The small cafe near Gweru's civic center was always busy on Monday mornings — and this one was no exception. The queue stretched to the door, and the air was thick with the smell of espresso, burnt toast, and rushed tension.
Nyasha glanced at her watch: 8:16 a.m.
She tapped her foot, lips pursed. She was supposed to be at the surgery by 8:30 for a weekly departmental meeting — the kind her boss, the CFO, never missed a chance to scold latecomers for. She'd already sacrificed breakfast for her father's meds pickup and now she just needed coffee to make it through the day.
Behind her, a slight shuffle. Then a shadow loomed beside her — not behind her, beside.
She turned slowly, eyebrows already raised.
Takudzwa.
He didn't notice her. He was on his phone, wearing a grey tracksuit that screamed "I don't queue." He was laughing at something someone texted him and casually slipped in front of her — like a breeze — muttering a vague, "Just ordering quick."
Nyasha blinked. Then cleared her throat. Loudly.
"Excuse me," she said, arms crossed.
Takudzwa glanced sideways. "Yeah?"
"You just cut the line."
He looked around, confused. "Oh, you were in line?"
She nodded, curt. "With everyone else."
He smiled — the charming, lopsided one that usually got him out of things.
"I'm in a rush," he said.
"So is everyone here," she shot back. "Some of us are trying to save lives today."
That one earned a few chuckles from other patrons. Someone behind her murmured, "Tell him, sis."
Takudzwa raised an eyebrow, gave her a slow once-over — and held up his hands in mock surrender.
"Alright, Miss Serious. You win." He stepped aside.
She stepped forward, victorious — but just as she was about to order, Takudzwa spoke again with narrowed eyes as if he had remembered something.
"Do I know you?"
"Is that a pick line?" Nyasha asked as she made her order.
"Nah, I mean it," Takudzwa said. "Something about you seems familiar. Have we met before?"
"I wouldn't remember."
"Chill, Icy," Takudzwa said with a laugh. "Hope the lives you're saving are less uptight than you."
Nyasha didn't even flinch. She turned, smiled sweetly, and said, "And I hope the girls you use don't realize how empty your flirting is until after they waste their time." She regretted that as soon as it came out of her mouth. Why would she say something like that to a stranger? And to top it all, why would she wish something like that to other women?
A gasp behind. Someone muttered, "Ayeee."
Takudzwa blinked. Then… grinned. "Touché."
Now she was feeling guilty. When Nyasha's order came, Takudzwa snatched it before she took it. He left the money on the counter.
"Thanks." He walked out, proud, amused, sunglasses sliding on as the door shut behind him.
Nyasha looked at the stranger with anger but could not say anything. When she finally got her coffee, she was still fuming.
***
Takudzwa leaned against his parked Jaguar, sipping the flat white he'd grabbed from the lady he now referred to in his head as The Ice Queen with Fire Eyes. Her words had stung. Not because they were rude — but because they'd sliced too precisely.
"Hope the girls you use don't realize how empty your flirting is…"
He chuckled, shaking his head. Who even talks like that over coffee?
She didn't flinch. That was rare. And for some reason, it had stuck.
By Friday, her face still lingered in the back of his mind. In a city where everyone either wanted to know him or already did, the fact that she didn't care was... irritating. Intriguing. Even mildly insulting. Yet it made him feel like getting to know the girl
So, when he walked into an upmarket pharmacy that Friday morning to pick up supplements and cologne, and saw her behind the counter — white coat over a dark green blouse, her hair tied into a tight bun — he almost turned back.
But he didn't.
He stood still, observing her from the aisle. She was laughing lightly with a younger assistant, her eyes less guarded than at the café. But then she turned, spotted him — and just like that, her posture straightened.
Her smile? Gone.
Takudzwa raised a brow, smirking to himself. Yup. It's her.
He grabbed two overpriced vitamins he didn't need and strolled casually to the counter she was manning. Was he really feeling nervous fight pe? Her face was unreadable. As if she hadn't completely disarmed him days ago.
"Good morning," she said, cool and polite.
"Morning, Doctor Serious," he replied.
She paused mid-scan. "Excuse me?"
"You don't remember me?" he asked, faux hurt. "I'm devastated."
She gave a short, disinterested glance. "The coffee shop."
"Exactly. The one where I tried to die of thirst and you saved the queue."
"I saved patience and order. Not your thirst."
He chuckled. "So, you do remember."
"I remember most rude people."
Ouch.
He leaned slightly on the counter. "I'm not rude. Just… hurried."
"And entitled?"
"Touché… again."
There was a flicker of a smile threatening her lips, but she shut it down.
"So, this is where you work, huh?"
She ignored him. "Your total is on the screen."
He paid with his card, then said, "I never got your name."
"Because I never gave it," she replied smoothly, grabbing a bag for his items.
He whistled. "You're really committed to this ice queen act, huh?"
She handed him the bag and the receipt, gave the most neutral smile he'd ever seen. "Have a good day"
He took the bag slowly, his grin wide now. "See you around, Ice Queen."
"You hope."
And just like that, he walked out — genuinely amused for the first time in a while.
He didn't know her name.
She didn't ask for his.
And for reasons that felt both foolish and magnetic…
***
It had been a long, testing week. Between her father's fluctuating condition and covering for a coworker who had taken unexpected leave, Nyasha felt like she was dragging her soul around in worn-out shoes. The pharmacy had been a blur of impatient customers and medication errors she had to double-check before closing.
