As she silently approached him through the open front hall, Waconza without turning said, “Sijambo bibi. Nisamehe” which First’s Dead Memory Cortex instantly translated from regional Swahili to “Hello madam. Excuse me please, for a moment.”
After another clang from the hammer, he returned it to it’s grooved home on the workbench, rose and slowly turned, at the same time brushing some dust from his shirt and then whipping hands on a small damp rag, before stepping forward towards her. His large frame overflowed both sides of the small reception bench at which she was waiting. As the light began to capture him, she noted rurally handsome facial features; the slight prognathism of his jaw; the grooves of his zygomatic bones; and his wide bridged nose, nostrils and lips; all spoke to her of a strong South African lineage.
As he smiled, his expression seemed warm, comforting, genuine and overly familiar and First found herself smiling ironically as she noticed that the small flecks of yellow in his deep brown eyes reminded her of dancing sparks from the kiln. It was not until he spoke again that she was able shake free from analyzing his eyes that reminded her of some foggy memory from her past life that she could not place.
Copyright © 2012 by Devin Crockett of EviKreative. All Rights Reserved