Tales From Kanele Bokosi One

You know, the most interesting stories often find you when you least expect them. I remember in July of 2018, I was attending a funeral for a workmate in Lundazi. During the colonial era, the Lundazi district commissioner was called Colonel Errol Button and everyone in the district received letters through the colonel’s post box number which was C/O Colonel Button, P.O. Box 1, Lundazi. Pronouncing colonel and box was too much for the locals, so they ended up saying ‘Kanele’ and ‘Bokosi’. Hence Kanele Bokosi 1 is the other name for Lundazi. This district commissioner used to live opposite the ‘Panadol House’ aptly named because newly deployed nurses would be housed there. And nurses administer Panadol. Yes, we are very creative with names in the Land of the Rising Sun.

Funeral gatherings are sticklers for gender segregation. Women usually spend their time inside the house and men would be outside. Where the men sit, the nights usually turn into theaters for comedy and stories. Occasionally, discussions would turn into classrooms with life lessons, the kind of stuff you will never find in the pages of books and Google would tell you that it has never heard of such (legendary) stuff. On this particular night, the fire was flickering, with hues of yellow, orange, red and blue. There was the usual chatter and the church choir was singing about 20 meters away. Suddenly, this voice, a low, reflective murmur started weaving a tale from a couch on my left. It wasn’t meant for anyone in particular, I don't think, but I couldn’t help but listen. And everyone seconded their ears to the man. It all started like this.

The man had fallen love. A love born by chance.

The lady entered his life like an unexpected breeze, soft and sudden, that hits one's face after opening a window to the hot October Siavonga heat. Like drinking water from a ‘Joe Saka,’ you know a hessian sack sewn around a plastic container. The sack is kept wet, which keeps whatever beverage inside the container nicely cold..

And tasty too.

She asked for little and revealed little about her own life. He gave her his thoughts, his time and his attention. He was a canvas, and she, with her quiet observations and sharp wit, painted new colors onto his world. She introduced him to South African musicians, the likes of Pat Shange, Sipho Mabuse, Chicco and others. She introduced him to the subtle beauty of abstract art, and to the joy of simply sitting in companionable silence, watching the world go by. Their conversations flowed effortlessly, from the profound to the absurd, often punctuated by her sudden, delightful laughter that made his own heart feel lighter.

Perfect poetry.

But deep down, he knew that she wasn't his, even though he held her as if she were divine. Every kiss felt like a borrowed feeling, sweet but slipping through time. She was thoughtful, a conversationalist, intelligent but also very opinionated. He’d often find himself marveling at the strength of her convictions, even when they clashed with his own. There was a fierce independence about her, a spirit that refused to be tethered, and he admired it fiercely, even as it underscored the fleeting nature of their connection. She wasn't his.

Like dew that vanishes with sunrise, the time to separate and go back to their mundane lives inevitably came.

She cried when they said their goodbyes, not loudly, but with a low, mournful sigh that seemed to carry the weight of all unspoken words. He smiled so that she wouldn't see that her leaving unstitched the broken parts of him, a silent unraveling of the threads she had so delicately woven. His hand lingered on hers for a moment too long, a futile attempt to hold onto the warmth that was already receding. She wasn't his, even though she whispered, "You'll be fine," a small, hopeful lie that neither of them truly believed.

The heart loves whoever it wants to love and doesn't avoid simply because it's forbidden, just like Romeo and Juliet, or Cleopatra and Mark Antony. It was like a beautiful song heard only once, one falls in love with it on a public bus, yet eventually forgets everything except the memories of the beautiful melody once heard. The melody of their time together, though brief, resonated deep within him, a poignant echo that would resurface in quiet moments, in the scent of rain, or the particular slant of the afternoon sun. He’d learned to cherish the fragments, the fleeting moments of joy and connection, understanding that some experiences are meant to be felt intensely, even if they aren't meant to last.

She wasn't his; that was the regular and undeniable truth. Some hearts visit, some just roam, and some hearts make you feel at home just before they go. And hers, he realized, was one of those rare, radiant hearts that simply illuminated the space around them for a time, leaving behind a lingering warmth even after the light had moved on. There was a grace in accepting this, a quiet peace in acknowledging that not every beautiful thing is meant to be possessed.

He didn't regret a single moment because if there was something life had taught him, it was to take responsibility and accountability for everything he did. Everything that happens to us, or everyone we meet, either gives or cuts the rope that facilitates our crossing of this chasm called life. So he claimed. She had given him something profound, a deeper understanding of love's many forms and a clearer reflection of himself. She was a signpost on his journey, a gentle push in a new direction.

She wasn't his, but he thanked the stars for aligning their signs, as she showed and showered love, albeit for a short time. Some good things don't stay, but their impact, like the lingering aromas of grilled meats and fishes on one's clothes after visiting Matebeto in Longacres, can transform the air around you long after it’s gone. She wasn't his, but the memory of her, vibrant and bittersweet, would forever be a part of the landscape of his heart.

And that was the tale this unknown man wove that night. It was the kind of story you rarely hear anywhere else, a true "classroom with life lessons" as I described earlier. If there's a moral to be drawn from it, I suppose it's this: the most profound truths about life and love often arrive unexpectedly, teaching us that while we cannot always possess what we cherish, the impact of such connections irrevocably shapes our journey. It’s a testament to the unique wisdom found in the unassuming corners of life, especially amidst the camaraderie of a Zambian funeral night, far removed from the pages of any book.