Nyasha's kitchen was modest—small, neat, and filled with quiet charming. The kitchen was modest yet thoughtfully arranged, a perfect balance between simplicity and charm. Against one wall stood a compact two-piece kitchenette, its smooth laminated surface gleaming under the warm ceiling light. Just beside it, the two-plate stove with a built-in oven sat neatly—practical and space-saving, its black finish giving a touch of modern elegance.
Above the kitchenette, a fitted cabinet stretched across the wall, its wooden doors polished and accented with silver handles. Inside, plates, mugs, and bowls were stacked with care, while the lower section had compartments for dry groceries and utensils.
A four-chair kitchen table occupied the center of the room—sturdy and warm-toned, with matching chairs that tucked in just right. It was the kind of table made for long conversations and comforting meals.
Tucked in one corner was an upright fridge, its white surface clean, humming softly. Nearby, a ceramic sink under a small window welcomed soft daylight during the day. The curtain above it was a light pastel floral, adding a cozy, homey touch.
The tiled floor, easy to clean and cool underfoot, tied it all together, making the kitchen feel like the warm heart of the home—simple, efficient, and inviting.
There was no luxury here—no marble counters or polished chrome—but it was welcoming. It felt like home.
Takudzwa sat at the table, elbows resting casually as he watched Nyasha move about. The scent of garlic, tomato, and something warm and comforting lingered in the air.
The aroma of beef stew, vegetables, and freshly made sadza filled the room. Takudzwa sat at the small table, sleeves rolled up, watching as Nyasha dished the food. She moved with ease, barefoot, her oversized T-shirt hanging off one shoulder, her hair loosely pinned. Beautiful in effortless unplanned way. The intimacy of it all—her in her home, the domestic calm—felt oddly grounding.
"You make sadza like someone's mother," Takudzwa joked, accepting the plate she handed him.
Nyasha shot him a playful glare. "Are you calling me old?"
"No," he said, grinning. "It's a compliment."
"How's that a compliment?"
"I'm saying you cook with love. Or maybe you were just trying to impress me."
She chuckled. "I had already cooked before you came remember."
"So, why didn't you eat?"
"Had no appetite," she said, settling into her seat opposite him. "You talk too much. Eat."
They dug in with their hands, comfortably silent for a few minutes, save for the sound of soft breathing as the two enjoyed their feast of stew and vegetables. It was the kind of silence that felt full, not empty—soft and familiar.
At some point, her fingers brushed his as they reached for the salt. Neither of them commented on it, but their eyes met briefly, and she looked away first, suddenly aware of how close he was.
"Your place is... peaceful," he said after a moment, wiping his hand with a dish towel.
"I like my peace," she replied, not meeting his gaze. "Even when it gets too quiet."
"I know the feeling," he said. "You designed this on your own?"
"Huh?"
"I said-"
""I heard what you said the first time," Nyasha said. "I just had to make sure you weren't kidding."
"Why would I kid like that?"
Nyasha let out a chuckle. "My man, you've been in America for too long. This is Zimbabwe. We don't unnecessarily pay people to do stuff we can do ourselves." She laughed at his expression. "You rich people amuse me."
Takudzwa shrugged his shoulders.
There was something gentle in the way they talked, unspoken understandings hovering between casual words. The events of the morning—the heartache, the shock, the sting—hadn't exactly vanished, but here, over shared food and simple conversation, the pain had dulled.
Nyasha found herself laughing more than she thought she would. And when her knee bumped his under the table, she didn't move it.
By the time they were done eating, the plates sat forgotten, and the conversation had shifted to childhood games, school memories, and who could whistle loudest with their fingers. There were no declarations, no emotional apologies. Just soft glances, gentle laughter, and an atmosphere so comforting, it almost felt like a beginning.
When Nyasha stood up to do the dishes, Takudzwa offered to help. As they stood side by side at the sink, the mood remained light, almost playful. Nyasha had insisted on washing the dishes—her home, her rules—but Takudzwa wouldn't hear of it.
"You were created to handle finances not dishes," she teased.
"Exactly. I know how to handle finances, investments and even run multiple businesses," he said, grabbing a dish towel. "Washing plates? Surely I can survive that too."
