Every neighborhood has its own rhythm. Our neighborhood came alive in the late afternoon. The heat of the day began to fade, a cool breeze drifted through the compounds, women swept their compounds, children returned from school, people came outside. Sky turned a golden, reddish-orange, and before long the neighborhood felt different from just an hour earlier.
There was one place where everyone ended up. It was by Saidi Bakery, where the smell of freshly baked bread drifted into the road, opposite a low wall the older boys liked to lean against. We met at that little stretch of road every evening. Nobody announced it. There were no bells, no whistles, and no one was given the job of telling people to gather. Somehow everyone simply knew exactly when to show up.
One particular Friday, after I got home from school and finished sweeping our compound, I was exhausted. Even so, I walked toward that familiar corner. The smell of fresh bread reached me before I arrived. Some boys were already there, leaning against that wall. Clement was there – he seemed a bit older than the rest of us. He always carried a small Sobi hardcover notebook around with him. It made him look like a serious businessman, planning his days down to the minute, as though he had meetings to attend. Nobody knew what he was doing, but he certainly looked as if he had a lot of important things going on. Abraham was there too, who always bounced his basketball on the tarmac, pretending not to watch the road, but every few seconds his eyes drifted over it, toward the western side of the neighborhood. Christopher had already found his place against the wall. He liked making everyone laugh, and before the girls even arrived he was already teasing one of us about who would lose the courage to speak first.
Clement, Abraham, Christopher and I were pretending to keep ourselves busy, but we knew very well why we had come. We were waiting for the girls to pass, hoping one of them would look our way.
The sound of footsteps coming from the western side of the neighborhood made our hearts beat faster. Christopher stopped joking. Abraham stopped bouncing his basketball. Clement closed his notebook and looked toward the road. Soon a group of girls came from school or church choir practice, walking together, laughing, skirts and bags swaying. The way they moved their arms and legs made the ordinary street seem like a scene from a movie. Among them was Bertha. She was not the loudest or the one who grabbed everyone’s attention, but there was something about the way she walked, smiled and talked that made me notice her – her short, neat hair and the pink ribbon around her wrist. When she looked in my direction my heart beat faster. But I was too shy to say anything to her. I said to my friends, “That one, she’s mine.” They laughed. When the girls came closer, Christopher could not keep quiet anymore. He stepped forward slightly and shouted, “Is that Miss Universe coming down the street?” Abraham laughed first, and soon all of us were laughing. The girls smiled but kept walking.
That afternoon turned into a test of courage between us. Christopher challenged Abraham to stand close to the curb when the girls passed without moving away. Abraham accepted, trying to look brave. But when Bertha looked back, in our direction, he stepped back.
Bertha moved away from the group and turned toward her mother’s fritter shop. She was carrying a lubango, a traditional woven tray in both hands. Before I had time to think, I caught up with her. “Let me help you,” I said. She smiled and allowed me to walk beside her. Christopher saw us. “Benjamin is talking to Bertha!” he screamed and all the other boys laughed out loud.
I wanted to disappear. Bertha smiled and walked on. I had imagined myself walking beside her and wondered what I would say. I thought I’d say something impressive. Instead I asked the most ordinary questions I could think of. “What did you eat today?”
She smiled at me. I could barely look at her straight so I stared at the road ahead. My face grew hot. I wished it was evening so I could hide my embarrassment in the dark. “Nsima.”
“And your brothers and sisters?”
“They’re fine.”
And that was it. To anyone it would have sounded like a normal conversation. But to fourteen-year-old me it was the most important conversation in the world. Those few awkward minutes felt like a great achievement. When we arrived at her mother’s shop, Bertha thanked me. I walked away trying to act normal but my heart was pounding fast. I did not wave at her. I simply walked back to the group. Christopher immediately started teasing Abraham again about stepping away from the curb when Bertha looked in our direction. We laughed, argued over who had been the bravest among us, who had the gravest face, and who could stand taller than the others.
By 6 p.m. the sun set and cool air came in. The street began to quiet down. Mothers called us in; our siblings came out looking for us.
I walked home thinking about those few minutes beside her. I now think maybe it was for the best. Some things are better left untouched. Some of the sweetest memories are built around our simple innocence.
Even now, when I think back to those evenings, I can still hear the girls, their footsteps. The teasing, the laughing. And I can still feel the boys looking for whatever they thought they were looking for. I can still see the streets, the same boys, the same everything.
Those afternoons felt like adventures, even though we did nothing more than watch girls pass. Our world was small but our hearts were full of endless possibilities.
When life gives me a quiet moment, my mind returns to those evenings. I can almost feel the sensation of a stone wall at my back, the rough floor under my shoes, the wind carrying the smell of clothes being washed nearby. Those details still feel alive. It still amazes me how such small, seemingly insignificant moments can leave such haunting memories.
This was one of the oddities of those simple but important days of my life. A period when all you needed was the anticipation of a smile and a glance. The beauty was in the waiting, in the silent expectation of time, and in little things that disappear in a moment. Those evenings lived on in us.
