The humid Lusaka air feels heavy, thick with the scent of burnt charcoal and the lingering aroma of your friend’s defeat. He walks hunched over, a defeated warrior trudging back from the battlefield. You, the loyal companion, limp slightly behind, a silent witness to the carnage that is your friend’s bruised ego.
The fight happened at the usual spot – a dusty, makeshift ring in the heart of the sprawling township. You were there, cheering him on, your voice hoarse from shouting encouragement. You never thought he’d lose. He was the 'Gentle Giant' after all, a mild-mannered fellow who only ever threw his punches in the ring. But this time, the opponent was a whirlwind of fury, a wiry, agile fighter who seemed to move like a phantom. He landed punches like whispered curses, leaving your friend with a puffed-up eye and a nose that looked like a ripened tomato.
Now, as you walk in the oppressive heat, you're bombarded with a thousand questions you don't dare ask.
'Should I ask him how he feels?' you think, then quickly discard the idea. It’s obvious he feels like he’s been run over by a truck, his head a throbbing, bruised temple.
'Maybe I should make a joke?' You glance at his solemn face, and the thought dies a quick death. A joke would be insensitive, even if it were about how ridiculous his opponent looked, flailing with his arms like a chicken attacking a lawnmower.
The silence stretches between you, thick enough to choke on. You're both caught in a bizarre stalemate, neither of you wanting to break the uneasy peace. You wish you hadn’t brought that new cassette tape with you. You had planned to let him hear it, a new release by the legendary Congolese musician, Koffi Olomide. It seems insensitive now, a mockery of his defeat, a testament to the gap between your expectations and reality.
You glance at his swollen face again, his eyes downcast. You want to offer him words of comfort, but the words stick in your throat. What can you say? 'You fought bravely, my friend, but your technique needs work?' The thought is ludicrous.
Instead, you resort to your usual fallback – sarcasm.
'So, how about that fight?' you ask, trying to inject a bit of levity into the situation. Your voice is a shade quieter than usual, your tone tinged with concern.
He lets out a sigh, his lips curving into a weak smile. 'You saw what happened.'
'Yeah, I saw. I, uh… I thought you had that fight in the bag,' you say, your voice faltering. 'He really gave you a run for your money.'
'He's good,' he grumbles, running a hand over his throbbing head. 'A lot better than I thought. I should have trained harder.'
You nod silently, a wave of despair washing over you. You realize how ridiculous it is to say anything else. He needs time, space, and maybe a nice, cold ice pack.
You offer him a knowing smile, the kind that says, 'I understand,' even though you don't know if you truly do. The air hangs heavy between you, a tangible manifestation of the unspoken words that are dancing on your lips - 'Don't worry, it happens to the best of us.' But you know it's not the right thing to say. Not yet.
You walk in silence for another block, the sun beating mercilessly down on your backs. The heat seems to amplify the silence, exaggerating the awkwardness clinging to the air. Then, as if reading your thoughts, he breaks the silence.
'You know,' he says, his voice a little clearer now, 'I always thought I'd be the one to lose to my little brother. But I never thought it would be to someone I didn't even know.'
You shake your head, a smile spreading across your face. 'Your brother would never,' you say, finally finding your voice. 'He's got terrible aim.' You chuckle, a genuine laugh breaking the tension. He chuckles too, a bit hesitantly, but it's a step in the right direction.
You walk in a comfortable silence for the rest of the way home, the air now buzzing with the shared memory of laughter, and a sense of relief. It’s not a victory, but it's a start. The unspoken words, the awkward silences, all slowly melt away, replaced by the familiar warmth of friendship, a shared history of punches thrown and received, laughter and tears, and the unshakeable understanding that comes with the bond of brotherhood. The pain of the fight is still there, a dull ache, but it is bearable, softened by the balm of silent companionship. You've come to understand you don't always need words to comfort, sometimes all it takes is the weight of a shared silence, a nod of understanding, and the shared knowledge that, even in defeat, you are not alone.
