African Dream by Fikile Dlamini

African Dream by Fikile Dlamini

There are two things I remember about that night. The gold stars dotted across the winter sky and your voice permeating the darkness.

You sat on the slope of grass above me. I heard you narrate your story. Tears washed my face. “Hi, it’s Rita, I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch. I was transferred to Gulawa because my relationship with Amos got messy. He dumped me, after being promoted to National Director of Public Health. I guess having a mistress wasn’t a good look.” Your voice cracked.

Your obsession with him led to a restraining order. Whilst Amos was at a health conference in Nigeria. You discovered his wife was having an affair with a family friend. You tailed them to their rendezvous.

Armed with evidence, two weeks later you marched into Amos’s office. He would be shocked and hurt of course. You hadn’t to get security to escort you out of the building.

Three days later you called, pleaded on voice messages and texted but there was no response.  You paid him and his wife a visit.

“I am sorry, Amos isn’t home. You can leave your details. He will contact you as soon as he gets back.”

 “It’s urgent.” You strained to reach the intercom. “I’ll wait for him, I can park across the street.” The gate slid open.

Ntombi’s hair was short, not a hint of makeup, she was more striking in person. You straightened your weave. Amos had never had you in his home. The interior had lots of gold trimmings, and doorways leading to more rooms. Ntombi offered you a cup of coffee.

Her daughter skipped into the guest lounge, she sat close to you. She asked lots of questions, in return you interrogated her about her parents. Ntombi came back with two mugs of coffee. She ordered her daughter upstairs to finish her homework. You chit chatted before Amos pulled in. The little girl ran downstairs to greet her father. He put his briefcase down and scooped her in his arms. Ntombi stood up to let him know he had a visitor. He whispered in her ear. She took his briefcase and giggled. When he walked into the lounge. His face turned to ash.

You raised your voice, “Ntombi I hoped you would join us.”

“You should have your privacy.”

 “Nothing private here dear.” You reached for the brown envelope.

She searched her husband for cues. His eyes were glued on you. “What are you doing here?”

Ntombi walked away. You grabbed her arm.

“Who did you say you were?” Ntombi set her arm free. “What business, have you come about?”

“This business.”  You unveiled pictures from an envelope. You flung them at her, images of bodies clad in costume threads, floated onto the plush carpet.

“Get out of my house”

“Who is this woman Amos?”

“Not now Ntombi.”

That is how you ended up being transferred to the middle of nowhere, where you had to stand on the rooftop to get network. Your job consisted of driving for hours to chat to old lonely women. You dropped off medical supplies, administered HIV tests, checked blood pressure and sugar levels but it didn’t require a PHD in nursing.

You walked down the steps where I stood overlooking the soccer field. Your friend rattled advice on the phone. I wanted to tell you I understood, my white picket fence girlfriend – Auria, had slept with my best friend, but a year later, I was waiting for her call to say she made a mistake and wanted me back. I mumbled an apology, and walked away.

I was assigned to your team, the next day.

“Hi! I’m Matt.” I extended my hand.

“I know.” You slapped it with a folder.  

“Inside the folder. You will find a schedule.” I chased you to the van. “This month our focus is mental health. We will visit a school to give a talk then check on our regular patients.” You jumped into the front seat of the van. I stood outside looking at the folder.

The driver winded down his window, exposing a mouth full of white teeth. “First time in Africa?” He was grinding on maize. “Welcome. My name is Duma, let’s go.”

Duma chatted away, cracking up at his own jokes, oblivious to the tension between us, until he asked me a question. You answered with an opposing view. We went back and forth until he stopped the vehicle. “Am I correct in assuming you have no love for each other?” We burst out laughing. The tension subsided but the debates ensued. No topic was off limits.

I had not come to Africa to impart my ‘skills’ to improve the ‘livelihood’ of the local people. When my father saw my lack of drive. He shared how being a Peace Corps volunteer, had changed the trajectory of his life, many years ago. I signed up with the first organization that would have. Why would I volunteer to be here? Where you travelled in an overloaded bus for hours, enduring odors of sweat, fish and soaked diapers to arrive in a small town, to purchase groceries with foreign brands. A place where mosquitos looked like tarantulas. It got so hot during the day, walking felt like lifting pillars off the ground. Water was scarce I took a shower once a week.

The difference between you and I, is you engaged. Bedridden patients anticipated your visit every week, for a bathe and change of clothes. Treats were hidden in your pockets for the children.  You sat on the mat with elderly patients, listening to stories, you had heard a hundred times.

Your acts of kindness were rewarded with beans, sweet potatoes and black jack leaves. You cooked them for me, that night we spent together, I didn’t like them but it was the best night of my life. We grappled to stay above water but we had what the other needed, it consumed us, until we found our rhythm; one gave the other received.

From the day I woke up in your arms; I shaved, jogged, ate for health. I took you on my fitness journey, but after a month of jogging and dieting, you cussed me out for ten minutes. We decided it wasn’t for you. It was a pity because the camp guard beamed every time we would jog past him in the mornings. I started a soccer league for the boys who lurked outside our camp. The whole village came out on weekends to cheer the best talent I had ever encountered.

However, I was still stuck on the girl I had left behind, my thoughts were too loud too hear what my heart knew. I belonged to you. I was blinded by the image of love I held ransom in mind, to see you.

I baited Auria on social media with posts of beautiful sunsets, a tanned and muscled up body. She took the bait. You and I had never defined our relationship. I know I shredded your heart into a thousand pieces, because I shredded mine too.

The week Auria came to visit, I got what the locals called the wasting disease. Auria spent most of the time out of my room on her phone. When I deteriorated, she checked into a hotel. She never touched me once in those two weeks. She cut her trip short because she had a deal to close in New York. Vision is clear when the body is deprived of its lustful appetites. If Auria had been sick I would have never left her side. There is no distance I wouldn’t travel to save the one I love, it’s who I am it’s who you are.

When she left, you swept my room, bathed me and fed me. You made sure I took my medication. When I slipped in and out of consciousness. I would hear you singing hymns. I have never been a spiritual man but those songs anchored me. You massaged ancient African portions into my joints. My bones resurrected.  

I am in New York now. I got my dream job, got the girl back. We are engaged, through college, changing of jobs and cities. We always found each other. It has been our MO. So why are tears falling on this letter I write to you. I had a dream last night. My head was nestled in your lap. Your fingers stroked my hair, like a slow dance. The milky-way outshone any view I have in my apartment. Mosquitos ravished my flesh. I didn’t mind because I had what I needed the most in the world. So, I am coming back, if you will have me. I will not return to the States because when my feet touch the African soil. I know I am home. When I breathe in the air after the heavy rains. I know I was not created for the life I envisioned. But for the one, which stretches me beyond what I imagined I could be. That life is with you

.* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Fikile Dlamini 2026

Image Source: Dey from Fictom.com