Dry Wells

Rehema Zuberi

I am an eavesdropper. I don’t stand ears perched on doors or windows to listen to conversations. Neither do I exert my concentration on people’s business to get the drift of what they are up to. More often than not, and if this was a breach of privacy in an ongoing court case, I would be representing myself with the strong argument, words naturally float to my ears.

Take this evening for instance, my backpack on, legs making the strides required to cover the long journey to the school gate for my commute home. Two ladies in front of me are talking. On reaching my ears, a smile tugs at my lips. Not because the content is a joyful or sly matter, but because they know not what I do.

Lady 1: Imagine Marianna anakubali chali yake amchape hivyo. (Imagine Marianna accepts to be beaten by her boyfriend)

Counterpart: Tumemewambia…

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