She was finally off shift, tote bag over her shoulder, earbuds in, waiting at the traffic lights near Gweru City Centre when she noticed a sleek black BMW X6 parked near the curb. Loud trap music thumped from inside, though the tinted windows shielded whoever was inside. Typical flashy nonsense. She shook her head and crossed the road.
Just as she reached the opposite side, the passenger door flew open.
"Careful!" someone shouted — she stumbled back, heart in her throat.
And out stepped the very man she had complained to her father about a few days ago.
Leather jacket. Designer jeans. That annoyingly smug look on his face.
"Oh, it's you again," he said, genuinely surprised. "Still saving lives one glare at a time?"
She sighed, tugged out one earbud. "Do you always cut people off before they can even walk safely?"
"Only when fate clearly wants us to keep bumping into each other."
"I think fate has bad taste."
He laughed, adjusting his watch. "You still haven't told me your name."
She looked at him, unimpressed. "And you still haven't earned it."
"Harsh. You know, most people find me charming."
"Most people are easily deceived."
There was something addictive about this woman's resistance. The more she deflected, the more intrigued he became. She wasn't biting at his money, his car, or his looks. That was rare.
And weirdly… refreshing.
He leaned on the roof of the car casually. "Okay, Miss No-Name. What's it going to take?"
"For what?"
"For you to stop looking at me like I'm an expired cough syrup."
Nyasha blinked — and to his utter shock, laughed. A soft, genuine, slip-of-a-sound laugh.
"You know what," she said, regaining her composure, "maybe if I see you five more times, I might consider tolerating you."
"Five?" he repeated. "You trying to test my luck or yours?"
She was already walking away, waving casually behind her. "We'll see."
And just like that, she was gone — again.
Takudzwa stood there, amused, half-exasperated. He didn't know her name. But this time, she hadn't told him to go to hell.
Progress.
***
Takudzwa Mukwa's life in Gweru was a far cry from the flashing lights of Michigan, but he hadn't exactly gone quiet.
By day, he played it clean — a sharp, calculated businessman. His early investments were paying off well: an LPG gas distribution network operating from Gweru to Kadoma, a logistics company with trucks ferrying agricultural supplies, and a fast-rising online forex mentorship platform branded with his U.S. success. He'd even bought into a security company — not for passion, but for caution.
But by night, the old Takudzwa resurfaced.
Southdowns grew familiar with the regular stream of sleek rides pulling up at his property — often filled with girls from MSU or Gweru Poly. Some came for the thrill, others for the money and mystery. He never got attached. They came, they drank, they danced, they left. Simple.
He told himself that's how he liked it.
But something was… off lately.
It had started after the second encounter with her. The girl with the fire in her voice and steel in her gaze. She hadn't even told him her name, yet she was burned into his memory more vividly than any woman he'd brought into his bed.
Takudzwa sat alone by his pool one midnight, nursing whiskey as muffled laughter echoed from inside — two girls giggling over something shallow and forgettable.
His phone buzzed. A photo from the security company manager — new uniforms branded and delivered. Another success. Another transaction. Another checkbox ticked.
But it didn't spark anything.
Not the way that smirk she gave him had. Not the way she walked off, as if his charm meant nothing.
He downed his drink and sighed.
He still ruled this city, sure. But for the first time, it was starting to feel like a kingdom built on sand.
***
Nyasha couldn't explain it — she kept bumping into the same annoying man with arrogant charm and careless swagger. And every time, it was as if the universe had a personal vendetta against her schedule.
They first new meeting was in a bookstore. She reached up for a thick medical textbook at OK Mart's bookstore, fingers barely brushing the spine. Just as she made the final stretch, another hand grabbed it first.
"Looking for this?"
Takudzwa, with a smirk. She didn't realize it was him immediately.
"That's mine."
"I don't see your name on it," he teased.
She raised a brow. "I need it."
He grinned. "So, do I. I like pretending to read smart things around pretty women."
She rolled her eyes and walked off.
He returned the book to the shelf moments later. But she'd already left. He had seen her when she entered the bookstore. He had come there to finalize a partnership deal to stock and distribute specialized business, finance and forex trading books at his forex trading hub's learning annex.
Their second meeting was on a rainy day and during a kombi chase.
Nyasha dashed under a shop veranda as rain pelted Gweru streets. Her umbrella was in her office. Just her luck.
A kombi slowed down. She made a run for it… only to collide chest-first with Takudzwa exiting a car beside her.
"Trying to tackle me now?"
"I'd rather be hit by the kombi," she snapped, wiping raindrops from her face.
He laughed — genuinely.
She shook her head and got into the minibus, leaving him drenched and amused.
Their third meeting was during a church service Slip-Up. She had gone to a different congregation in Nashville one Sunday to avoid old gossip about her father. During prayer time, she felt someone behind her tap gently.
Her Bible had fallen. She turned — and nearly choked.
Him. Again.
This time in a clean black shirt, no chains, looking surprisingly composed.
They both stared.
"You again?" she whispered.
"Didn't think you were the church type."
"I could say the same."
Their awkward exchange was cut short by the "Amen."
She quickly changed seats.
Their fourth meeting was a juice spill accident at Food Basket outlet.
In the dairy aisle, her elbow knocked a juice bottle… just as he turned the corner.
Bright orange juice splattered over his expensive sneakers.
They both stared at the mess.
"…You're evil," he muttered with a laugh.
She covered her face with her hand, embarrassed.
"Or you just keep stalking me," she shot back.
Then, unexpectedly, they both laughed.
That night, Nyasha found herself smiling… wondering what ridiculous scenario would bring them together next. The man who wouldn't disappear.