my village crush

I must have been eight or nine and my grandmother would take me with her to church. I still did not like church much then but it was fun playing outside with other children with the excuse of Sunday school and it always got me a treat later for being a good boy.

I must have met her there. She was dazzling with her white pompous little dress, red socks and black little girl shoes. She was dark and beautiful. Her hair was always plaited in simple neat cornrows that met at the top of her head and formed somewhat of a knot.

Her mother was a friend to my grandmother and my family. My mother had grown up here with her mother. Her mother knew my name. She smiled and blushed shyly and coquettishly. Two deep dimples on each of her cheeks would appear every time she did.

I would meet her often at church or when they came visiting my grandmother. I would go home when school was on and whenever I visited again she would always be there. Her skin dark and beautiful. Her enchanting smile with dimples ever so deep.

I saw her a lot growing up as well. She was prettier each time. At holidays, at funerals, at weddings. Functions at her place. Functions at mine. She was there when my grandmother died too. A silent, unspoken but ever so present liking between us.

I must have been fifteen or sixteen when I lost fascination with the village. My grandmother no longer there and the animals had long seized being fun. I still saw her every now and then; still dazzling. Hormones were here now but I never stayed long enough.

Visits reduced to once a year or none at all. And I haven’t seen her in ages. Thoughts of her no longer present. Other beautiful girls met. Lives moved on…Came here this holidays and needed airtime. Decided to take a walk to the village shop.

The shop hasn’t changed a tad since I was a child. A small wooden structure with a small window as the counter. The counter still has meshed wire and a single wooden rod across it. A small square hole on the mesh at the right bottom corner for transactions.

There was a nice lady at the shop. A child on her back and two others on her trail. One tagging at her dress. The lady looked haggard but decent. Colorful cloth on her head, black simple shoes. I smiled politely, and waited for my turn at the counter.

I did not see her staring but I heard her call out my name. “Eugene!” must be one of the cousins or family friends I thought taking out my ear phones. In simple neat Swahili “Eugene, don’t you remember me? Its Grace don’t you remember me?”

She is darker than I remember. There are fatigue creases on her forehead. Her smile is still beautiful but the dimples have been replaced by strain lines. She looks tired and nothing like the girl I played with at Sunday school. She has four kids she tells me.

She laughs and asks about my hair. I ask about her kids. She asks about life and what’s new. I ask about her kids. She asks about my family; cousins. I ask about her kids. It gets awkward pretty fast seeing that I can’t stop staring and that we’ve both bought our wares.

Ill at ease, we say our goodbyes. The baby is crying about something. We walk our different ways. Me with my airtime. Her with her whatever she came to buy. I can’t help but look back over my shoulder. She’s looking too. I walk faster.

My village crush.