The Christmas Date

It all started with a phone introduction from a mutual friend. I agreed to go on a date with a tall, young man from my department. He was my senior but not directly in my team, so I didn’t have any HR concerns. I had heard that he was a Christian, and as a practising Catholic, I didn’t see any issue in dating a Pentecostal man. This was our first date— a Christmas date, to be exact.

On Christmas Day 2015,  I slipped into my white V-neck shirt, which hugged my chest just right, and paired it with a jean skirt that clung to my hips before flaring out gracefully. The fabric felt soft as it swayed with every step I took. I spritzed on a little perfume—behind my ears, on my wrists, and along the sides of my waist—leaving a subtle but lingering fragrance that made me feel fresh.

Just as I finished getting ready, my phone buzzed. It was Mulenga—he was outside. I hurried out and saw him sitting in a minibus, the engine idling. I waved and greeted him with a smile, excited to get going. We pulled onto Church Road, but then things took an unexpected turn. He seemed to mess with the gears, shifting the shaft forward, then backwards. Suddenly, the bus jerked forward, then back again, as if we were in the middle of an impromptu dance routine. It felt as though we were auditioning for Fat Joe’s Lean Back remix, swaying with every bump in the road, like shaking head dolls.

I asked calmly, “Is this the first time you’re driving this car?”

“Uh, yes,” he replied with a shy smile. “I borrowed it from the church.”

I glanced up at the sky, almost expecting to see Father Abraham shaking his head at me, offering me his donkey as a more reliable mode of transport.

Suddenly, the car lurched forward and then jerked backwards. We both slammed the back of our heads into the seats. I instinctively reached up to feel the occipital part of my skull, checking if it was still protruding, shaped by my grandmother’s old infant massages.

I turned to Mulenga beside me, and there he was, one hand glued to his phone.

“Are you texting while driving?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.

“I was just texting my friend,” he said, barely looking up from his screen.

"If you want to text, then park the car and do it. Don’t do it while driving," I said with a forced smile.

He nodded, pulling over to the side of the busy road to text his friend. Apparently, his message was urgent, though the timing seemed off to me.

My stomach growled loudly, reminding me that I should have eaten before leaving home. The growl was so loud that it felt like a message was being sent straight to my brain. 

“Tell the young man to decide if he wants to kill us or feed us.” 

I watched Mulenga fidgeting with the gears again and silently communicated with my stomach. 

“He hasn’t decided yet.” 

We were back on the road, and eventually, we reached our final destination—a hidden lodge tucked away on a nameless street behind a fence that could have used a fresh coat of paint. As we drove in, I was pleasantly surprised to find that the place was quite decent. The lodge itself looked neat and well-maintained. The Christmas decorations were minimal, featuring a small Christmas tree overcrowded with ornaments.

We made our way to the restaurant, where a friendly waitress in a Christmas hat greeted us with a warm smile and promptly took our orders. We sat outside on the veranda, and I couldn’t help but notice an elderly man in the pool, kissing and splashing water with a young girl who could’ve been the same age as his daughter. The whole scene gave off a strange vibe—like a rich, old married man and a poor college girl caught in some odd dynamic. The pool water was a murky green, and I couldn’t help but think that if the girl had survived whatever STD the man might have passed on, she was almost certainly walking away with a urinary tract infection. The two kissed, and my stomach flipped like a hot pot of chikanda being placed onto a plate. I imagined a fish big enough to swallow them both, and I looked up at the sky. For a moment, I thought I saw Jonah as if he were telling me that the type of fish that had swallowed him was now extinct.

Our food arrived, hot and well-cooked, with half a chicken, a side of fries, and a coleslaw salad. I was eager to dig in, and once I took my first bite, my stomach was more than grateful. But on my third mouthful, I heard an unexpectedly loud chew. Looking across the table, I saw Mulenga, happily chewing with abandon. And of course, he decided to start a conversation with me in the midst of it all.

I couldn’t help but stare, a little mesmerized, as I watched him chew like it was the most natural thing in the world. It was like observing a rare exhibit at a museum — the kind of thing that both fascinated and perplexed you.

At that moment, I couldn’t help but think to myself, "So this is what it must have been like for the Broken Hill Man, chewing his first cooked meal after discovering fire."

