On weekend afternoons, Ailsa like to lie on a nkeka in the garden under a tree. It was something she used to do with her aunt, before.

Before.

This was how she thought of things now; they were either “before” or they were “after”. With her aunt, the memories were tinted golden with the glow of the late afternoon sun, and the birds sang softly to each other from the trees overhead. Sunlight poked through the canopy here and there, and her aunt sat rather majestically on one side of the nkeka. For a large woman, she carried herself quite gracefully, as though in her mind’s eye, she was the queen of Sheba.

She would be drinking a mug of steaming hot tea – rooibos with milk, generously sugared – and eating whatever was in season – boiled cassava, creamy and lightly salted, or sweet potatoes, cooked to a soft pillowy texture… or pumpkins; buttery and sweet from the rich garden soil. She was a woman who appreciated food in all its authenticity, she was rather like Ma Ramotswe from The Number One Ladies’ Detective agency in this respect – or at least, Ailsa thought so. Indeed, they would have gotten on quite well, if Mma Ramostwe was not a fictional character.

Sometimes Ailsa’s mum would join them, and the two women would talk of many things. Shoes and ships and ceiling wax, Ailsa thought, Cabbages and kings. Ailsa would simply let their voices wash over her with the breeze, and would normally have her head buried in a book.

Ailsa had kept the tradition going, after. She did so religiously now, fetching the nkeka from the store room and arranging it carefully in the shade under a short mango tree. She didn’t read today, but just closed her eyes and lay back, staring up into the leaves and the slices of blue-sky peeking from between them.

In one ear crooned Frank Sinatra’s voice singing Around the World, but the other ear listened to the birds call to each other in the late afternoon. It was peace, it was serenity, it was the perfect marriage of sounds. As the music swelled into a crescendo, Ailsa closed her eyes and pictured her aunt there, just next to her. She pictured her wearing the deep blue chitenje with the sunset orange circles, and her favourite church blouse. She imagined the smell of the maize cob her aunt would have been eating at this time of the year. She heard a phantom spoon clink as it stirred a phantom cup of rooibos.

Like a wistful sigh, the wind blew softly.

Ailsa’s mind drifted with it.

In the dream, she was lying in tall grass, and the smell of wild flowers hung heavy in the air. Above her the sky was wide and open as the centre of her palm, but it seemed wrong somehow; a blue dome so clear she wondered if there ever was such a thing as a cloud.

She heard herself say, “It’s itchy,” and someone was turning to her, laughing. She heard it in a detached sort of way; like a tickle against her cheek. She was there and she wasn’t.

Ailsa focused on the face, holding her hand up to shield her eyes from the light. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere – perhaps that’s what made the sky such a wrong colour. The face was familiar, somehow. Ailsa knew she had seen it before somewhere, but she could not place it.

It was a woman. Her skin was light and pale with yellow undertones, but she was not unattractive. She was beautiful in that way that makes you wonder; her facial features all seemed a little too big for her small round face, from her eyes – which seemed intent on being as far away from each other as possible, despite the limited space, and their size – to her full pink lips, stretching now in a wide smile. There was even a large mole to one side of her lips, giving her rather coquettish appearance overall. Her nose however, was small and dainty, and it sat beautifully in the centre of her face.

She was dressed in all white, although Ailsa couldn’t discern what exactly she was wearing. In her lap lay an empty coke bottle. Ailsa thought this strange, and as she eyed the bottle, it began to feel a little sinister. Although Ailsa could see that the woman’s hands remained at her sides, she simultaneously seemed to beckon to Ailsa, and urge her forward.

Ailsa felt several things at once.

She felt that this was wrong somehow, and that she should not be here, seeing this woman in her dreams.

She felt irresistibly drawn to the woman, and her Madonna smile, and fought herself not to lean in.

But strangest of all, she felt that she had seen this woman before.

It seemed like she sat there for a lifetime, fighting herself from leaning forward, and being unable to look away, despite everything in her body sounding alarm bells at how off it all was.

The woman’s name struggled on Ailsa’s lips.

She heard herself think, why are you fighting it? But could not answer herself. Don’t fight it… she thought. But even her thoughts felt alien, as though they too came from this woman.

And then Ailsa was opening her eyes, and sucking in great lungfuls of air as though emerging from the depths of the spirit world itself.

Even as she put the dream behind her in that way that people do when they have woken up and reassured themselves, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had seen the woman before.

Rising, she bundled up the nkeka and started towards the house to get ready for work.

