A Brief Eternity- A Short Story
PART I
The rain didn’t fall; in her eyes, it danced — pirouetting on the pavements. The soft taps on the roof were like a symphony on the windows, with droplets streaking down the panes, blurring the outside world. Thunder roared, breaking the sky’s silence — a sudden release, like a heart finally screaming. Makena sat inside the dimly lit café, sipping her tea, lost in thought.
The sudden burst of sound through the tiny speakers resting on the cafe’s corners startled her from her thoughts. Soft Kenyan RnB music filled the room, blending with the hum of conversations about weather, politics, and the mundane routines of life. Primarily politics. The government immensely angered Kenyans during that period. High taxation, corruption, looting by officials, extra-judicial killings and abductions of activists, police brutality, the list was as long as those Super Metro queues next to The National Archives on Moi Avenue.
The smell of coffee made her regret the cooling cup of tea on her hands. The clinking of cups against saucers, spoons against plates, and occasional bursts of laughter from the small groups of people sheltering from the rain gave life to the usually dull and quiet restaurant.
This was Makena’s favorite spot in the Nairobi CBD. She loved that it was undiscovered by most. It was defined by a quietness and mystery that was a perfect escape from the bustling chaos of the Central Business District. The décor was a mix of industrial chic and earthy warmth. Exposed brick walls were adorned with local artwork, the bold strokes and vibrant colors telling stories of life in the city. A chalkboard menu hung above the counter, listing drinks in swirling script — everything from lattes to chai, alongside pastries like mandazi, chapati, freshly baked cakes, and croissants for the chic lifestyle lovers. String lights crisscrossed the ceiling, casting a golden glow that softened the room’s sharp edges.
Plants hung from the ceiling in macramé pots, their leaves trailing lazily downward. A well-loved bookshelf stood near the entrance, offering a small but eclectic selection of books for anyone who needed a momentary escape. Nobody ever read the books. A few people would take photos and videos to add aesthetic to their ‘A Day in the Life’ Instagram videos.
She stretched her hand towards the fogged window and traced patterns, her finger dancing absentmindedly on the moist glass. Her mind wandered to the day’s events. “Fuck the police. Fuck the police?” her boss’s words rang inside her head, creating a loop of echoes that made her eye twitch from the mixture of emotions flowing through her. Anger, regret, pity on herself, worry. What was she supposed to do now? She had just gotten fired from her work. She was a Social Media Manager and Content Strategist for one of the major marketing agencies in Nairobi. She tweeted “fuck the police” last night from the work’s Twitter account. She didn’t mean to; she forgot to switch to her account.
She rubbed off the tiny drawings, moved her hand to the left, and started tracing afresh. “Vagh Goh in the making,” she inaudibly said, proud of her not-so-artsy art.
“Turn it up!” a woman’s voice called out. “We want to hear the legend better.”
Malaika by Nyashinski began to play, and the room softened as patrons hummed along. Some couples held hands, swaying gently to the rhythm. Makena smiled faintly, soaking in the shared moment of connection. Nyashinski was her favorite artist. She believed his music was pure art.
Returning to her artwork, she noticed a shadowy figure over her temporary canvas, followed by a tap. She looked up, startled, her finger frozen mid-doodle. Her eyes met his, separated only by the misted glass. For a moment, the world narrowed to just him — a man bathed in the muted glow of the streetlamp outside, raindrops trickling down his shoulders and clinging to his cap like tiny jewels. Though blurred by the foggy window, his face held a striking symmetry that demanded her attention. Chiseled cheekbones framed a sharp jawline, like those achieved through surgical procedures. That was not the reason for Makena’s immediate attraction. No. It was his eyes. That piercing clarity cut through the haze, deep and alive with something she couldn’t name but felt immediately. She swallowed hard and smiled slightly, with a furrowed look as if to ask, “What do you want, stranger?”
Her heart quickened, not from fear but from the sudden and undeniable awareness of his beauty. It wasn’t just his face — it was the quiet confidence in how he held her gaze, unhurried and unbothered by the rain soaking through his coat. He seemed like someone who belonged outside, untamed and unaffected by the storm. He stood still, staring at her as if she was the only thing inside the bustling cafe.
He tilted his head slightly, a soft smile ghosting his lips, and gestured at the fogged glass as if asking what she had been drawing. Embarrassed, she rubbed away the smudged hearts and meaningless scribbles with the heel of her hand and slowly looked back at him. “Nothing,” she said, turning her head from side to side.
