She had been hoping to see him again.
Not that she would ever admit it.
She had simply begun taking the longer route to wherever she was going. The one that passed through the places she had seen him before.
Coincidence, she called it.
At least, that was the story she told herself.
But that afternoon, she wasn't looking for him.
She was late.
Her bag was heavier than it had any right to be, the strap had started coming loose at one side, and she was trying to hold everything together while making her way through the crowd.
Then the strap gave way.
Not completely.
Just enough for everything inside her bag to begin slipping toward the ground.
She stopped abruptly.
A notebook fell.
Then another.
Before either could touch the floor, someone caught them.
“Careful.”
She looked up.
Him.
For a moment, she forgot what she was doing.
She had seen his face before. More than once.
But this was different.
He was close enough now to hear.
“Thank you.”
He handed her the notebooks.
“You should probably fix that before it completely gives up on you.”
She looked at the strap.
“It has been threatening to.”
He smiled.
“I think it's serious this time.”
She laughed.
And just like that, the awkwardness disappeared.
No grand introduction.
No rehearsed conversation.
Just a broken bag, two notebooks, and a stranger who had decided to help.
She watched as he adjusted the strap enough to keep it from falling again.
There was something strangely disarming about the simplicity of it.
He had not asked who she was.
He had not waited to be asked.
He had simply seen that she needed help and helped.
Maybe that was why the moment stayed with her.
Because sometimes, kindness did not arrive with an announcement.
Sometimes, it was simply a hand reaching down before you had to ask.
She looked at him again.
And for the first time, she noticed the small bracelet around his wrist.
It was made from several thin strands, woven together in earthy colours.
“You like bracelets?” she asked.
He glanced at it.
“Oh, this?”
He smiled.
“My grandmother made it.”
“That's nice.”
“Yeah. She makes one for everyone.”
Something about the way he said it made her smile.
Not because the bracelet was extraordinary.
Because apparently, being remembered was an ordinary thing in his family.
She wanted to ask more.
But before she could, he glanced at the time.
“I should go.”
“Oh.”
He handed her the last notebook.
“Try not to lose anything else.”
“I'll try.”
He smiled.
“Good.”
He took a small step away, then paused.
“Oh, I'm Aderemi, by the way.”
She looked at him.
“Aderemi.”
“Yeah.”
She repeated it once more, quietly, as though committing it to memory.
He smiled.
And then he walked away.
Just like that.
She stood there for a moment, watching him disappear into the crowd.
She finally knew his name.
Aderemi.
She knew almost nothing else.
But she knew he carried a bracelet his grandmother had made.
She knew he stopped to help someone he didn't know.
And somehow, those tiny things felt more revealing than a hundred carefully chosen words could have been.
She had spent so long looking for him.
She had never imagined that when she finally found him, it would be through something as simple as needing a little help.
Perhaps that was the first thing she began to understand.
Some cultures teach us to see the individual.
Others remind us that a person is never entirely alone.
That there is dignity in giving.
That there is warmth in making room for another person.
That sometimes, your inconvenience becomes someone else's concern, not because they owe you anything, but because you are human and, for that moment, that is enough.
She thought of Africa.
Not the Africa she had been taught to admire from a distance.
Something quieter.
Something lived.
The Africa of open doors and extra chairs.
Of food made with the expectation that someone else might arrive.
Of neighbours who could become family and strangers who could be welcomed before their stories were even known.
A place where mine and yours could, sometimes, become ours.
And suddenly, she understood why that small encounter had unsettled her so gently.
He had not impressed her.
He had simply helped her.
And perhaps that was more beautiful.
Because beauty could make you look twice.
But kindness,
kindness could make you feel that you belonged.
She picked up her bag and finally continued on her way.
She had met him.
She had heard his name.
She had learned almost nothing about him.
And yet, somehow, the encounter had left her carrying a little more than she had arrived with.
Not answers.
Just a question.
Who was this person who seemed to carry home so quietly?
She had expected the first encounter to tell her something about him. Instead, it left her wondering what else he carried without ever having to say it.
Part III of VI
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