To think those days would ever come to an end…
But they did.
The neighborhood is quieter now. The children who once filled the streets are adults now. Some left the neighborhood. Some remained. Some died. Life took us to different places; slowly we stopped seeing each other the way we did when we were children.
My friendship with Christopher remained strong as we grew older. We continued visiting each other until I left the country. Years later, Christopher sent me a friend request on Instagram. I accepted and realized he still lived in the same neighborhood. We started chatting about the old days, where life had taken us.
Christopher still lives in the neighborhood. He now works as a bricklayer assistant. He has also opened a liquor shop in the neighborhood and still lives at his parents’ place. He is not married. When I think about Christopher, the first thing that comes to my mind is the boy I used to ride my BMX bicycle with through different streets of our neighborhood. He was the boy who could make all of us laugh. We shared many simple moments as children including bathing together outside in a large metal washing dish. One thing I still remember is how he would pull his jeans down around his buttocks, put a white bandana and a cape on himself, and pretend to be 50 Cent.
When I think of him, I remember the boy who would call my name and make me stay for a while when my mother had sent me to buy tomatoes and onions at Chimujema grocery. If I could sit with him one afternoon, I’d probably talk about the way we used to feel shy around girls and how we’d find the courage to speak to them in the evenings when it was easier than during the day. Christopher didn’t know where Mathew was, and he told me that Bertha had moved away while I was outside the country. He gave me Abraham’s WhatsApp number.
Abraham married his longtime girlfriend. They now have children. After getting his number from Christopher, I called Abraham on a WhatsApp video call. I sometimes think about the boy who used to help his elder brother roast pork. He spent many afternoons with Christopher and me at the community ground. During our video call, Abraham told me that he had moved to another neighborhood and was working as a truck driver for the company his father used to work for before retiring. I also remember the ordinary adventures of childhood we shared. We bathed outside together with the other boys, and once we entered Shanzi’s orchard to eat oranges. When Shanzi caught us, we bolted in different directions.
Abraham’s family also gave us memories that were different from those of the rest of us. His father worked for a European-owned company. Sometimes he would take Abraham and us to spend time at his boss’s place, where we played with his boss’s children, swam in their pools, and jumped in their inflatable castles. His mother sold avocados at the local market. Sometimes we helped her carry her goods when she went to the market and returned home. If I met him today, I would remind him of those days at his father’s workplace, swimming and playing, and of the times we helped his mother carry her goods to and from the market.
Bertha got married too. Abraham told me that she had gotten married. She has children and has moved away from the neighborhood where we grew up. When I think of her, I remember those afternoons when the girls walked past our meeting place, Saidi Bakery, and I remember trying to find the courage to speak to them.
When I first got to know her, she was a beautiful, shy, brown-skinned girl. As we became more familiar with each other, that shyness disappeared. The other boys and I got along well with her, especially in the evenings when it was easier for us to talk. But during the afternoon, we were both too shy.
I remember telling the other boys that one day Bertha would be mine. Eventually, I did tell her how I felt, and Bertha told me she felt the same way. Even then, I was still shy about talking to her during the day. I still remember the one day she gave me a kiss. It was my first kiss from a girl. I spent the whole night thinking about it. I don’t know much about her life today. When I think about Bertha, I still think about that shy girl I used to know.
Mathew moved away. I don’t know where he is now. What I remember about him most is the trust his grandmother placed in both of us. Whenever she went to the Reformed Church for her weekly programs, she’d ask us to look after her shop. We’d just sit there together, watching over the shop, waiting for his grandmother to return.
The last time I saw Mathew was in 2010, at the burial of his grandmother. Since then, I have not seen him again. I hope that one day we will meet again. I’d like to know how he is doing, and what his life is like now. I would remind him of the days we spent sitting in his grandmother’s shop. I would also tell him that I still remember her and that I miss her too.
There are days when I ask myself questions that have never really left me.
How could one little neighborhood hold so many lives, and how could those lives scatter so quickly in different directions?
Sometimes I wish I could turn back time and spend one more afternoon there.
I would hear mothers calling us home as darkness approached. I would watch different soccer teams playing at the community ground. I would go to the Reformed Church and listen to trumpets. I would see girls carrying buckets and containers of water on their heads.
I would walk through those streets again without knowing how quickly childhood would disappear.
But when my thoughts return to the neighborhood, I can still see it the way it was. Children playing in the streets. Boys kicking a plastic ball across the dusty ground. Mothers calling us before darkness came. The sound of trumpets and drums drifting from Reformed Church. Girls carrying water home. For a moment, they are all there again. Christopher. Abraham. Mathew. Bertha. I may be far away from that neighborhood now, but when I close my eyes, I find myself walking those same streets again. The neighborhood lives inside me.
