Monkele

The first time I saw Monkele, well, I don’t even know if that’s really her name, but I wish I could call her that. It really suits her. She was on the street leading to my house, walking under the evening stars. Something about her image made me pause. I wondered why she was trekking that late when she could have taken a Keke. And the way she walked made it clear she’d been at it for a long time. Yet she didn’t look tired. She looked like she was enjoying it, like she needed it. Not a drop of sweat on her.

Her appearance struck me the most. She was slim, wearing shorts that showed her long brown legs and a light tank top that wasn’t too revealing. Boots on her feet, a simple bag on her shoulder. Those were the only simple things about her.

Everything else was an entire declaration.

Her hands were covered in different bracelets and beads that climbed almost to her elbows, colorful and heavy-looking. Around her neck, three or four more beads were layered. She had a simple traditional hairstyle, maybe Koroba or something close, but each loose braid ended in beads, too. A lot of them. Colored, patterned, but balanced. They looked like they should weigh her down, but somehow they didn’t. She moved with a strange kind of grace; she was steady and unbothered.

I wondered if she walked for fitness or simply didn’t have money for transport, but she didn’t look like someone who couldn’t afford it. So I chose to believe she preferred it.

The second time I saw her, she was far from my street, still walking. From where she was, it would’ve taken over an hour to get to my area. And I had wondered if she was going to walk all the way to our side, if she was even staying at our side. She still had the same grace. Something unwavering, strong, unbothered. Same boots, tank top, shorts, beads. For some reason, I envied her a little. The consistency. The strength. There was something about her, like a fire that burned loudly but was somehow still quiet.

I saw her again another day. Not far from my street, but not close either. She was walking again. Still carrying that same mystery. And I began to wonder who she was beyond that image. Was she kind? Stubborn? Bold? She looked bold. What did her neighbors think of her? her colleagues? What was her relationship with her family? My mind went everywhere.

Then today, I saw Monkele again. But she wasn’t walking. She was waiting for a bus, like everyone else. I almost didn’t recognize her and had to look twice. Why wasn’t my Monkele walking? Was she tired? Sick? Dealing with something at work or at home?

The questions wouldn’t stop, so I did the only thing that felt right. I said a prayer for her. That her fire doesn’t die. That she keeps going, keeps walking… through it all.

So dear Monkele, this stranger is rooting for you.