He laughed — she could see it in how his shoulders shook — but she couldn’t hear him. He said something, mouthing words she couldn’t decipher, and pointed at the door.
She hesitated, then shook her head, tapping her ear and shrugging to show she couldn’t understand him.
They both laughed silently for a moment, then he raised a hand, two fingers tapping his chest, and pointed toward the café’s entrance. The gesture was clear: I’ll come in.
Her cheeks felt warm as he turned and began walking toward the door. She glanced back at the window, her doodles now smeared into oblivion. She realized she couldn’t remember what she had scribbled on the pane. She must have been lost in her subconscious before she was not rudely interrupted by — whatever his name was.
For a fleeting moment, she wondered if she had imagined him — But then, the soft chime of the café door swinging open pulled her back to reality. It’s unusual to find restaurants with closed doors in Nairobi. That’s why this was her favorite.
Kubai stepped inside, shaking off the rain as he paused by the entrance.
His presence effortlessly filled the room; a few people glanced at him. He scanned the bookshelf at the doorway and traced the book “48 Laws of Power” slightly with his finger, barely touching it. He then looked in Makena’s direction with a slight smile and walked, his steps calculated. One would have mistaken it for nervousness if he wasn’t a 10. Makena found herself sitting straighter, her fingers instinctively tapping on her tea.
He stopped to a halt right next to her. He chuckled, “Huh!” he said, rubbing off a bit of rain from his coat. “What?” Makena asked, amused. “You have a wide smile on,” he said, with a slight pride in his voice as if taking credit for the sudden joy on Makena’s face. “Do I?” Makena replied, covering her mouth. Her chest tightened, and her cheeks and ears felt warm.
“Hi,” he said, his voice rich and steady.
“Hi,” she replied, the word catching slightly in her throat.
He gestured toward the seat opposite her. “Mind if I join you?”
Makena hesitated, glancing at her half-empty cup of tea and the small notepad beside it, her pen still balanced on the table’s edge. She pretended to think about it before saying, “Ok,” too quickly.
Kubai slid into the chair, removing his coat and draping it over the back. He wore a short-sleeved polo shirt, revealing some ink on both arms. Up close, the warmth in his expression was undeniable, the kind of warmth that put people at ease. He looked around, searching for a waiter, which allowed Makena to look harder. She noted the details she hadn’t fully seen through the window — the scar on his jawline. Was he half-caste? His skin was less black and more white- a little pale. “Mzungu mwitu,” she thought to herself and laughed out loud, which brought back his attention to her. “Share the joke,” Kubai said, signaling the waiter. “Oh, it’s nothing. I just let my intrusive thoughts win,” Makena said, a little embarrassed.
“What can I get you?” The awkwardness was saved by the waiter, who stood, staring at Kubai with undeniable admiration, with a notepad and pen ready to take his order. “Coffee, please, decaff. Thank you.” He said, half to the waiter, half to Makena, as he stared at her, tapping on the table.
“Why take coffee if you’re gonna order a decaf?” she teased, raising a brow.
He smirked. “Think of it as coffee… on airplane mode. It’s the end of the day, and I prefer to calm my nerves. I’m not trying to have my heart race over the day’s fatigue.”
“Isn’t your heart racing yet?” Makena asked, barely audible between her teeth.
“What?” he asked.
“What? Nothing.” She chuckled nervously, leaning back. “Airplane mode? More like coffee with commitment issues.”
The waiter was back with his coffee. Saved again. “I should tip her big,” she thought to herself.
Outside, the rain continued to fall, washing the streets clean. People were running about. It was rush hour. Inside, the world seemed quieter, as if Nairobi had paused to give them this moment.
She tapped the pen absently against the notepad, staring at her fragmented ideas: freelance writing? Social media consulting? Starting a blog? How the hell was she going to pay her bills moving forward? Like most Kenyan youth, she did not hope to get hired the kawaida way. In Kenya, skills and experience matter, but you have to know someone who knows someone who can put in a good word for you. Her dream of being successful before 30 seemed further than ever. The author Malcolm Gladwell, in one of Makena’s favorite books, ‘The Outliers,’ argued that success is a complex result of many factors, including luck, culture, history, and opportunity. He believed that success is not a zero-sum game and that we should be less judgmental of others’ achievements. She could always pull out that argument wherever she felt behind in life. It was her one defense card.
Kubai’s voice broke through her thoughts. “Rain at this time of the year, huh?” he said, gesturing toward the window.
“Yeah,” she replied, shaking herself from her reverie. “Global warming haha.”
