Beyond Living For Her

Opening the office door, I immediately shrugged off my rain-drenched coat and sank into the swallow of an old Chesterfield, its fabric frayed and faded, facing an L-shaped desk that lay buried beneath a chaotic scatter of papers. I began to fade into a thoughtless wonder, a thread of sand guiding me, when I heard the door creak. I sprang up, but the Chesterfield was too deep to escape with a single effort, and I found myself sinking back into its weathered leather.

“Who is it?” I grumbled, my voice emerging like yarn unspooling. I cleared my throat, which felt stubbornly tight.

“It’s David, sir. May I come in?”

“Just a minute, David. Go back to your desk; I’ll ring for you in two.”

With a Herculean effort that strained every muscle still willing to cooperate, I hoisted myself up and sought the aid of the slightly reflective vision panel encased in the timber door, attempting to gather myself into a more presentable form. David had been working for me for about two years—a clever kid who had joined the company fresh out of university, uncertain of his path in the world of editing. He applied for a position that would grant him the time and space to explore; yet, after two years, he seemed more content to remain a personal assistant. Having grown accustomed to his efficiency and foresight, I had kept him on longer than I should have.

“You can come through, David,” I notified him through the office line, my voice a touch steadier.

He was a young man of about twenty-five, with olive-brown skin, tall stature, and warm features—an informed naivety surrounded him, making him an anomaly in the office.

“Sir,” he began, pulling a chair from the desk and sitting down to face me as I re-positioned myself behind the cluttered expanse. “I really think you should go home and talk to Noku and the kids; they deserve to know.”

“I will; I just have to think this through first,” I replied, striving to keep the lumps in my throat flat.

“It’s been over a week since you got the news, and thinking things through won’t change anything. You have to let them know.”

“It’s not that easy, David. I can’t just go home and say, ‘Family, how was your day? Mine was fine, and oh, by the way, I have cancer.’ There’s a time, a place, and a feeling for this kind of thing.” My voice quavered with a hint of rising emotion.

“Did you do what I asked?” he pressed, his tone firm, eyes warm and earnest.

“What use is it to pray now when I’ve never done it?” My response hung in the air, more rhetorical than inquisitive.

David took a moment, his gaze fixed on me as if he were searching for something in my eyes. I tried to avert my gaze, but it felt as though his eyes clung to me, even when he had looked away.

After a brief silence, he said, “Sir, may I speak frankly?”

I nodded in agreement.

He continued, “I have lived half the time you have, so it would be a folly and a lie to tell you that experience has given me faith. But I believe in the words of that book,” he said, pointing to the goatskin leather Bible he had gifted me for my birthday three months ago, which still lay ribbon-bound on the mantel behind my desk. “There is a reality more certain than ours, and a love—”

“David, before you go on preaching,” I interrupted, “who is the lead editor for Powell’s book? I’d like an update on the parameters used in the Latin translations.”

With a disheartened look, he smiled. Standing up, he replied, “It’s Sarah, sir. I’ll get right on it.” As he made his way to the door, he turned and smiled back at me, his expression lightening as if the distance between the chair and the door had, in some mystical way, been a pilgrim’s journey. He shot me a glance, his spirits noticeably lifted, and said, “Until tomorrow, sir.” I couldn't help but wonder what it was that made him so.

An hour later, I rose from the swiveling chair, my night unproductive yet filled with a diary of thoughts that halted me in my tracks until the chair found its rest. I took my damp coat and shoved my laptop into an empty briefcase. Staring at the mantel, I paused for a moment, but the weight of the thought was heavy, and I decided to leave it behind.

The drive home was a jarring, checkered incursion of fear and confusion. Something in David's words had angered me, a confusing irony given that I was also the object of my own anger. I tried to rationalize the brewing storm within, but in the back of my mind, I could hear David's pronouncements echoing: "It’s a heart issue, a Spirit issue, a praying issue." It struck me as strange that my closest friend was also my assistant, yet we seemed perpetually at odds on everything but work.

I arrived home in a mental disarray, nearly backing into Noku's car before the parking sensor's sharp alarm realigned my senses with a jolt. As I walked towards the door, my thoughts drifted back to the day I had been made aware of my condition, a day that seemed bathed in a particularly bright light, one of those days that promised to etch itself into memory. Noku had woken me a little before dawn with a soft kiss and a sigh. I'd immediately sat up, my back supported by the driftwood island headboard she had insisted upon—something about more natural REM sleep, whatever that meant. With her sitting beside me, she took my hand, her gaze locking with mine and told me, "I have something to tell you." I held my breath, braced for the worst, as she continued, “I’m pregnant.” The relief that washed over me was palpable, the joy that erupted almost tangible as I embraced her, crying out instinctively, "Praise God." Biting my tongue I purposed to spend less time with David. As if sensing my thoughts, Noku whispered softly, “Maybe we could try going to Church.” In an attempt to sidestep the conversation, I swept her into my arms, teasing, "How about we name the baby after your Aunt Beatrice or Uncle Simba?" A swift kick to my stomach was my answer, and I immediately surrendered.

I met Noku a week after my sister died, on the 96 Eagle bus from Bulawayo. Since her passing each day was a solitary struggle for survival, a gasping for air in a seemingly flooded world. As I lazily counted the people coming into the bus, at ten I froze and in an escape I turned my head down to my phone and blushed. Her eyes had a starry glare about them, a well of wishes to the one who drew them. Her face was full of youth with a hazel glow that complimented her featherlight features. A graceful thud woke me from my trans, and I hesitantly raised my head to find that she had taken the seat next to mine and this ten-hour journey, I thought, could not have gotten any longer. As the bus took off so did she, "Hi, where are you from? I'm from Bulawayo. We look about the same age, what year are you in? What's your name? My name's Noku." It's as if she did not require an answer even though she asked question after question. By the time we reached Harare I was certain that I had never met a more annoying human being, and I was certain that I wished to start the journey again. It was then that I decided to live for her. We were married two years later, our sweet girl Maka arriving a year after that, followed by our lion, Peter, the year after. And now here was a third on the way, and all I could do, as I held Noku close was to whisper my thanks and declare my love.

As I pushed the door open, I was seized by something David had said: "a reality more certain than ours." I questioned if living for Noku was right, or if there was more I could do for her by living for Jesus. This thought was quickly replaced by the joyous stampede of my children, and the rest of the evening passed in a distracting, blissful haze.

I woke up early the next morning, before the first hint of dawn, and gazed at Noku. For the first time since Peter was born, I cried. She woke instantly and embraced me in a cloud of comfort. I remained in this state for a while before I held her shoulders, bringing our faces close. Seeing her already drenched with my tears, I smiled, marveling at my luck. In the hushed tension of our bedroom, I told her of my diagnosis, of my fear, and of the hope that had newly bloomed. She grasped my hand, unable to speak. I cupped my hand around her cheek and said, "I'm not a good man, but there is One who is, and David says that He is willing to receive all who come to Him in genuineness of faith, and I would like to know Him. I'd like for us to know Him." Noku paused, gathering her thoughts. With a trembling lip and a quaver in her voice, she murmured, “Maybe we could try going to Church."