Nyala be mad at me again.
She won’t say it, but I know she is by the way she stares like the bus might pop out of thin air if she hope it hard enough.
“It’ll happen for you some day, I know it,” I say, because it’s what I always say, but neither of us believes it anymore.
Me and Nyala, sitting at the bus stop; last time. Best mates since barefoot days, forever friends, married us brothers on the very same day in a double ceremony. We’ll raise a dynasty, we said.
It’s not my fault my babies come easy. Five years, three healthy boys, and now another in my belly snake-dancing like a happy day.
“I can’t be your friend anymore,” she say, not looking my way.
Don’t you remember us? I want to say. Don’t you remember our promises? But promises mean nothing.
This week’s story was a story I had in mind to write, and so I went in search of a photo of two women in Ethiopia to represent it. I landed at this bus stop where I found not only two women in the midst of some apparent emotion–also these two ghostly girls. I knew then I’d found my spot.