2013-06-15 17.57.19

The old bus crawled along the dirt road towards Masau district. It groaned under the weight of people and livestock. The engine protested, but neither the driver nor the passengers cared. Men, women and children chattered away. Chickens gave occasional clucks. Local music sounded through the ancient speakers at the back of the bus.

He sat in an aisle seat near the front, absent-minded, watching the driver’s sinewy arms grapple with the huge steering wheel.

He dared not turn his head to his left because in that direction sat the cause of his nervousness.

He had turned to look outside the window and there she was, smiling at him. Such radiant beauty! He’d never seen anything like it before though deep down he could sense something familiar in the face. Quickly, he turned away, first to look at the obese old woman in the aisle seat across his, then back at the front of the bus.

There was a loud thump, and his buttocks jolted out of his seat momentarily. The bus driver had tried to manoeuvre past a few boulders and failed. The goats tied up on the roof bleated in surprise. A few angry insults were hurled at the driver, who spat back:

“Be happy that my bus still comes to this part of the country. You ingrates! It is not my fault your government hasn’t repaired this road since Jesus went back to heaven.”

“Shut up,” the fat old woman spoke up. Do you want to kill us, eh?”

He chuckled. The old woman seemed really angry. Her face also looked familiar.

A soft hand touched his shoulder, momentarily paralyzing him. It was her.

“I think a chicken has crawled under the seat and is pecking at my ankles. Could you please move it?”

He managed a grunt before he bent down. Sure enough, a large grey hen was nestled under their seat.

Say something to her, a voice in his head told him. You have nothing to lose. You will probably never see her again after you get off this bus.

Just then it occurred to him that he had no idea where he was going. Panic struck, but only for a few seconds.

All his fear disappeared as he came back up and saw the smiling face and heard her say in a sweet voice, “thank you.”

She was surely the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

That did it. All the courage he needed came to him.

“What is your name? I’m…” He stopped.

For one thing, he could not remember his name. For another, the beautiful face had changed from delight to grief with unfathomable speed.

She opened her mouth, but someone else spoke first.

“What is the matter, my daughter?” The obese 0ld woman asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

“It is your son, mama,” the beauty replied, pain in her voice. “He has forgotten who I am again.”

 

*************

Post image via Manufactoriel 

About the Author:

Portrait - DakaliraAndrew C. Dakalira lives in Lilongwe, Malawi. His stories have appeared in the first Africa Book Club anthology (Priest, Mosquitoes) and on africanwriter.com (My grandmother, The graveyard). He is a two-time winner of the Africa Book Club monthly short reads competition (Funeral woes, Perseverance).

Tags: , ,

I hold a doctorate in English from Duke University and recently joined the Marquette University English faculty as an Assistant Professor. I love teaching African fiction and contemporary British novels. Brittle Paper is the virtual space/station where I play and experiment with ideas on how to reinvent African fiction and literary culture.

4 Responses to “A Flicker of Memory | by Andrew C. Dakalira | African Flash Fiction” Subscribe

  1. mariam sule 2015/03/06 at 00:46 #

    Im guessIng shes his wife. Nice!

  2. Wesley 2015/03/06 at 05:21 #

    Hahaha! ….. An intelligent piece

  3. C. 2015/03/06 at 08:07 #

    Wow. Nice one. Didn’t see that coming.

  4. Malinga 2015/03/12 at 07:49 #

    Sad with a humorous side to it.

Leave a Reply

I hold a doctorate in English from Duke University and recently joined the Marquette University English faculty as an Assistant Professor. I love teaching African fiction and contemporary British novels. Brittle Paper is the virtual space/station where I play and experiment with ideas on how to reinvent African fiction and literary culture.

Subscribe to Blog via Email

Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Archives

The Night My Dead Girlfriend Called | Episode 4: Confronting the ‘Devil’ | by Feyisayo Anjorin

tnmdgc-header

The only thing of iron, plastic, or leather-padding matter in the well-lit shrine of Pa Fakunle was the treadmill for […]

Apes and Satellites | by Mame Bougouma Diene | African Sci-fi

untitled-design29

The ChinaCorp mining-satellite shifted across the planetary terminator, separating from its twin in stationary orbit over the Eastern Chinese Republic’s […]

Is the Ake Festival a Bubble? | Okechukwu Ofili Calls for a Reality Check

untitled-design28

The Ake Arts and Book Festival is an amazing event. It assembles some of the best minds in literature and […]

Zadie Smith and Namwali Serpell on Femininity and Writing

zadie-3

Zadie Smith has an uncommon ability to tell stories that capture our hearts. But she’s also shown herself to be […]

My Feminism | Remembering to Scream | By Wana Udobang

untitled-design27

I don’t remember the first time my father hit my mother. But I often remember my brother’s hands muzzling my […]

Greg Ruth Does Something Amazing with Okorafor’s Female Characters

untitled-design-60

Nnedi Okorafor’s novels are universally loved. She builds her fictional worlds and fashions her characters from the most unusual elements. […]