Marion

Just Like That

I'm on the road. This is the point where the tarmac ends. I come here nowadays to sob. Cars don't go beyond that busy junction towards my village. Men roast maize for sale and women sell just any type of groceries. Amidst the tumultuous dust spread by the natural breeze and the turnaround of the vehicles, everyone is just a happy soul. I was sure that day I'd make my mother and father proud. You know, 37 years in this world without a woman of your own in my village is unheard of. I have served as a bad example during the evening folklore storytelling occasions. My ability to raise our cows and till 10 acres of land with my bare hands doesn't count. He can't do the one thing that all men have done effortlessly, how dump! They say. Marion is a voluptuous wasp-waisted woman with billions of robust black strands of hair creating a natural bob style that no hairdresser can achieve. We met in town a few months earlier and I had been traveling to see her at least once a week. The road towards her home is smooth and you can hardly see dust as opposed to the one to my village-Kasongo. She had agreed to meet my mother on that day. I was sure I would at least walk with one hand in my pocket, the other one holding hers, like other respected young men, who are both well-educated and married. Yes, the respect sets in as soon as you finish your housewarming party and you can prove you have a fiancée. Immediately the vehicle turned to give us up to the home that holds my umbilical cord, I alighted first to lead her. She looked at me with her white-teethed beautiful smile. She gazed further above my head. She then waved. I waved, not to her but to the tout, trying to stop them. He grinned mercilessly. Vroom! The Matatu summoned the borderline dust in my watery eyes. They left. My phone buzzed 5 minutes later. I knew it was Marion. She said,'I can't!'