The air in Lusaka hung heavy, thick with the scent of dust and diesel. It was the kind of day that clung to your skin, making you feel like you were encased in a perpetual, sticky embrace. You stood outside your workshop, the wood shavings swirling around your feet like miniature snowstorms, and watched your wife, Elizabeth, walk away. She had a new, crisp white blouse on, the kind you only bought for special occasions. Her hair, usually pulled back in a tight bun, was loose and flowing, framing a face that seemed to glow with a newfound confidence.
'Don't forget, I'll be back by six,' she said, her voice a melody that was both strange and familiar.
It was the day she was graduating. After years of sacrifice, sleepless nights, and the constant thrum of the saw in your hands, you had finally managed to send her back to school. You had held onto the hope that her education would lift you both out of the dust and diesel of your life.
You watched her vanish into the crowd, a wave of pride washing over you, momentarily drowning out the nagging doubt that had been growing in your heart. The doubt had set its roots the day she received her first job offer. It was a good job, a position at a prestigious bank in the city. It was a world you could only dream of, a world that felt increasingly distant.
The first time she mentioned needing a 'new start' you had tried to convince yourself she meant a new start for both of you. But the way she looked at you, the way she mentioned how she had grown, how she had 'changed,' it felt like she was looking at a relic from a forgotten life. The doubt had become a festering wound, each passing day a reminder of the growing chasm between you.
The graduation ceremony was a blur. You heard the applause, felt the heat of the sun on your skin, and saw Elizabeth, dressed in a flowing gown, accepting her diploma. But it was all distant, like a dream you could barely remember.
After the ceremony, the air was electric with a nervous energy. Elizabeth's colleagues gathered around, congratulating her, the air filled with their excited whispers. You saw a thin man, with slicked-back hair and a confident swagger, holding onto Elizabeth's hand, his smile wider than necessary. This was the man who had spoken of 'moving on' with her, the man who had, in a way, become the symbol of your fears.
'Shall we go?' Elizabeth asked, looking at you with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
You followed her, the silence between you thick enough to choke on. You sat in the backseat of her new car, the leather seats cold beneath your calloused hands. The scent of her perfume, a mixture of jasmine and something else, something you couldn't quite identify, filled the car. It was a scent that felt alien, a symbol of the woman she had become.
'What about tomorrow?' you asked, your voice rough with forced cheer.
'We need to talk,' she said, her voice softer than usual. The words, simple as they were, felt like a blow to your stomach.
The talk came that night. The words 'divorce' and 'not your type' hung in the air like a thick fog, suffocating your hopes and dreams. You knew, deep down, that it was your fault. You had been a carpenter, a man of wood and sweat, while she had become someone else, someone who craved the polish of the city.
You signed the divorce papers in a daze. You watched her walk away, the man with the slicked-back hair at her side. He held her hand, his smile now less a show of affection and more an assertion of ownership. The familiar ache in your heart became a sharp, stabbing pain.
Three months later, you heard the news. It spread like wildfire, whispers and hushed conversations in the market, in the bars, in the cramped quarters of your neighborhood. Elizabeth was dead. A sudden illness, they said. Some whispered witchcraft, others spoke of a cursed love.
You stood outside your workshop, the wood shavings swirling around your feet, and you thought about her. You thought about the love you had shared, the sacrifices you had made, and the life that was now forever out of reach. And you realized, you would never know the truth, just like the mystery of the dust and diesel that clung to you, and to every corner of your life.
