothy said sleepily, snuggling closer to her.
But Grace, a night owl, couldn’t restrain her curiosity. She reached across from Timothy and grabbed his phone.
“Who is Lina?”
That woke him up. How should he introduce Lina to Grace? “Why, what does she want?” He said.
“She has sent you a wedding invitation,” Grace said.
“Lina is an old woman; in her 50s,” he said. “Old and married.”
“It’s her niece’s wedding,” Grace said.
“That makes more sense,” Timothy replied. “When?”
“In December. 18th. Our wedding anniversary!”
“Let’s talk about it in the morning,” he said. “I am sleepy.”
Timothy stayed awake for a long time, remembering that delightful afternoon he had spent with G.’s siblings; As part of their family. If things had worked out with G…., he started to fantasize but stopped himself, as he had done many times in his life.
When Grace was fast asleep and he stepped out of bed to go to the bathroom Timothy grabbed his phone and his reading glasses. He sat on the toilet bowl, opened Lina’s WhatsApp message and beheld the girl; the mirror image of G., mostly. The niece to whose wedding they’d been invited was G. ‘s last-born daughter, the girl he had talked to insensitively at G.’s chemist shop. He now placed a name to her: Terry.
In the morning, over breakfast, he told Grace that they’d attend the wedding.
“We are booked to be in Israel, remember?” She said, “With the church group. We have paid…”
“We …. I cannot miss this wedding,” he said, and immediately realised he had opened a can of worms.
“Why, who is Lina?
“She’s from the past. From a family that lived in our village—when I was a small boy.“
“From that far back?”
“Yes.” He knew she wanted to hear more. What could he say?
“So who do you know?” Grace asked, reaching out for his phone and peering over the couple. “The boy or the girl?”
“Neither… the parents… the mother of the bride.”
“You know them that well…enough to cancel…?” She trailed off, leaving space for him to interject.
“No… not now… knew them. Then. I mean… it’s a rare opportunity to reconnect,” he stammered, desperate to keep his explanation on track.
Grace regarded him with a penetrating gaze, her expression reflecting her growing perplexity.
“You can go on with the tour,” he said.
“We, you mean?”
“You, with the church members,” he clarified.
“Wonders never cease,” Grace said, standing up and starting to clear the table.
“What do you mean?” He asked. He knew what she meant; why was this sudden invitation to a wedding of people he had not seen or interacted with for years suddenly gaining so much importance?
But in answer Grace simply accommodated him: “We will attend.”
The wedding was months away, and Timothy expected more talk around it. None came from Grace. Timothy did the mechanics of cancelling their tour booking and covertly dried red roses that emitted a sweet, floral fragrance. On the wedding day, he delicately placed the dry roses, along with a generous amount of cash, inside the box with the gift Grace had helped him select: a modest yet exquisite wall clock. Additionally, on the standard wedding congratulatory card signed by Grace and himself, he inscribed after his name, “Friend of your mom in primary school.”
Timothy and Grace arrived at the wedding venue, greeted by an atmosphere brimming with anticipation and the soft murmur of conversation. Set amidst the picturesque landscapes of Limuru, Kenya, known for its breathtaking countryside and the timeless charm of British colonial architecture nestled among lush tea estates, the garden wedding exuded an air of elegance. White tents dotted the manicured lawns, offering a striking contrast to the verdant surroundings. Amongst the sea of greenery, vibrant bursts of colour from roses, carnations, and an array of other flowers added a touch of whimsy and romance to the scene.
Timothy remembered how the Terry girl resembled the image he had of G. In her youth and, again, his mind started to wander… but he caught it, rebuked it sharply, and brought himself back to the task at hand.
With a proud smile, he guided his wife gracefully through the crowd, introducing her to G.’s family, “my friends from the past,” he told her. As they mingled, Timothy’s warm gestures and genuine enthusiasm welcomed Grace into the fold of his now solid social circle, seamlessly blending her presence with his history and connections. As always Grace was a natural, radiating warmth, charming her new acquaintances with her grace and politeness.
G. had not arrived, Timothy noted, obviously because she would no doubt be in the yet-to-arrive wedding entourage.
Lina started saying, “So what have you been doing with yourself…?” Timothy got so startled by the question his phone slid off his hand. The unexpected clatter sparked a flurry of reactions, with Lina and Grace rushing to assist in retrieving it.
Lina got to the phone first and handed it back to Timothy. Upon which he excused himself to “go to the washrooms.”
He came back as the wedding entourage made its grand entrance. The modest yet elegant procession of just six cars arrived, each playing a role in the carefully orchestrated affair: a lead vehicle, G. and her husband—the parents of the bride—, the bride herself, and three trailing cars. Their arrival was not an ostentatious display of wealth, but rather a dignified entrance befitting the occasion.