Nyasha laughed as she filled the sink with soapy water. "Big man like you washing dishes? That's a first."
He raised an eyebrow. "You forget that I was born and raised here in Zimbabwe, at an orphanage. We did this stuff everyday," he said with a smile. "You think I got rich by not knowing how to clean up after myself?"
"No," she teased, dipping a plate into the water. "I think you got rich because someone else did your dishes."
Takudzwa clutched his chest dramatically. "Ouch. That was a direct hit."
She giggled, nudging him with her elbow. "Here, rinse."
He stood by the side, obediently rinsing each plate she handed over, drying it with exaggerated focus. "You know, we could be a whole kitchen dream team," he said. "Open a restaurant. 'T&N's Sadza Spot'—what do you think?"
Nyasha smirked. "Only if we serve sadza and sarcasm."
"Perfect combo," he replied. "Throw in a free insult for every customer."
They both burst out laughing, and for a moment, the entire day melted away. The girl on the stairs, the silence, the waiting—none of it mattered right then. Just the quiet clinking of dishes, the bubble of laughter, and the warm closeness they hadn't shared in a long time.
"Okay," she said, placing a plate in the drying rack. "That's it. All done."
Takudzwa leaned against the table, drying his hands. "I should cook next time."
Nyasha raised an eyebrow. "You? Cook?"
He straightened proudly. "Absolutely."
"Says the guy who has a maid at home."
"House help," Takudzwa corrected. "Look, I make a mean packet of noodles."
"Oh, yeah?" She rolled her eyes. "Romantic."
"Hey," he said, stepping closer, his voice dropping slightly, "I might surprise you."
She glanced up at him, heart thudding quietly. But before the moment could tip into something heavier, she turned away with a grin. "Let's see if your noodles can compete with my sadza."
Takudzwa chuckled. "Challenge accepted."
After rinsing the last plate and placing it upside down on the dish rack, Nyasha flicked water from her fingers and reached for a small towel. Takudzwa stood beside her, drying his hands on the one he had already claimed, a grin playing on his lips.
"You actually survived dish duty," she teased, nudging him lightly with her elbow. "You should get a badge for that."
"Come on," he said, dramatically stretching his back. "You do know I've been doing this way before your birth, right?"
"OH, shut up, city boy," Nyasha said. "This is actually an achievement for you. TK conquers domestic life."
"That's cold."
She laughed — light and smooth. He loved that laugh. It filled the small kitchen with something warm and human, like music made just for him. Her smile lingered as she looked at him, towel still in her hands. He wasn't joking anymore. And neither was she.
There was a pause. Quiet, but not empty. Her fingers lingered on the edge of the sink, and she slowly turned to face him fully. Their eyes met, steady and lingering. Something unspoken passed between them—an ease, a pull, a comfort that neither had expected at the beginning of the day.
Nyasha dropped her eyes for a second, then lifted them again, voice gentle. "Let's take a walk," she said softly, almost like a question.
Takudzwa didn't answer right away. He just watched her, reading the openness on her face, the vulnerability in her tone. This wasn't just about stretching their legs—it was about holding onto the fragile peace they'd rediscovered.
"You sure?" he asked, voice just above a whisper.
She nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Yeah."
He stepped aside and held out his arm. "Lead the way."
With the dishes drying behind them and the day's heaviness slowly lifting, they stepped into the cool evening together—two people learning how to find their way back to something they hadn't named yet.
***
The sky was soft with dusk, a lavender hue melting into the horizon as house lights flickered on one by one along Mkoba's now quieter streets . Nyasha and Takudzwa walked side by side, strolling.
There was something about the air. Maybe it was the warmth lingering in the breeze, or the way the city seemed to slow down, allowing space between their words and silence to breathe.
They talked. About nothing. About everything, the events of that morning forgotten.
They were walking slowly under the deepening hues of the night, the orange-pink glow of the sky casting soft shadows across the quiet neighborhood. The air smelled faintly of dust and wood smoke, the sound of distant dogs barking carried by a gentle breeze.
Takudzwa walked slightly closer to the road, instinctively placing himself between Nyasha and any passing cars, not that there were many. Their arms occasionally brushed, but neither of them moved away. There was something effortlessly comfortable about the silence between their words.
