Where do you get this luck?
Is this what life is? I mumbled. The sun had slipped to sleep. I could feel the cold wind breeze having a taste of my dark, oiled melanin skin. The ants stole my focus. My hotel room curtains swayed along with the breeze like the leaves of a palm tree. The clear horizon was fading away into darkness. Picasso was here.
Play to me now. The radio begged me. It teased me. I gave in. A playlist by Oliver mtukudzi. His melodies picked me up like a plastic bottle in an ocean tide. My world disappeared for a moment. My memories visited me.
It was in 2014. Back then, when life presented me with my first love. It was all glitz and glamour. We met at one of our unplanned trips back to school. That year, we had our annual Music festival countrywide. High schools go on a frenzy mode for this festive. I can recall that event. I promised to her. I told her I was to be a participant. And I did. The rest is history.
She was Eye-candy. Her voice evoked all the unexplored frontiers in my mind. She was my love language. She was my first audience. She enjoyed all of my private performances. My Numero una fan. The love letters, the late-night calls. That was all I wanted.
Her vibe was African with a touch of Western intelligence. Her fluency in Swahili kept me gazing at the sky, trying not to make my assumptions as to what she might be saying before I opened up my mouth. Those love letters written in Swahili made my knees weak. Her company was a treasure.
But life can reclaim what belongs to its realm. “Ndinokunzwai raki ndandararama. Raki munoriwanepiko raki.?” Oliver asked the same questions