The bus ride to Jacky's neighbourhood took forty minutes, but it felt like hours.
Jacky was already at the bus stop when I arrived, bouncing slightly on
her toes. Her face lit up when she saw me.
"You actually came," she said, linking her arm through mine.
"Of course I came." I grinned, though my heart was pounding.
"I want to meet the people who raised someone so amazing."
She laughed, but her smile snagged at the edges. Nervous.
"Just… be yourself, okay? They're going to love you." She
squeezed my arm a little too tightly.
Her house was larger than I expected. A neat garden out front. Wind chimes singing softly on the porch. Lace curtains in every window. The kind of home where children grow up secure, where dinner conversations are planned and enjoyed.
"Mom, Dad," Jacky called as we stepped inside. "This is
Martin."
My pulse hit high in my ears. My palms went damp, but I managed to
smile.
Her mother appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
Elegant and warm. Her hair perfectly placed despite a whole afternoon of
cooking.
"Martin," she said, her polite smile widening. "Jacky
has… mentioned you."
"It's wonderful to meet you, Mrs. Wanjiku." I offered my hand.
"Thank you for having me."
Her father appeared in the doorway then. Tall. Serious face. His pressed
shirt still crisp, even at home. His handshake was firm and short-lived.
"Martin," he said simply. Like the name was a fact he'd rather
not deal with.
"Please, feel at home," Jacky's mother said, gesturing to the
sofa. "Jacky, help me bring tea."
I sat down, trying not to stare at the room around me. Family portraits
lined every wall — graduations, weddings, holidays where everyone looked
impossibly successful and content. The bookshelf overflowed with medical
journals, literature, books in Kikuyu and English.
"I'll be right back," Jacky whispered, brushing my shoulder.
The room felt too quiet without her. From the kitchen came the clink of
cups, running water, muted voices.
Then her father's voice cut through. Low, but clear through the doorway.
"This boy again, Jacky? I told you he's not from our people."
My chest tightened.
Not from our people.
"Dad, please — at least pretend," Jacky whispered back,
strained.
"I don't understand why you waste your time. His family doesn't
finish school, Jacky. No cow. No car. Where will you get the milk?" A
pause. "You have opportunities. Don't complicate your life with…
complications."
"Dad, stop." Louder now. Almost breaking.
Their voices dropped to a murmur again. And I sat frozen on their sofa,
my face burning.
Not from our people. His family doesn't finish school.
The words landed like stones in my chest. I wasn't just the wrong kind
of boy for Jacky. I was beneath consideration.
By the time they returned with the tea tray, my pulse was pounding in my
ears. Jacky smiled as she poured, but it was too bright, too practiced. Her
hands trembled just slightly as she handed me a cup.
"So, Martin," her mother said, "how is school going for
you?"
"Fine," I managed, forcing a polite smile. "Going
fine."
Every question about my family, my plans, felt like a test. Every nod
from her father was clipped, as if he was waiting for me to confirm his
judgment.
"Your tea is getting cold," Jacky whispered, touching my arm.
I looked down at the cup I'd barely touched. "Sorry. Just
thinking."
"About what?"
I met her eyes and saw concern there. Did she know I'd heard? Did she
realise that while she'd been fighting for me in the kitchen, I'd been sitting
here hearing exactly how her father saw me?
I wanted to tell her. Wanted to ask how many times she'd had to defend
me. How many times she'd been made to feel like she was settling. I wanted to
ask if we even had a chance.
Instead, I forced a smile. "Nothing important."
I stayed another hour. Shared stories. Thanked them for their
hospitality. When I finally stood to leave, Jacky insisted on walking me to the
bus stop. She chatted the whole way about how well it had gone, how her parents
had seemed to like me.
"They did like you," she said, more urgently when I didn't
respond. "I could tell."
"Could you?"
She stopped walking. "Martin, what's wrong? You've been quiet
since—" She swallowed. "Since we came back with the tea."
The truth burned my throat, but I couldn't bring myself to say it.
Couldn't force her to choose between me and them.
So I kissed her forehead. "Nothing's wrong. I'm just tired."
The bus arrived. I stepped aboard. As it shuddered forward, my hand
shifted instinctively toward the empty seat beside me before I caught myself.
Jacky wasn't there. She never would be.
I pressed my cheek against the cold window, the glass biting through the
heat in my face, and kept my hands balled tight in my lap as if holding on to
something I'd already lost.
All I could hear was her father's voice, precise and final.
He's not from our people.
And suddenly, the colour purple — our maybe someday — felt like a cruel
joke.
Maybe someday, if I'd been born to a different family.
Maybe someday, if I wasn't the boy they pitied.
Maybe someday, if I'd been worthy of her world.
The bus turned the corner, and she was gone.
If you haven't read Part One, you can find it here. The Link is here
Moses Twizeyimana
Moses Twizeyimana is a geologist, author, and the founder of The Margin. He spends his days noticing what others walk past—the seams in rock, the weight of light, and the quiet between people. He writes to remember what it feels like to be alive, making room for the unsent letters and imperfect stories we often hide. His work has appeared in Africa Writer Magazine.