Nyasha broke it with a laugh that was already bubbling up before she spoke.
"Do you know," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, "when I was in Grade six, I almost got expelled for accidentally drugging my teacher."
Takudzwa blinked. "Wait, what?"
She laughed harder now. "I gave her diarrhea medicine. I thought it was Panadol!"
He stopped walking, eyebrows raised. "You what?"
Nyasha covered her face for a moment. "I swear! My teacher had a headache. So I told her I had Panadol in my bag. My mom had just bought all these little blister packs from the pharmacy—some painkillers, some antacids, and some… other stuff. I didn't know how to tell which was which."
Takudzwa's laughter burst out like a bark, catching the attention of a curious cat across the street. He bent slightly forward, clutching his stomach. "Nooo, wait—did she actually take it?"
"Yes!" Nyasha said, now laughing too. "Right in front of the whole class. And ten minutes later, she was sprinting out of the room like it was a race."
He had to stop walking entirely. He leaned against a tree, shaking his head. "No way. This is a movie."
"And guess what?" she added. "They called my mother to school. She had to explain I wasn't trying to poison anyone—I was just... a bit confused."
Takudzwa wiped tears from the corners of his eyes. "That poor teacher. You probably gave her PTSD every time someone offered her a pill."
Nyasha giggled. "I don't think she ever took anything from a student again."
He looked at her with that look—the one where amusement met admiration. "You're full of surprises, Nyasha."
She shrugged, but her smile was bright. "Life's never been boring around me."
As they resumed walking, the laughter still lingering between them, Takudzwa glanced sideways at her. The kind of glance you give someone when you're realizing you're smiling more than usual—and you know they have something to do with it.
They were now going back to her place, just by a small open stretch with a borehole and the community gardens.
She looked at him. "You've changed," she said softly. "You still annoy me... but in a tolerable kind of way now."
He smirked, but his voice dropped. "Perhaps someone changed me."
The words hung between them. Nyasha looked down, suddenly shy, unsure what to say next. She wasn't used to being looked at the way he was looking at her now—like she wasn't just someone passing through his life, but someone who had quietly anchored herself into his every day.
She reached out, brushed something off his collar—a petal maybe, or maybe it was an excuse to close the space between them.
"I like nights like this," she murmured, finally breaking the silence.
"Why?"
"They remind me that… life can pause. Just for a little while."
He looked at her, his gaze steady. "You deserve more pauses."
She stopped walking. Turned to face him. He stopped too.
In that moment, under a lone flickering streetlamp, their eyes locked. Her lips parted slightly, like she wanted to say something—but nothing came out. And Takudzwa didn't push. He just stepped a little closer, the space between them disappearing in slow motion.
His fingers reached for hers gently, like asking permission. She let him take her hand.
"I know I messed up," he said softly. "But when you walked away from me… I felt it. Deep. Like something cracked open."
Nyasha's eyes shimmered, but she didn't pull away. "I felt it too."
"I even messed up a deal in Harare that could cost me money -"
"You were in Harare today?"
"Yeah."
"That explains it."
He smiled. "All I'm saying is that what happened messed me up. I got scared."
His hand came up, almost hesitantly, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. She didn't flinch. Instead, she tilted her head ever so slightly into his touch.
"Honestly, I've never felt like this," he admitted.
She gave a small smile. "Neither have I."
The silence between them now was charged, full of emotion and soft breath. Their eyes locked for what seemed like eternity. Slowly, he leaned forward. She didn't move, didn't blink. She could feel the warmth of him, the closeness, the tension that made her chest rise and fall a little quicker.
When his lips touched hers, it was tentative at first. Like a question.
Then she kissed him back.
It was a soft, slow kiss—one that spoke of healing, of unspoken things, of a shared understanding that whatever this was, it was real. Her hands slid up to his chest, steadying herself, while his arms pulled her in gently but protectively.
When they finally pulled apart, they both smiled—shy, breathless smiles.
She laughed quietly, leaning her forehead against his chest.
She was still close enough to whisper, "That was unexpected."
"But not wrong," she concluded. Her smile came reluctantly, but it stayed. He smiled back.
"Walk with me the rest of the way to my doorstep?" she said.
And in silence, hands almost brushing, they walked on.
***