Minutes before entering the bookstore, I stood outside and looked through a large, dim window. My bleary vision scanned the Hot Picks’ section, the Best Sellers’ section, then through and through to all the other visible parts of the bookstore. It was while scanning that I spotted you.
Behind me, Kampala was drifting past quickly with men and women jostling past each other, hurrying to wherever people in cities hurry to. The yellow hue of sunrays seeping through the bookstore’s window made the black smudge under your eye vivid. Despite the scorching effect of the rays, you remained in their way. Speckles of sweat beaded on your nose. Your eyelids fluttered. Your attention was on the book you were holding. I tilted my neck, squinted so that I could see its title. The book was The House of Rust by Khadija Bajaber, the same book I was reading – actually finishing. I felt my tote bag to confirm that I had my copy and silently exclaimed at how coincidental this moment was. I was in a different city, a different country, and on the first day visiting a bookstore, there you were, looking at the same book I was reading. Coincidences have spiritual meanings, no? Unlike the copy you were holding, mine had a cracked spine. Its pages had doggy ears and were discoloured.
“Hey,” I whispered through the soundproof window. You did not turn your head my way.
I decided to walk into the bookstore. I had to talk to you about the book you were about to purchase.
At the entrance of the bookstore, the Askari – a mean, short, stocky man with a gun slung over his sloped shoulders – insisted that I leave my bag with him before he would let me in. From the door, I could see some customers inside who had bags with them. I asked him why he was insisting that I leave my bag. His response was in Luganda. His guttural voice rumbled. It seemed like he wanted all those passing by to hear his authority. I do not speak Luganda, so I did not understand a word of what he was saying. But from his abrasive tone, I was certain he had thrown some insults at me.
I gritted my teeth, cinched my jaws. How helpless can one get in a country that isn’t their own? His eyes remained on me, his palms opened as he waited for me to place my bag. I obliged. He turned to put it into an empty shelf behind him. His aggression was familiar and had been since I started growing my dreadlocks. The difference was that this was the first time I was experiencing aggression in a place where I could not stand for myself. Back in Kenya, I would not have let this slide.
As I walked into the bookstore, the Askari’s stare was still on me. Though unspoken, his stare suggested that he regarded me as a suspect. A part of me wished he knew how much I valued books. I wished he understood that I was a struggling writer myself and would not dare to steal a book that, when sold, would pay royalties to another writer.
I took the direction where you were standing. With every step, my heart thumped. Rapidly. Intensely. I was unsure of how you were going to receive me.
“Hey.”
The only other sounds besides my whisper were the leafing of crisp pages by buyers in the bookstore and a gentle hum of the air conditioners.
“Hey,” you said sotto voce and lifted your head from the book. Our eyes met. The seriousness I had seen on your face from outside had now dissolved into warmth. You smiled. I smiled back, blushed, but hoped that you would not notice the boyish grin crusted on my face. I pretended like all I had to say was a greeting. You kept your eyes on me, waited to hear what else I had to say. Inside me, I steeled myself for the possibility that our interaction might go badly. A pang of anxiety briefly occupied me.
Other than the black smudge under your eyes, you also had atrophic scars on your cheeks. You had ripe pimples, too. I saw all these in the seconds within which our eyes locked.
You looked my age.
Dumbfounded, my lips quivered. My mind spun words as I scouted for what to say next. You flipped the pages of The House of Rust with your gaze on me. I caved in and gushed out a heavy sigh to whittle down my nerves. Then I spoke: “You like stories with speaking cats?”
“Does it matter that I like such stories or not?” Your response was accompanied by a big smile that you quickly cut.
For the first time, I saw the tartar on your front teeth. Did you cut your smile suddenly because of that?
“It is not that it matters. Some readers just find it hard to read magical realism.”
My response caused you to fold your hands across your chest, tucking the book under your arms. This, reflexively, caused me to scratch under my arms. The film of sweat from your armpits had discoloured your white T-shirt, whose imprint I was now noticing. “The Bookish Girl,” it read.
I waited for what you were about to say.
“Is it really magical realism to them who believe in speaking cats?”
The chuckle after your question signalled that you were down for more than small talk. In the seconds that followed, I rolled over thoughts in my head, mining for quotes that would respond to your question. I thought of interviews with the few magical realism writers I had read. Should I quote something from Garcia Marquez? You must know him or at least must know his novel One Hundred Years of Solitude.