I did my best to stay calm and engaged in the conversation. It was interesting, and despite the uncomfortable drive and the loud chewing, I kept a positive outlook, convincing myself that Mulenga and I might just turn out to be the greatest love of all.

After our conversation, we walked to the car hand in hand. Once we settled in, he asked if we could visit his parents at their farm on the outskirts of the city. We made the trip and arrived in the evening. As I got out of the car, his mother greeted me with a tight hug, as if she had been expecting me.

“Come in,” she welcomed us. I took off my heels and stepped into a warm living room decorated with photos of Mulenga and his five siblings. I was directed to the lavish cream-coloured Egyptian sofas, where I sat down and was offered a drink while Mulenga chatted with his mother beside me.

About thirty minutes later, his father entered the room, his presence commanding attention. Mulenga stood and crossed the space to shake his father’s hand with a familiar fondness. “I heard you had come, but I couldn’t tear myself away from the news,” his father remarked warmly, a smile spreading across his face. We all gathered on the sofas, and the atmosphere lightened as the three of them engaged in easy conversation. I watched them with a smile on my face, though internally I felt stretched thin, my mind drifting aimlessly—like trying to walk the Great Wall of China while forcing my facial muscles to maintain a façade of cheerfulness.

Just then, his sixteen-year-old sister walked in and greeted her brother with a hug. When I stood up to greet her, she looked me up and down and simply said, “Hi.” My smile faltered, especially when I turned to Mulenga and noticed he seemed to ignore her rude behaviour. I looked up at the ceiling, forcing the fakest smile I could muster, and thought I saw Apostle Matthew point at his left cheek and then his right cheek.

When Mulenga announced that it was time to go, his mother firmly insisted that we hold hands and say a prayer. She launched into an extended prayer that caused my mind to wander. "Heaven help me, please," I silently pleaded, striving to focus on each lengthy sentence she spoke, which she reiterated at least twice as the rest of the family enthusiastically shouted, "Amen!"

"We also pray that you may save the Catholics," she declared. Her prayer for sinful Catholics who bowed to idols widened my eyes. I glanced at the ceiling again, feeling a strange mix of reverence and imagination. I thought I saw Apostle Peter with a chalkboard in hand, diligently writing "70 x 7. " His finger pointed firmly at the answer.

As we set off for the big city, Mulenga decided to take a shortcut that I was familiar with. The road was dark, with no streetlights in sight. Mulenga made an unexpected turn, and when I pointed it out, he brushed me off, saying he knew the area better than I did. I didn’t argue, but my unease grew as we drove on. We continued for about 15 minutes before the smooth tarred road gave way to gravel, the darkness pressing in around us.

“You were right,” he admitted, his voice tinged with shame as he began to reverse the minibus back toward the turn. As he manoeuvred the vehicle, I noticed a dark, wide line stretching across the ground in front of the poorly lit car. It resembled a ditch.

“Mulenga, careful,” I called out. “There’s a ditch up ahead.”

He paused, squinting at the spot before shaking his head.

“No,” he said, dismissing my concern. “That’s not a ditch. It’s just the bad lighting.”

I frowned at his reasoning, sure it was a ditch. He drove forward to make more room for reversing, and before we knew it, the car plunged into the ditch at a 90-degree angle, vertical to the ground. Our seat belts tightened, and we were pressed against the windshield, suspended like a stunt from Mission Impossible 1. Tom Cruise got paid a lot for that. Me? I got to do it for free—with no safety crew in sight.

The car went silent, and I stayed quiet, still processing what had just happened.

"I'm sorry," Mulenga said, as I unbuckled my seatbelt and swung open the door. In this isolated place, I knew the only help we could expect was from a wizard on his way to a night shift. I climbed out of the dusty ditch, not even embarrassed by how my white shirt had turned brown from the dirt.

"I'm really sorry!" Mulenga called out, now out of the car himself and scrambling up the embankment beside me.

I looked up at the sky. The darkness made the stars seem larger and more vivid—far brighter than what we had seen in the city. For a moment, I could almost see Moses standing there, holding up his tablets, reading aloud the commandment, "Thou shalt not kill."