DAURIN BOYE Complete Document Written By Safiyya Huguma


He meticulously tended to the mechanisms of his machine, a MOTO B lift model, the watch snugly strapped to his wrist ticking away as he glanced impatiently towards the entrance of the house. Save for a significant reason, he detested waiting; punctuality was a virtue he held dear, dismissing the notion of “African time” as mere folly.

His hand dropped to his side, his gaze shifting towards the imposing gate leading to the house’s interior.

A figure emerged, her steps deliberate, clad in a form-fitting dress accentuating her curves. Her demeanor, though composed, did not escape his notice; there was a hint of unease in her countenance as she approached. She wore a light blue shirt paired with average denim, her feet adorned with sandals from the Wambai market. To him, she seemed flawless, yet one missing element tainted her perfection in his eyes.

“Welcome, Princess Zulaiha,” he greeted softly, his demeanor gentle—a trait that never failed to captivate her, despite her reservations about him.

“Goodbye,” she replied curtly, her tone tinged with ambiguity.

“I was anxious; I feared I wouldn’t see you today,” he confessed, his voice betraying a hint of desperation.

“It nearly happened. We were about to leave with my mother, uncertain if you’d arrive. Next time, please inform me beforehand,” she admonished herself, her expression a blend of frustration and amusement, her attention momentarily diverted to a child playing nearby.

He nodded understandingly, about to interject, but she preempted him, redirecting the conversation as she ushered the child indoors.

As she disappeared behind the door, he shook his head, a wistful smile playing on his lips. Mounting his motorcycle, he revved the engine, pondering life’s mysteries and uncertainties—a question that had plagued him for years, yet one he refrained from rushing to answer.

Navigating the streets, he spotted a cluster of black and white cars. Before he could pull over, a group of young men, all clad in matching attire, approached. Their faces obscured by sunglasses lent them an air of intrigue. One among them gestured towards a luxurious car, prompting him to follow suit, the others dispersing to their respective vehicles.

“Any developments today, Mahmoud?” inquired a suave gentleman seated in the car’s corner, his gaze momentarily diverted from a magazine.

“What do you think, Mahmoud? She’s no different from the others. If anything, it’s only worsening,” he sighed, his words laden with resignation.

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