“You know what Marquez’s response was to such a question?”
You nodded your head sideways. “He said something about reality being an integration of the magical, the fantastical, and the surreal. I forget his exact words.”
“Wow,” you grunted, drumming your index fingers on your lips.
I remained still, waiting for your response to Marquez’s quote.
Your phone vibrated, interrupting our moment. I paused my thoughts as you reached into your tote bag. When you picked up the call, you spoke in your language. I noted the switch in your accent. The cadence you were now using bore a different rhythm from how you sounded in English. To give you time to have your phone call, I pretended to focus on the bookshelves. My focus immediately went to the Awards’ Section. I pulled out At Night All Blood Is Black by David Diop, read the blurbs, then put it back. I pulled out Memory of Love by the Sierra Leonean writer Aminatta Forna, stared at the beautiful portrait on the cover page, checked the price, then put it back. You were still on the call. The lilt of your voice had changed to anger. I pulled out A Brief History of Seven Killings by Marlon James. James’s Man Booker speech replayed in my head as I ran my fingers on the cover of his book. You took a few steps away while motioning your hands, gesturing to the caller who clearly could not see you. I followed your steps, studying how gentle they were. Your wiry and long hair flapped behind you.
My fingers crossed, I hoped that you would come back for us to finish our talk.
After about five minutes, you came back. “So where were we?” you asked.
I could not remember. We jumped from subject to subject, segued and cycled in and out of various topics. We did not mind that it was a bookstore and that silence was to be paramount. My earlier rage from the Askari waned. How was I to tell you that I had missed having such conversations? How was I to tell you that I warm up whenever I am in spaces where literature is discussed? You told me you were getting started on Francophone literature. I hadn’t read any Francophone writers then.
“Try Mohammed Mbougar Sarr,” you said. The delight in your words gave me the conviction that Sarr was a writer worth looking for. I typed him on my phone so that I could check his work later.
You told me about your favourite writers, to which we high-fived when we realised we both loved Binyavanga Wainaina, Ben Okri, Maaza Mengiste, and Okwiri Oduor. You opened up about your personal struggles with fitting into literary communities. Your disdain for these communities stemmed from the dramas and feuds that came from writers’ hangouts, you said. I shared with you a link to an essay where Ndinda Kioko, a Kenyan writer, wrote about a similar struggle. You marvelled when I read you a paragraph from it. You promised, with our pinky fingers entangled, that you would read it later.
When I told you that I am Kenyan, you asked what I was doing in your country, your city. “I am here to waste time.” You shoved me on my back, your lithe fingers resting on my shoulder blades as you played therapist, asking whether I needed fixing. We let out a muffled laughter, aware that any outburst would interrupt the silence in the bookstore. The tenderness in your touch provoked the loneliness I had been experiencing since moving here. My eyes became wet with tears, but I blinked them back. Swallowed them.
Your phone vibrated again. You tried to ignore it, but the incessant buzzing was a sign that it was urgent. Our time together was almost ending, it felt.
“I am sorry, I have to go,” you said with your eyes looking at the Apple Watch on your wrist.
“Which book would you recommend?”
I cunningly asked in a bid to extend our conversation.
“I am just done reading Beautiful World, Where Are You? by Sally Rooney. You can try that,” you said, pointing at the side of the shelf where copies of Sally Rooney’s books were. Only then did I see the dragon tattoo on the finger you were pointing with. If we had more time I would have asked if this tattoo had any meaning. A gold-coated ring gripped your big finger.
“I am going to get it.” This was the last sentence that passed between us. You walked away with The House of Rust. I stared at you until you were at the cashier’s desk. You paid for the book as I feigned looking away. As you left, I turned your way to wave goodbye. This time, you grinned, waving back. We remained strangers whose lives were linked by our love for books.
Months later, back in my city, my country, I sat on a concrete bench in a green park and opened my copy of Beautiful World, Where Are You? The gentle wind blowing by and the lavender sky reminded me of the day we met, and I recalled that we never exchanged names. When I read the first line of the book – “A woman sat in a hotel bar, watching the door.” – I decided that I would forever remember you as Alice.
* Photo by Hümâ H. Yardım on Unsplash