Somewhere at any given moment two lovers are parting.
They are holding hands and laying heads on chests and sucking in deep breaths from the corners of each others’ earlobes.
Breaths that will carve memories into the recesses of their brains to be triggered in the days, weeks and years to come by the smell of some detergent or aftershave or perfume.
They are whispering promises and comforting encouragements and wiping snotty tears on sweater sleeves and casting furtive glances at uncompromising watches.
I picture them behind the Kimironko taxi park,holding hands, wishing the twegerane never comes.
I imagine them in Nyabugogo too, at the Jaguar stations.
Standing in lines and tearing the stickers for the luggage tags, bisouing the other less relevant relations.
Somewhere right now two lovers touch for the last time, fingertip to fingertip, lips curving to form words inadequate.
Bags are hitched awkwardly on shoulders while impatient passengers herd on by.
They don’t know. They can’t feel it.
The way the air becomes more dense as if the growing breadth between these lovers were a tangible thing.
They can’t feel the expanding space, opaque and oppressive, that thickens with every parting step, stealing those final moments and drowning their goodbyes.
Somewhere two lovers are parting, they lose each other to the deafening and blinding distance, and around them time marches dutifully on.