*

Saturday nights at the restaurant were busy, as were Fridays. But Sundays were a little slower, because most people were getting ready for the week ahead, and didn’t fancy starting the working week hungover, or tired from a late night. But there were still some who braved the looming threat of the Monday morning ahead and came, and these were Ailsa’s favourite diners of all. Drained of anxious energy, these diners held murmured conversations over smooth jazz and laughed secret, seclusive laughs amongst their parties, casting furtive glances to other tables as though to ensure they were not being overheard.

Ailsa was one for people-watching, and so enjoyed the slowed pace for the opportunities it gave her. Her thoughts would drift with the music, and sometimes, on particularly slow Sunday nights (mid-month) she could turn to her phone for entertainment.

It buzzed in her hands as she slipped it from her pocket, and she settled comfortably into the booth to go through her notifications. She clicked on an icon and narrowed her eyes to re-read the text. It was a message from DiscovertheIris. Andrei.

Well that can’t be right, she thought. Had he known she was on his page a week ago? Or had she accidentally sent him a message without noticing? - Maybe she’d typed a random string of letters when she was picking the phone up?

But under his username, also in bold, was simply the word “hey”.

She opened the chat. There was no random string of letters from her preceding his message. It was strange, and it made her just a little nervous. A faint pulse drummed in the back of her throat, and she swallowed, then cursed. Opening his message meant Instagram would indicate it had been opened and he would know she had seen it. There was no time to overthink, she simply had to reply now.

She typed back, “Hey.”

He was typing. Why was he still in the chat? She wondered.

She waited.

The little grey bubble disappeared.

She waited.

It popped up again.

What was he typing?

All a manner of thoughts raced through her mind. Perhaps he had scrolled too far and messaged her by accident. She waited for an “oops, sorry!” to come through. Perhaps Instagram now alerted you when someone had been lingering on your page. Better expect a couple of question marks then. Maybe he just wanted to chat? But about what? They had never been friends!

It was amazing what a three-letter word could do. Ailsa’s pulse jumped a little, and she felt so silly that she closed the app and tossed her phone aside, unfurling herself from the warm nest of the booth. She scanned the tables, determined not to think about it too much. After all, he probably just wanted to say hello and make stilted conversation… something along the lines of it being nice to see her again, and that they should catch up. The usual thing you did with someone you shared a halfway-decent connection with once upon a time, even if it was remote. Or even a question about the restaurant, because he thought he had a connection. There was no need to overthink.

Louder, she thought, there is no need to overthink! I’ll just be chilled about it!

Every sentence ended like this, with exclamation marks that forced so enough pep into her inner voice the result was a question-like inflection.

Finish the night! And then go home and take a nice shower!

It felt a little silly but it felt nice to ignore the whispered voice of curiosity, beckoning her to check if he had replied yet. Under the narrator’s voice (Chilled!) Ailsa decided she would text him after her shower, so as not to seem overly-keen. - If he had indeed replied that was. She put her phone back in her pocket and busied herself with checking on people she had checked on only minutes before.

True to her word, she did not check her phone until after she had gotten home and showered. Her actions were no longer punctuated with internal narration, and she snatched up her phone before she had even dried herself. Little rivulets raced lazily down her legs; pooling at her feet against the cool tiles she stood on.

One swipe of her finger and the screen came to life, the chat still open. She stared for a moment, seeing, but not reading. He had replied.

“I didn’t think you would be awake this early,” he started. Ailsa’s eyebrows met in confusion. It was almost eleven pm.

She combed her brain for a response. “I just woke up,” she typed. “What’s your excuse?”

A grey ellipses bubble popped up on his end of the conversation. He was typing! Had he been waiting online? She had scarcely answered herself before his next words came through.

“I’m an early riser.”

She couldn’t think of anything to say to this, and instead simply typed back, “Ha-ha”.

“Could we talk on WhatsApp instead?”

Ailsa’s eyebrows rose, and she watched a number come in. What was this about?

She typed back with careful, practiced nonchalance. “Okay. Sure.”

And then he signed off. She blinked at the screen a few times, re-reading the short conversation. When she came to her replies, she read them all aloud to herself. She did so without really knowing why… perhaps it just to be sure she didn’t sound suspicious or overly excited or silly. Or even to make sure this was all really happening. It was just so out of the blue. What could he possibly want from her?

Robotically, Ailsa saved the number. Once that was done however, she was unsure of how to proceed. Did he really want to talk? When was she supposed to text him? Immediately? No… she would wait a bit.

So, she got dressed.

Getting dressed turned into getting into bed, and this into saying her prayers before she slept… It wasn’t until much later, as she drifted to sleep that she remembered she had yet to solve this little mystery about Andrei.

It’s not that big a mystery Ailsa, she chided herself, yawning. And anyway, I’ll solve it tomorrow.