“Why did you kiss me?” he asked.
“You kissed me,” I replied.
“Fuck you,” he retorted.
I looked out the window, smiling. He was driving me to the airport. I had spent the night at his house because Johannesburg is a dangerous place—especially for a Zimbabwean woman alone with too many bags and no access to Wi-Fi.
The plan had been simple: I would arrive in Joburg, and a driver from my hotel would pick me up from the airport. He would meet me later in a neutral place. We were just supposed to have drinks because I was in town.
A lady has to maintain some decorum when meeting a man in a foreign country. But things didn’t go as planned. The free Wi-Fi refused to connect, and my phone wouldn’t make calls. I asked a woman nearby if I could use her phone. She agreed but warned me, “You shouldn’t be out here alone. Even I’m afraid to be out here alone.”
I called him and explained that my phone wasn’t working and the driver hadn’t arrived.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked—not rudely, but in a “what’s the solution?” kind of way.
I asked if he could pick me up. He said he’d be there soon.
So I waited. It felt like forever. My mind started to wander, as it often does. What if he doesn’t come? Is this a good idea? We’ve only met once before this. Sure, we’ve talked on the phone, and I was introduced to him in Zimbabwe, but this is South Africa. Oh boy, how do I get myself into these situations?
Then he arrived—still as handsome as I remembered. He helped me with my bags and asked if I wanted anything to eat. I couldn’t help wondering where his car was. It must have shown on my face because he said, “Unoterwa nematsotsi if you use flashy cars at night.”
We decided it made no sense to go to the hotel—his place was closer. At least, that’s what he claimed.
He was Zimbabwean, handsome, and confident—he had told me he knew he’d already “made it.” Fast forward a year. We hadn’t really spoken since I got back home. He was upset that nothing had happened between us—sulking in that way men do, hoping to make you feel like you owe them your body.
Then, one day, I was scrolling through my phone and saw the news. Someone had been shot. The photo caught my eye. “Mmm, he looks like G,” I thought. I looked again, thinking, There’s no way. A quick search confirmed it: he was gone.
In my mind, when I returned home next, I’d planned to reach out to him. Maybe pick up where we’d left off—or finish whatever we’d been trying to start.
“Why did you kiss me?” he asked.
“You kissed me,” I replied.
Now, maybe we kissed each other. It’s hard to remember what really happened when one person is gone.
TIGERE.CA 