The heat of Lusaka hangs heavy, a palpable weight on your shoulders as you walk along the crowded street. You're headed to your sister's house, a small, brick building nestled amongst others like it, all struggling to escape the sprawling, dusty city that envelops them. Your sister is having a gathering, a 'baby shower' for her friend, and you've been invited. Invitations aren't something you receive often, not since you left Lusaka for greener pastures, for the promise of a life that wasn't just survival.
The last time you were here, you were a young, ambitious girl, full of dreams that danced with the dust kicked up by the passing minibuses. You dreamt of leaving, of a life beyond the stifling walls of your childhood home, beyond the constant struggle for even the simplest necessities. You left, you achieved, and now you're back, a stranger in your own city.
The warmth of the house welcomes you, a contrast to the outside world. Laughter spills from the rooms, the scent of roasting meat mingling with the aroma of freshly baked bread. The usual suspects are present: your sister, her friends, their children, their husbands, all with their lives that revolve around this city, this place you barely recognize anymore. They smile at you, their smiles a blur of teeth and greetings, their eyes quickly moving on.
They ask about your life, their questions polite but distant. You tell them about your work, your apartment, the bustling city you live in, but you sense that their interest is fleeting. They already know the answers; the answers they've heard in phone calls, in the occasional letter, in the tales your sister weaves about you. They see you, but they don't really see you.
Your absence had not concerned them. You were a faded memory, a ghost in their stories, a figure they'd forgotten about until your return. This is the truth, the bitter pill you swallow with each awkward smile, with each uninterested glance. Your presence doesn't add value to how they think of you, it merely provides a temporary distraction, a flicker of light in their familiar routine.
Later, the children come running towards you, their laughter a joyous symphony. Your nephew, a boy with your father's eyes, clutches onto your leg, his tiny hand warm in yours. For a moment, the distance between you melts away, replaced by the comfortable familiarity of shared blood, of a bond that transcends time and space. His laughter is a balm, a reminder of the connection you still hold with this place, with these people.
As the day wears on, the laughter fades, replaced by the humdrum of conversation, the predictable flow of life that continues regardless of your presence. You sit on the worn sofa, watching the familiar scene unfold, the warmth of the room a stark contrast to the chill that runs down your spine. You are an outsider looking in, a spectator to a life you no longer understand.
Your sister notices your silence, her hand finding yours. 'You okay?' she asks, her voice laced with concern.
You nod, a weak smile gracing your lips. 'Just tired from the trip.'
The lie hangs heavy in the air, a truth they can't see, a truth you can't express. You're not tired from the trip. You're tired from the emptiness, the emptiness of being a ghost in your own life, a phantom in the lives of those who once knew you.
As the sun begins to set, casting long shadows across the room, you decide it's time to leave. You say your goodbyes, the same polite, uninterested greetings you received upon arrival. You walk back out onto the street, the heat of the city pressing down on you, a reflection of the emptiness within.
The dust swirls around you as you walk, a symbol of the ever-changing nature of life, of the way things fade, the way people are forgotten. You turn back to look at the house, a beacon of warmth in the encroaching darkness, a reminder of the life you left behind.
You're a ghost in your own story, a fading memory in the bustling city. Your absence didn't concern them, and your presence doesn't add value. But the dust settles, revealing the truth: You are still here, a silent witness to the lives that continue without you, a reminder of the bittersweet truth of returning home.