Guests scrambled to their seats with palpable excitement, eager to witness the ceremony unfold.
The officiating pastor and his assistants stood to receive the bride, their solemn presence adding to the gravity of the moment. As the wedding march filled the air, all eyes turned toward the entrance, where the bride, resplendent in her white, flowing gown, made her radiant appearance.
With measured steps, she approached the altar, her gaze fixed on her soon-to-be husband. The pastor, with a gentle smile, extended his hand to welcome her, a silent acknowledgment of the sacred union about to unfold.
“Come with me,” Lina said. “I had reserved a seat for you.” Timothy Grace followed her to a place of honour among the guests.
“Who giveth this woman to this man…?” G. and her husband rose, and took their girl to a young man. Timothy used his phone to snap a photo of the ‘handover’.
As the bride took her place beside her groom, the pastor began the ceremony, his voice a steady anchor amidst the flurry of emotions. With each word spoken, the atmosphere grew charged with anticipation, as if the very air itself held its breath in reverence for the union about to be solemnized.
***
A shadow at the window of his car made Timothy look up. It was G. and she made his heart jump a little. His face lit up, impressed that she had searched him out in the crowd all the way to the parking lot, to his car, where he had come to charge up his phone, and had been scrolling through the photos he had taken in the wedding. Had she noticed that at that very moment, he had been poring at her photo?
Grace and Lina had struck up a great match and were busy somewhere together. Now, he and G. were all by themselves, sort of. Amidst a lot of people in the wedding but alone in the car.
G. leaned down on him at the driver’s window. The car filled with the fragrance of her perfume, flooding him with joy. “Thanks for coming to my daughter’s wedding,” she said.
“Thanks for searching me out,” he said, gently unlatching the car’s door to let her know he wanted to step out. She stepped back, and he joined her outside, in the sunshine.
“Can we walk to the shade?” He asked, pointing to a bench under a huge jacaranda tree.
She still limped. But today she was very well dressed, in a colourful, maxi-length traditional dress and a stylish head scarf that outlined her hairline like a horizon, leaving her face below to enchant the world.
“Are you still in pain?” He asked as they walked side by side, slowly towards the bench, the rustle of her long cotton dress accompanying their steps like a soft melody.
“I am under medication,” she said, her words tinged with resilience.
They sat next to each other on the bench. Timothy was excited. Like a schoolboy.
“It’s a beautiful wedding,” he said.
Thank you.” She answered. “My last born.”
It could have been our last born… The thought flashed through his mind rudely, as similar ones in the past. This time he did not check himself. He let his mind relive that ten-minute encounter he had with this woman who had escaped him; who had taken a different path; who had spurned him…. Had she?
“I opened your gift to Terry,” G. said.
Totally unexpected. But he was pleasantly surprised.
“Why?” He asked, trying to stay calm.
“You said she looked like me. Remember?”
“In the past, yes.”
They were quiet for some time, each one figuring out things in their thoughts.
Timothy was peering into the gift package, in his mind, his eyes fixed on the dry red roses. Exactly like the ones he’d sent her in the past.
“So why did my comment make you curious?” he said at last.
She turned, repositioning her big body so she could look at him directly, smiling broadly. Happiness made her exquisitely lovely. He didn’t want to be too obvious so he turned towards her only a little.
“I still retain the ones you sent the last time,” she said. “I preserved them in silica gel and framed them.”
His heart went wild.
“How do you explain them?”
“Art,” she said.
So why had she spurned him…. And, as if to broadcast his silent pain, he asked suddenly: “So why did you stop writing?”
“I did not”, G. said. “You stopped writing back.”
“I did not,” he said.
He regarded her with an open mouth, thinking… realizing what happened.
He remembered that last letter he had received from her the day he was transitioning from high school to university, from where he posted his reply. When no reply came, he had written again. And again…. And again. For a whole year.
He knew now. The postal system killed their love. And changed their destinies.
“Wow,” he yelled. “Bloody Posta!” He breathed in hard, then out slowly to cool his hot nerves. It was the first time he had cursed in more than 40 years.
G. placed her hand on his lap. “It’s okay, Tim. It all turned out well.”
“Yes,” he said. Calmly. He liked her perspective. There was nothing they could do. And, fast forward 44 years on, here they were, together. In this lovely event. Both sides of their families reconnected. And integrated.
Are you curious about what happens next? Maybe even the significance of the dry flowers gifted to G.s daughter on her wedding day? Stay tuned for the next sequel titled: The Mystery of the Dry Flowers, to find out!
Disclaimer: All characters, locations, and events depicted in this book are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events or locales, is purely coincidental. This work is created for entertainment purposes only and does not intend to portray real individuals, organizations, or occurrences
Haron Wachira 