He chuckled a low, pleasant sound. “Good thing I like the rain. I take it you’re not a fan?”
Makena shrugged, smiling faintly. “It’s fine. I don’t mind, but I prefer the grey weather without the rain.”
“Grey weather?” he asked, intrigued.
“Yeah,” she said. She leaned back in her chair, gazing out the café window as raindrops traced lazy paths down the glass.
Kubai tilted his head, intrigued. “Grey? Not sunny, not rainy, but grey? What’s so special about that?”
She smiled, “There’s something about the sky when it’s heavy and muted. When the sun barely makes an appearance, and the world feels… quieter. It’s not too cold — just cool enough for a jacket — and the wind has this soft chill.”
Her words drifted as if she were speaking more to herself than to him. Kubai watched her closely, noticing her gaze on the overcast sky.
“It’s comforting,” she continued, her tone thoughtful. “Maybe because I’ve lived on the edge for so long, this kind of gloom feels like home. There’s a strange warmth in the clouds, you know? In this way, they conceal everything, like a curtain you can hide behind. Sometimes, it feels like they let me cover up my own shadows.”
Kubai leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “Shadows, huh? That’s… poetic. What do you mean by that?”
She hesitated, then chuckled lightly. Nothing, forget it,” she said, closing up her notepad and putting it in her bag.
Kubai nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. “It’s like the sky permits you to be… still.”
“Exactly,” she said, meeting his eyes.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence between them was filled only by the sound of rain and the faint clatter of dishes from the café’s kitchen.
Kubai broke the silence with a soft smile. “You should write that down somewhere. It’s beautiful.”
Makena grinned. “Maybe I already have. That was today’s journal entry hehe.”
“You journal!” he said, more like a statement than a question. “What else did you write?”
“You think I’m just going to pour my mind and feelings on a stranger?” She asked teasingly.
“Fair enough,” he said. “It’s just you seem deep in thought, on and off.”
When he noticed her, Kubai had been sheltering from the rain outside a shop across from the cafe. He did not plan to walk over, let alone get into that cafe, but here he was, intrigued.
“Well, let’s just say I have had better days.” She forced a smile, but her fingers twisted the edge of her sleeve; her eyes drifted downward.
Kubai briefly drummed his fingers against the table before he slid the napkin dispenser toward her, nodding slightly. “Just in case,” he murmured, smiling slightly. He could’ve asked what was wrong, but instead, he just stayed
Part II
The two sat in silence.
He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “How about a game?”
Makena blinked, snapping back to the present. “A game?”
“Yeah. Something to get you out of your head while we wait for the rain to decide if it’s done with us.” He smirked. “This or that. You know it?”
A small smile played on her lips. “Like… I choose between two things?”
“Exactly. And no overthinking — just instinct. First thing that comes to mind.” He sat back, watching her reaction. “I go first?”
She nodded, shifting in her seat, suddenly more present.
“Okay,” he said, tapping a finger against the table as he thought. “Tea or coffee?”
Makena rolled her eyes playfully. “Tea. Obviously.”
Kubai gasped dramatically. “Wrong answer. That’s it. This was nice while it lasted.” He pushed his chair back slightly as if getting up.
She laughed — soft, but real this time. “Sit down, coffee snob. It’s my turn.”
Kubai grinned, settling back in. “I like where this is going.”
Makena tilted her head, pretending to think. “Books or movies?”
His lips curved. “Movies. But only the kind that leave you thinking about them for days.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Fair. I’m more of a book girlie. The book is always better for all the books adapted into films,” she argued playfully.
“That’s not how the game is played. Just say which you prefer, and we move on to the next,” he said, teasing her.
“How about we tweak the rules a bit? Tell me why. Why movies and not books,” she insisted.
He let out a dramatic sigh, “Mmmh, okay. With movies, you feel the emotions immediately, and it’s something you can do with someone or multiple someones. Do you like going to the cinema?” he asked, with genuine curiosity.
Makena loved cinema dates and theatre performances but could not admit that before defending her choice. “ I love books. Reading allows you to imagine and play out scenes with just words to guide you.”
Neither noticed the coffee-tea cooling between them, their words spilling into each other’s, overlapping in excitement. He leaned in, elbows on the table, hanging onto every word she said.
“My turn, sunset or sunrise,” he asked, leaning back on his seat as if to give her room to defend her answer poetically. Kubai had noticed it. How she effortlessly made everything poetic.
“Easy, sunset. It’s beautiful. It feels like a sigh of relief. The last breath of the day, the sky bleeding colors before fading into memory,” she said, anticipating his answer.
