What it Means When a Man Falls From the Sky

Nathan was unnecessarily tall. His head towered over everyone's shoulders as they shoved and pushed, trying to find space in the overhead luggage compartments.

His knees and those of the person sitting opposite him touched when he sat down, because whoever designed the SGR seats skipped measurement classes in design school.

As people settled, the train jerked into motion. Across the aisle, a toddler was wailing, but his mother was unbothered. Behind her, a group of men were loudly planning what games they would play. One shouted, ‘get the cards from the bag before you put it up.’ In front, a young lady shouted at a middle-aged man that the window seat was hers.

Sophie hated most of the train journey, but this was the part she hated the most. She couldn’t wait for the silence that came when the train settled into a lull, when the only sound was the tyres grinding on the tracks.

She was annoyed when their knees touched - a thing about personal space and all of that. He sensed her irritation. He shifted, angling his legs to give her more space. She unwittingly mirrored his movement. It was a synchronised routine of avoiding knee contact, but their knees remained attached.

That split second stretched. She glanced at him, really looked for the first time. He was attractive. At some point, she thought he was looking at her, but he was looking past her. The polo shirt stretched across his shoulders, hinting at the gym-honed physique beneath. She wondered whether 'Do you work out in the morning or evening?' would be a good opening line.

(Men like that tend to be vain, and he wouldn't mind talking about himself the entire trip, she reminded herself.)

She sat back, waiting for the right moment. Then, unbidden, the thoughts came. A beach wedding as the evening sun reflected on the ocean waters. Less than thirty handpicked and cherished close friends and family - even though in her cultural context, that was a laughable fantasy. You couldn’t just get married like white people in a backyard, for a few minutes. No, you needed a garden the size of a football pitch, a 50-seater separate tent just for watumishi wa Mungu and a program that ran the whole day.

She saw evenings filled with laughter, and games and questions like ‘what would you want for dinner, honey?’ She saw three children – triplets, two girls and a boy, and how beautiful and mischievous they would be. She imagined getting lost in thought as she touched their curly hair.

She pictured the inevitable small fights: the toothpaste squeezed from the middle, socks that vanished into the abyss, and clothes thrown on the couch, and the toilet seat, of course. Let’s not even bring that up. [pun intended?] None of it fazed her; these were not dealbreakers, but the costs of love, and she was willing to pay.

But if it turned out he wore socks to bed, then she would walk away.

It’s wild, really, what a woman’s mind can conjure in a heartbeat - a whole life, from vows to laundry, from the altar to the arguments - all before she’d gathered enough courage to introduce herself.

She decided she would make the move. She would smile, say hello and ask her question. This was in 2020, and while that might mean a lot of things, because, Wuhan, it was a leap year - a year of female initiative. She learned that during the last leap year, but back then, her courage was in the pits. Her confidence, fragile to begin with, had been eroded by years of subtle conditioning. Her mother’s and aunt’s messages echoed in her head: be demure, be cutesy, cross your legs at the ankle, and a man will find you.

Desire was something dangerous, and she had avoided danger all her life. Her life was structured, and anything that didn’t fit that structure was considered dangerous. She learnt to suppress her cravings and settled on enjoying things that would not disturb her comfort.

But today, she was chest-thumping, determined to overcome even her horoscope message that morning - “let love chase you today" - that cemented everything she had been told since she was young. Why would she let a horoscope, just words written by someone who isn’t aware of the nuances of her love life, stand between her and the love of her life?

He shifted slightly in his seat, and she noticed how his jaw tensed as he looked out the window. Was he lost in thought, too?

She thought about her lonely and cold evenings and how the warmth of her blankets was a poor substitute for shared laughter. She thought about wanting someone to witness the small moments of her day, someone to hear her mispronunciations and feel the weight of her unspoken feelings. It wasn't even about the pressure from family and friends who wondered, with concern, sometimes loudly, when she would get married. It was a deeper ache; a longing to be seen, to be touched, to be felt, to be known, biblically. And she was thirty-three, a milestone that amplified the ache. Most nights, she craved the simple intimacy of a hand on her skin, a grounding presence in her vulnerability.

Unfortunately, the right moment never came. She looked at him, hoping their eyes would meet, but they never did. He seemed lost in his world. She noticed the dimples, the chiselled jawbone and the rugged but neat hair and her thoughts about their life together wandered even further.

Then he put on his headphones - the universal symbol for 'do not disturb'. She put on hers too and sought refuge in the pages of a book she was reading: What It Means When a Man Falls From The Sky. In between, she stole glances, but it seemed the universe was not on her side.

For hours, he slept, and as creepy as it was, she kept admiring him, watching how his chest moved, his arms folded on his stomach. She did not see a ring - just well-manicured nails on long fingers.

She thought about her heartbreak. Well, there were many, but one in particular made her lose trust in men. He was the one who had wrapped his arms around her heart, and then, suddenly, ripped it out. He then disappeared. They call it ghosting now.

She blamed him, ranted to her friends and called him all sorts of names. She blamed herself and cried herself to sleep many times. Her whole world came to a standstill, and she had mourned lost love for two years. She mourned the lost love, but what broke her heart more was how her life plans were destroyed.

She didn’t know where to begin, and whether she could be vulnerable with someone again. She looked for closure, but she quickly learned that was a myth.

This is why she had a general disdain for men, to the point that she thought she might be on the spectrum. She never dared to explore what lay on the other side of that, though. So, she hid. She hid from the world and from herself. She hid from love. Her life revolved around work, smashing targets and climbing the corporate ladder.

"So, what does it mean?" he asked, five hours later, as they prepared to disembark.

He had seen her, but because of the circumstances of their first interaction, the synchronised knee dance, he did not want to cause more discomfort by trying to make conversation. He pretended to sleep, but stole glances too. It’s a miracle their eyes didn't meet once during the entire journey.

Her chubby frame and her light skin were hard to miss. He had noticed her radiant face, her shiny hair tied back and her big eyes. As if that wasn't enough, she was in all white, from head to toe, as if saying, ‘here I am, see me.” She had thought about that dress for way longer than she should have, considering she was going to sit in a cramped space for hours.

The question hung between them like clothes on a balcony of a Kileleshwa apartment.

"I don't know," she replied, a hint of a smile on her lips. "But maybe," she paused, meeting his gaze, "maybe we're about to find out."

He smiled too and helped her with her suitcase. As they reached the parking lot, the coastal humid air welcoming them, she turned to him, the question already formed on her tongue.

Her heart pounded like an isikuti at a disco matanga the night before a burial. The air smelled of salt and sweat, and she knew this moment wouldn’t come again. She swallowed the lump in her throat.

“I know this is an odd question, but do you sleep with your socks on?”