Letter #8: a second excerpt from a short story I may or may not finish. Reading time: 5m.

Dear reader,

I hope you’re warm and well. I’m sorry for my silence, I’ll explain soon. In the meantime, here’s a second excerpt. (You can read the first one here.)

K

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At 7 in the morning, my mother gets off the phone with our old neighbour and shares the news. I never discussed anything with her, but she seems to know enough to deliver it with caution, inspecting my face between statements. I’m shocked but hold on to my composure. Once it’s clear that I won’t react, she lays back down and continues the speculation she began on the phone.

“She said he only had one bag. So it can’t be a final return. It can’t be a return of grief because we’d know if someone had died. There are no weddings either. Unless, of course, he’s back to be married.”

As soon as she finishes her last sentence, I stand up and excuse myself, muttering something about being late for work.

Before I enter my car, I allow myself three deep breaths. I look around and intentionally register my surroundings. The gravel under my shoes, the soft weight of my scarf on my head and the tub of greenery by the door. The dew shining on top of the petals reminds me that it’s winter. Winter is my favourite time in the city. The dew lasts later into the morning, the sun is less harsh and everyone is kinder. I drive with the windows down and let the cool wind soothe me.

I arrive at work and the guard greets me with the exact same joke he makes every time the weather falls below 25ºC; that he woke up and “could’ve sworn he was in Europe”. I’m particularly grateful for the gift of familiarity today so I laugh right along with him. My gratitude extends to the pile of memos at my desk too. If there was ever a day to welcome busyness, it is today.

I spend the morning and early afternoon reviewing reports. I play 70s instrumentals and begin fixing grammatical mistakes, rearranging tables and changing fonts. When I move on to the spreadsheets, I notice that most of the sheets contain empty rows between filled cells, preventing me from being able to do a one-step count. Frustration begins to rise inside of me but I quickly remind myself that incompetence is often a lack of guidance; not a lack of effort. I make a mental note to speak to the colleague who compiled them. I know a handy shortcut. I’m sure he’ll be grateful for the tip.

I also take my irritability as a reminder to have lunch. I switch my instrumentals out for a playlist titled “Africans Voices”, turn to face my window and spend half an hour absent-mindedly watching the happenings on the street. When I’m done eating, I respond to every unread text message on my phone and draft a birthday message for an old friend. I let the afternoon fill up with meetings and calls and by the time the athan for Asr prayer sounds, I’ve finished 3 days’ worth of work and decide to call it a day.

I read somewhere that the best way to harness resilience is to stick firmly to your routine even when you’ve been rattled. Still, I know that I can’t maintain a poker face with my family for long. I text my mother that I’ll be having dinner with a friend and drive aimlessly for a while. I’m on the bridge when the sun begins setting and I decide to park on the side and watch it disappear into the river.

I switch off the engine and my music stops too. The sudden silence gives me goosebumps. I know what will come now and I am too tired to resist it. I close my eyes, inhale deeply and let the memories wash over me.

When Mohamed left, I mourned him with everyone else who died that year. But the grief I felt for him was different. First, because he was still alive and then because it persisted. I tried all of my usual tricks. I threw myself at work, I travelled to my mother’s village and spent days walking to the river and back. I didn’t speak to my friends about it. There were never any words to say, just flashes of sorrow that made my heart sink to my stomach.

On my last night in the village, I sat in front of the house watching the neighbours move their beds outside and get ready to sleep. I noticed that Aisha’s house - three doors down and across - had a palm tree sticking out from the middle of the roof. I had never registered this before but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. On my way back to the city, I decided that I’ll do what Aisha did with the palm tree. I’ll build my life around the grief.

It wasn’t easy but I really did build a life. The grief still came and I let it. It arrived in waves, the largest ones arriving during milestones. When I graduated and started working, my imagination forced me to wonder what a love between us would’ve looked like now, in adulthood. When my nephew was born, I wondered how he would’ve celebrated with me and what nicknames they would’ve shared. I remembered him at funerals and weddings. With every promotion and discovery, I wondered. My life went on and an alternate universe where Mohamed was still present unfolded alongside it. It gave me comfort. It was enough to pacify my pain and it was entirely in my control. But now he’s here. Really here. And I can’t control how this will unfold.

Feeling helpless, I sit in my car and let myself cry out for him. I cry for the time times ago when the confusion between us didn’t exist, when I was able to know what he was thinking and predict what he will do. I cry out for the innocent tenderness we lost, and for the version of myself who knew so little about life that she believed that a love like that could be endless.

I find myself in a gasping wail that shakes my entire body. When it begins to dampen and I can catch my breath, I pray for him for the first time in years. I whisper a simple prayer: ease and peace - if Allah wills it.

I wonder what else He’s going to will this winter.