Bewitched

BEWITCHED
By M. Kaupembe
The first time Yesaya caught a glimpse of her, she was walking home from school. The bright afternoon sun made her light brown skin shine, and she clasped her books close to her chest as she walked slowly and gracefully. Yesaya was sixteen then, young and restless, and his heart suddenly felt something he could not explain, something new, something that made him stop and stare a little too long.
From that day, he started using the longer route home, just so he could pass near her house. Sometimes he would see her sitting outside, reading or humming to herself. Other times she would be fetching water, her arms pulling with effort as she lifted the heavy bucket. And on some rare and special days, they would meet on the dusty footpath.
"Bho," he would say, though his voice often shook.
"Shapu," she would answer politely, with a soft smile, before walking away.
That was all. They never exchanged names, never spoke for long. But to Yesaya, those short moments were enough to feed his daydreams. At night, he often wondered what her laughter sounded like, or what it would feel like to sit beside her without having to rush away.
It was around that time he found out she went to the CCAP church in Masuku, where she was active in the youth group. On Sundays, she would walk with her Bible in her hands, dressed neatly in her church attire. To Yesaya, she looked even more beautiful then.
Yesaya’s family were Catholic, but secretly he had nursed a thought of joining the CCAP, just so he could sit in the same service as her. He imagined himself at the youth meetings, pretending to be there for prayers, while really just happy to admire her. But he never got the courage to do it. His bravery was only enough for a small greeting on the road.
Life, however, does not wait for young hearts.
The years went by. Yesaya left for college, then work, then the responsibilities of being a man. He later found love again, this time so quick, and with someone who gave him her whole heart. He married, had children, and built a life that kept him busy.
But sometimes, memories returned quietly. He would find himself thinking about the girl from Masuku village. Did she ever notice him passing near her house so often? Did she know how his heart pounded each time she smiled? Did she ever guess she had once been someone’s first love, silent and unspoken?
The answers never came. Time had carried them apart, each onto a different road. Perhaps she had also married, perhaps she had travelled, or may be life had taken her away too soon. God forbid!
Some loves, Yesaya realised, were never meant to grow. They stayed only as unfinished stories in the heart.
Yet they never truly leave.
Even as an old man, with grey hair and a body so frail, his lovely wife lying beside him, Yesaya sometimes closed his eyes and saw her again, young, calm, and lovely as she used to be, walking under the Masuku sun with her Bible in her hands. Always out of reach, but forever alive in his memory.