The tyre was fixed, and the bus groaned back onto the road.
Nobody applauded.
Nobody trusted it enough for that.
But everyone climbed aboard.
This time, Tetu found himself beside Lala.
He tried not to look too pleased about it.
Tried.
The bus lurched forward, throwing everyone slightly to the left.
Lala grabbed the seat in front.
Tetu grabbed the same seat.
Their hands almost touched.
They both pulled away.
She laughed.
“You’re still afraid of this bus.”
“I’m not afraid.”
The bus hit another bump.
Tetu’s shoulder slammed against the window.
Lala burst out laughing.
“Clearly.”
He straightened his shirt.
“I was just testing the suspension.”
“On your body?”
“Very advanced technique.”
She laughed again.
And just like that, they were back in conversation.
The road rolled beneath them.
Fields replaced buildings.
Buildings returned.
Then disappeared again.
The bus stopped at small trading centres where people seemed to materialise from the dust.
Every stop brought another wave of sellers.
They squeezed through the aisle carrying sweets, groundnuts, mandazi, boiled eggs and bottles of water.
“Chicken! Chicken! Fresh chicken!”
That caught Tetu’s attention.
A woman was carrying a tray of fried chicken pieces threaded onto little wooden sticks.
Mshikaki style.
He looked at the woman.
Then at Lala.
Then at his pocket.
His pocket gave him a very clear answer.
No.
His heart gave him another.
Buy it.
The heart won.
“Two.”
The woman handed him two sticks.
Tetu passed one to Lala.
She looked at it.
“You bought me chicken?”
“It’s part of the journey.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
She took a bite.
Her eyes widened.
“This is actually good.”
Tetu smiled.
“Of course.”
He had just spent money he was supposed to be saving.
But watching her enjoy it somehow made the transaction feel financially responsible.
At the next stop, a man climbed aboard selling sweets.
At another, someone sold roasted maize.
At another, a woman walked through the bus with packets of crisps hanging from both hands.
The journey had developed its own rhythm.
Stop.
Shout.
Buy.
Drive.
Bump.
Laugh.
Repeat.
Tetu barely noticed the hours passing.
He was too busy listening to Lala.
The conversation had moved beyond the safe little subjects strangers use to test one another.
They spoke about home.
About the people waiting for them.
About childhood.
About university.
About the things they wanted from life.
Sometimes they talked.
Sometimes they simply watched the world pass outside.
And Tetu discovered that he liked even the silences.
Especially the silences.
Because he could sit beside her without needing to perform.
Then the jewellery hawker arrived.
He appeared in the aisle carrying a small case that seemed to contain an entire shop.
Watches.
Bracelets.
Rings.
Chains.
Necklaces.
Tetu glanced at it.
Then looked away.
Then looked back.
And there it was.
A small necklace.
Simple silver-coloured chain.
Tiny pendant.
Two letters.
L&L.
Tetu stared at it.
His eyes moved slowly towards Lala.
She was looking out the window.
He looked back at the necklace.
There are moments when a man’s financial situation and his romantic ambition enter a heated argument.
This was one of them.
“How much?”
The hawker told him.
Tetu almost laughed.
Almost.
He checked his money.
Not enough.
Not even close.
But he wanted it.
Not because it was expensive.
Because it was L&L.
And he had already decided, somewhere between the chicken and the conversation, that this girl was becoming a story he wanted to remember.
He stood.
“Come.”
The hawker followed him outside.
Tetu leaned closer.
“I like it.”
“Then buy it.”
“I can’t pay that.”
“That is the price.”
Tetu shook his head.
“That’s not a price. That’s a personal attack.”
The hawker laughed.
They began negotiating.
Tetu had suddenly transformed.
The quiet university student was gone.
In his place stood a man who had apparently been appointed Minister of Bargaining.
The seller refused.
Tetu refused.
The seller lowered the price.
Tetu lowered his.
The seller walked away.
Tetu let him.
Three steps.
Four.
Five.
Tetu’s heart started beating faster.
Six.
The hawker turned.
They negotiated again.
This time, Tetu spoke with the precision of a man defending a national budget.
Eventually, the seller stretched out his hand.
Tetu shook it.
Deal.
The necklace disappeared into his pocket.
So did most of the money he had left.
He climbed back onto the bus.
Lala looked at him.
