The Girl at the Bus Stop
She was the girl at the bus stop. I saw her there every morning, as she waited for her school bus. She always stood there confidently, quietly, patiently waiting with her head held high. She didn’t need a crown to show her royalty. All eyes were already on her and she was aware, but she never budged. Light skinned she was, and fresh like the early morning dew. Her skin was so smooth, looking like she moisturized it with whole fat milk. Leaning sideways onto one leg and hands buried in the pockets of the skirt of her school uniform, she faced the rising sun that reflected its light on her face, spreading it to all that was within the reach of her radiance. I was only 15 years old but the memories have been triggered like it was yesterday. That’s all I remember seeing, but I heard more in the following years to come.
Baby Steps
I heard tales of a beautiful, proud, elegant young
girl casually cat walking as it drizzled on the tarmac road between the lush
green trees of Kiyovu. Others ran for cover, clearing the runway as the trees
hummed and the raindrops met the leaves swaying to the rhythm of the wind,
creating a tune only she can walk to. With arms swinging back and forth, and
hips side to side, every stride complimented the music as her symmetrically
arched feet gently tapped the puddles of water, creating but a slight ripple
like a ballet dancer. Years later, our paths crossed once again as we
attended university. She was a freshman and I was in my third year. News about
a beauty queen gracing the streets of the small town of Butare had already
reached my ears by the time I met her again. She was just as beautiful and
graceful as she had always been. The conversation we had was brief, as she
stepped out of her room and locked it behind her, on her way to class. There
was not really much to catch up on, but the interest in knowing how I was doing
was genuine. It was not until she flew overseas that we started
interacting more and getting to know each other personally. The dialogues
flowed smoothly, for we talked like we’d known each other for a while. It
wasn’t long before she touched my heart for the first time.
The
Cherry on the Cake
On the night of my 25th birthday, on
31st December 2011, I was hanging out with my extended family, as it is a
tradition to transition into the New Year together. It was all joy and laughter
in the house. The elder men, as usual, made themselves comfortable on the
balcony outside, as they filled their glasses and sipped on Gold Label, Remy
Martin and Chivas Regal. The ladies gathered in the kitchen and dining room,
chatting as they enjoyed their hot cups of African Masala Tea, before setting
the table with a sumptuous variety of dishes, each a specialty from each of
them. The young ones lounged in the living room, plotting their next move of
the long night ahead after munching the food to their fill and celebrating when
the clock hits midnight. The unexpected call came right before the time
marked the end of my birthday. The caller ID indicated a number from beyond the
oceans. “Who could this be?” I walked outside, far from the noise and
answered. “Hello?” “Heey,” she said. “Umh! Who’s this?” I just had to be
sure. “You don’t recognize me?” “Whoa! Is it really you?” I exclaimed “Of
course it is,” she laughed that soul refreshing laugh of hers. “Who do you
think it is?” After a brief conversation, she said, “Well. I called to wish you
a happy birthday. So…happy birthday and happy new year to you.” I still
remember it like it was yesterday. I went back into the house blushing like a
spanked baby bottom, which the family thought was caused by the surprise cake
and song they had waiting for me. That phone call was the cherry on the cake.
Rya
Joro (The Other Night)
I finally got to see her when she flew back home for
her summer holiday in 2012. I was excited and couldn’t stay still like a puppy
waiting on its owner to throw the squeaky ball, as I waited for the sun to
start setting so I could finally leave my job and go see her, on the day we
were scheduled to meet. She had suggested that we take an evening walk.
“Yes!!!” I had quickly agreed. There she was. I spotted her as I climbed
off the taxi moto; a silhouette with a hint of her complexion on the inline.
She was clothed in a dark yellow dress that swayed gracefully around her,
giving the illusion that she glided slightly above the ground, as she walked
towards me. I was a little bit nervous, but excited and confident at the same
time. I did not know what to expect, although I was not expecting anything.
“What will we talk about?” I asked myself. “Where do we start?” “What in the
world is going on?” I had no idea how memorable the night would turn out to
be. I couldn’t help but feel proud when I saw countless necks of people breaking
as they twisted around to catch a glimpse of the lady absorbing all the light
from the street lamps along the streets of Kicukiro. We talked about a lot, but
music was the main topic that guided our conversation. Amidst occasional
glances and shy laughter between each other, we filled the skies with sweet
melodies as we sang together in harmony to “Iri Joro,” a song by Christopher
that was dominating the airwaves of Kigali then. I couldn’t help but say
to myself, “I have to see her again,” when I laid on my bed that night and
replayed the evening’s special moments. Sharing a pizza next didn’t sound like
a bad idea at all. In fact, it was perfect.
Pink
Rose
Sole Luna, Kigali’s top Italian Restaurant, was the
place in mind. I knew exactly the table I wanted us to have; one that had the
perfect view of the town’s night lights. Along with the rose in the vase on the
table, and the smooth jazz instrumental serenading through the speakers, the
mood was just right. However, it had been a chilly day and my sinuses decided
to act a fool. But that wasn’t going to stop me. I was there a few minutes
earlier before the appointed time, just to make sure everything was on point.
It was. All, except my sniffles and blood shot eyes. She finally arrived and
immediately asked me if I was sick. “Naah! I’m fine,” I replied hurriedly,
“Sniff!” “Are you sure,” she asked. “Well. My sinuses are giving me a hard
time, but I’ll be fine,” I hurriedly answered again, with a smile. And another
memorable night began after she touched my heart again. She made me
swallow my pride first, when she offered me the scarf she was wearing and
wouldn’t take, “No, thank you. I’m fine!” for an answer. Then, she proceeded to
take photos of me; photos that set in motion a future appointment with destiny
that we both never would have imagined. We happily munched our meal after that
and got to know each other a little better. She was the remedy to my ailment,
as I felt better with every ticking moment spent with her. I didn’t want the
night to end, so I asked her if I could walk her home. “That would get me an
extra hour with her,” I thought to myself. She answered, “I’d love that.” And
we were on our way. I was getting more and more comfortable around her,
and so my stubborn, mischievous, and romantic sides were triggered as we walked
by a private compound with a rose plant proudly waving its flowered branches
just shy of over the wall onto the street. I knew there was a security guard
lurking somewhere and thought I could climb up quickly, break off one of the
bloomed flowers and present it to her before he knew it. But something told me,
“No!” and so we moved on. I didn’t know it, but I’d get another chance one day,
to give her a pink rose few years down the road. I did, and the time was just
right.
The
Fire Pit
All
Mine
“Yes,” she had said. “I’d love to be
your lady, and you be my man. I’d love to walk this journey with you, up until
marriage and beyond. I want us to have children together, and I want to grow
old with you. So God help us.” “God help us indeed,” I thought out loud
with excitement and joy slowly rising up from my feet to my head, as my spirit
assured me, “Yes! This is real.” He had orchestrated this relationship from way
before we both thought we’d ever fall in love and be a couple walking to forever
after. Every single moment we had spent together, every word we had spoken to
each other, every song we had sung together were all a beautiful hand written
story only He can write. She was the girl at the bus stop. And now she’s
all mine.
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