“You’re not a morning person, I presume,” he said. “I’d say sunrise. There is something about fresh possibilities. Sunrise is like a quiet promise that no matter what yesterday was, today begins again. Also, I like the idea of beating the sun.”
Makena hated waking up early. It was hard to tell which was more beautiful. She hadn’t experienced as many sunrises as she had sunsets. Maybe they are equally magnificent.
The game continued, bouncing between them like an easy rhythm. Rain streaked the windows, but neither of them checked the time.
Maybe the rain was just an excuse now.
PART III
The café lights dimmed slightly as the evening rush thinned. “We are closing up,” a waiter interrupted their conversation.
The restaurant was empty. There they were, two strangers deep into each other’s souls. The frightening thing is that you could sit for hours and learn so much about someone but still not know their true self.
Kubai stood, then hesitated. He scribbled something on his coffee receipt and put it beside her, ready to step out into the cold, deserted street.
Makena did not look at whatever he had scribbled; she just stared at him, not wanting to leave. She wanted to stay in the warmth of the cafe, or maybe it was not about the cafe.
They walked out in silence. For a moment, they stood there, neither wanting to leave, the weight of the night and their connection hanging between them.
She looked at him, the dim streetlights casting soft shadows across his face. “Thank you,” she said softly.
“For what?”
“For listening. For seeing me,” she said, surprising even herself with the vulnerability in her voice.
His smile deepened, and she felt her heart skip a beat.
Kubai gazed at Makena, her words still floating in the air. She was smart, passionate, and refreshingly genuine, unlike anyone he had ever met. The way her eyes lit up when she spoke, the subtle gestures she made when she was thinking — everything about her felt…captivating.
“You’re easy to see,” he said simply, his voice low and steady.
For a brief moment, they were silent, the city around them fading into the background.
Makena broke the silence with a soft laugh. “Well, I guess this is where we part ways.”
“I guess so,” Kubai said, though he didn’t move. He felt the urge to say something more, to keep her here a little longer.
“It was nice meeting you,” she said, offering her hand.
He took it, holding her gaze as he said, “The pleasure was mine.”
Charity turned to walk away, but after a few steps, she glanced back. Kubai was still standing there, watching her with a look she couldn’t quite decipher but didn’t want to forget.
As they proceeded in opposite directions, the city seemed to vibrate with a unique energy, as if it, too, had sensed the connection that had sparked between them. Both held onto the recollection of the evening — the laughter, the dialogue, the profound quietness of it all — pondering when their paths might cross again.
Kubai’s POV
I met a lady today. I did not ask her name. A name didn’t seem important at the time.
She is beautiful. The kind of beauty one would go to war for — Helen of Troy, the face that launched a thousand ships. But it wasn’t just her face. It was the way she listened as if every word spoken to her deserved a place in the universe. The way she laughed — not the practiced kind, but the kind that escapes before it can be tamed, unguarded, like sunlight spilling through a crack in the curtains.
She carried herself like someone who had known both love and loss yet still chose kindness. Her eyes, framed by a sadness too soft to be sorrow, held stories — ones she had lived, ones she had dreamt, ones she was yet to write. And there was poetry when she spoke, even in the most ordinary of words. Not the kind found in books, but the kind found in quiet moments — the pause between raindrops, the hush before a whispered secret.
She was beautiful, not just in the way she looked but also in the way she made the world feel — like something worth holding onto.
“You would have liked her, Mum,” he murmured, his voice unsteady.
He kissed her forehead, adjusted her pillow, then hesitated briefly before switching off the lights. The door closed behind him with a quiet thud, but the steady beeping of the life support machine echoed through the hallway, a relentless reminder of what lay ahead.
He sank to the floor with a slow exhale, his back against the door. Silent at first, then broken, his sobs escaped — less from sorrow, more from guilt. He knew what had to be done. He just didn’t have the strength to do it.
She was all he had. The world without her felt unimaginable. Yet, after the day’s events, one quiet thought surfaced through the ache pressing against his chest.
Maybe — just maybe — the world wasn’t so empty after all.
Makena’s POV
Makena walked toward her bus stop, pulling her jacket tighter against the evening chill. She thought of taking a cab, but she dismissed it — every coin mattered now she had lost her job.
Still, she felt hopeful.
As she walked towards one of her route’s matatus, her fingers brushed against something in her pocket — the bill Kubai had slipped her. She pulled it out, unfolded it carefully, and read the back of it…
If we had more time, I’d choose both of each. — The Stranger
