The Love Letter

An American poet once said, “No one’s fated or doomed to love anyone. The accidents happen…” Born two worlds apart and together for only a moment, she must be correct.

It started when you got on the lorry. What first caught my attention was the way you hosted the jembe across your shoulders, cool and coy like David poised with his sling, confident in your body and the implements  that were its natural extension.  I was sitting in the bus stand and, while I couldn’t see your face, I was struck by your back; thick knots of muscle wrapped tight around your neck and shoulders, a thin layer of sweat made the sunlight dance through dark peaks and valleys.

And then your kanga fell. I’ve always doubted the truth of love at first sight; it seemed like something people say after memory has buffed details and re-plaster reality. How can you love someone you don’t know? Aren’t you just fooling yourself into loving what they represent? What does it mean to love an idea? All I know is that the moment you stood bare breasted, unblinking as your young daughter retied your billowing shawl in the back of a departing flatbed, it was love.

So, I’m in love with you, or maybe the idea of you, or maybe the moment you inhabited the canvas on which I painted love. Whatever it was, it was found and lost in a dusty, Tanzanian bus stand.

Forever yours,

A broken fool