“You took forever.”
“Network.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Network?”
“Very poor network.”
She smiled.
Tetu looked away before she could see how pleased he was with himself.
Outside, the afternoon was beginning to surrender to evening.
The sunlight softened.
The fields turned gold.
Long shadows stretched across the road.
Inside the bus, conversations became quieter.
People who had spent hours talking were now leaning against windows.
Children slept across their mothers’ laps.
A man at the back snored with the confidence of someone who had paid for the entire bus.
The driver turned on the headlights.
The road ahead became a ribbon of darkness cut by yellow beams.
Lala’s energy slowly disappeared.
Her replies became shorter.
Her eyes blinked longer.
Then her head tilted.
Tetu looked at her.
She was asleep.
Before he could move, her head settled gently against his sweater.
Tetu froze.
Completely.
The bus rattled beneath them.
Her hair brushed against his neck.
She was close enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath.
The tiny hairs along his neck lifted.
He swallowed.
He didn’t dare move.
Not even when his arm began to go numb.
Not even when the bus hit another bump.
He simply sat there.
A man who had spent the entire day trying to impress a girl was now terrified that breathing too loudly might wake her.
He looked through the window.
Darkness had swallowed most of the landscape.
Occasional lights appeared in the distance.
A farmhouse.
A roadside shop.
A passing motorcycle.
Then darkness again.
Tetu smiled.
He had forgotten all about the journey home.
He only wanted the road to keep going.
Just a little longer.
But roads have no sympathy for young men in love.
The city began appearing ahead.
More lights.
More traffic.
More horns.
They were close.
Too close.
Tetu looked down at Lala.
His heart sank.
He had minutes.
Maybe less.
The bus slowed.
Passengers began gathering their bags.
Then a pothole the size of a small political constituency launched the entire bus into the air.
Lala woke with a startled movement.
She blinked.
Headlights from an approaching vehicle flooded through the window.
She shielded her eyes.
“Are we home yet?”
Tetu smiled.
“Home?”
She nodded sleepily.
“Not yet.”
He paused.
“But one day.”
She laughed softly.
“You’re impossible.”
He reached into his pocket.
The necklace.
His fingers searched.
Nothing.
He pushed deeper.
Still nothing.
The chain had somehow disappeared into the bottom of the pocket.
Lala watched him struggle.
“What are you looking for?”
“Nothing.”
“You’ve been fighting your pocket for thirty seconds.”
“It started the fight.”
She laughed.
Finally, his fingers caught the chain.
He pulled it out.
“Here.”
She looked at the pendant.
“L&L?”
Tetu scratched his head.
“Yes.”
“What does it mean?”
He looked at her.
Then at the necklace.
Then back at her.
“Lala and Later.”
She laughed.
“Who is Later?”
“That would be me.”
He pointed at the pendant.
“Although I think I should replace that second L with a T.”
She smiled.
“L&T?”
“Exactly.”
She took the necklace.
For a moment, she simply looked at it.
Then she put it around her neck.
Tetu watched the little pendant settle against her skin.
“I’ll get you a proper one,” he said.
She touched it gently.
“This one is proper.”
She looked at him.
“It’s the thought that counts.”
Neither of them said anything after that.
They didn’t need to.
The bus was almost empty now.
The conductor walked through the aisle collecting forgotten bottles and checking underneath seats.
Then he shouted toward them.
“You two! We have arrived!”
Tetu frowned.
The conductor pointed toward the door.
“Out! We need to lock the bus and go sleep!”
They climbed down.
Tetu turned once.
The old bus stood beneath the evening lights, its faded blue paint almost grey now.
The crooked headlamp still stared into the night.
The tyre that had delayed them looked perfectly innocent.
Tetu placed his hand on the metal handle.
Tapped it twice.
“Thank you.”
Then he followed Lala.
They walked through the bus park.
The place had changed.
The afternoon chaos had become evening chaos.
Drivers called out destinations.
Passengers negotiated fares.
Bags rolled across the dusty ground.
Motorcycles weaved between people.
Someone shouted.
Someone laughed.
Someone was already arguing over twenty shillings.
Tetu walked beside Lala, quietly enjoying every remaining second.
Then she stopped.
“That’s my ride.”
Tetu followed her eyes.
A black Range Rover stood near the edge of the bus park.
It was spotless.
Glossy.
Completely ridiculous among the ageing buses and battered matatus surrounding it.
Tetu stared.
Then looked at Lala.
“Wait.”
She smiled.
“Yes.”
“That is your ride?”
She nodded.
Before Tetu could process the information, the driver’s door opened.
A man stepped out.
Kato.
He looked to be in his sixties.
His black coat had clearly lived through several seasons, but somehow still carried itself with dignity.
His hair was neatly kept.
His face was calm.
And when he smiled, there was something reassuring about him.
“Good evening,” he said.
His voice was smooth and measured.
He opened the rear door.
Lala turned to Tetu.
“What about you?”
That question landed differently.
Tetu looked at the Range Rover.
Then at the road beyond it.
Then at her.
For one brief second, he pictured his home.
The narrow path.
The old mabati houses.
The rubbish gathered along the edges.
Dogs digging through it.
The thin stream of dirty water flowing between the houses.
Small stones arranged across it as makeshift bridges.
The house with iron sheets so old that even daylight could enter without knocking.
He wasn’t ashamed of home.
Not exactly.
He simply wasn’t ready for her to see it.
Not tonight.
So he smiled.
“I have to pass somewhere first.”
“Where?”
“I need to get some music.”
She looked confused.
“Music?”
“My playlist.”
She laughed.
“Now?”
“It’s urgent.”
Kato watched him quietly.
Tetu could almost hear the old man’s thoughts.
Still, after a few minutes of polite negotiation, they agreed on where they would part.
Lala climbed into the Range Rover.
Before the door closed, she looked at him.
“Goodnight, Tetu.”
He smiled.
“Goodnight, Lala.”
The door shut.
The Range Rover pulled away.
Tetu watched the red tail lights disappear into the traffic.
Then he reached into his pocket.
He counted his money.
Once.
Twice.
He was short twenty shillings.
He looked at the matatus.
He could already imagine the makangas.
“Boss, pesa iko wapi?”
No.
He wasn’t going through that.
So he walked.
At first, the city swallowed him.
Then slowly, the lights thinned.
The roads narrowed.
The buildings became smaller.
The polished parts of the city gave way to the places that survived without polish.
Tetu kept walking.
His feet hurt.
His shoulders were tired.
His stomach reminded him that the chicken had not exactly been dinner.
But he was smiling.
Because his mind wasn’t on the road.
It was still on her.
Her laugh.
Her voice.
The necklace.
The way she had slept against him.
The way she had said, It’s the thought that counts.
He walked through the narrow paths of his neighbourhood.
A dog nosed through a pile of rubbish.
Another barked from behind a rusted gate.
Children played beside the houses.
Music leaked through corrugated walls.
Someone was cooking.
Smoke drifted low beneath the evening air.
A narrow stream of grey water trickled between the houses, squeezing its way around stones and bits of plastic.
Where the water widened, residents had placed flat rocks across it.
Tetu stepped over them without thinking.
He had done it a thousand times.
Ahead stood the little mabati house.
His home.
The iron sheets were old enough to have stories of their own.
Tiny holes had opened in several places, allowing thin shafts of light from outside to pierce the darkness inside.
There was no alarm.
There didn’t need to be.
If someone tried to enter quietly, the door would announce them to the entire neighbourhood.
His mother sat near the wall peeling potatoes.
A small television played the evening news.
The picture flickered.
Static crawled across the screen.
The news returned.
Then static again.
Behind her, a faded piece of cloth separated the sitting room from the small sleeping area.
Everything was exactly where he had left it.
Nothing had changed.
Except him.
He stood at the doorway.
His mother looked up.
“Tetu?”
He nodded.
“You’re late.”
He smiled.
“Yes.”
“You ate?”
There was a pause.
“Yes.”
His mother looked at him.
Then at his empty hands.
Then back at his face.
She didn’t ask again.
Tetu walked inside.
Sat down.
The television continued murmuring in the background.
His mother returned to peeling potatoes.
Tetu leaned against the wall.
He closed his eyes.
And there she was.
Lala.
Standing beneath the evening lights.
Laughing.
Wearing a little necklace that had cost him almost everything he had left.
L&L.
Lala and Later.
He smiled.
He had walked home with twenty shillings less than he needed.
But somehow, for the first time in a long time, he felt like he had arrived somewhere.