Ate ja!

by Quinton Manning (South Africa)

Making a local connection Mozambique

There on the edge of his bed, thrity-minutes before my bus arrives to take me home, we lay in each other's arms and talk about how we wish it could be like this forever. The last week collapsing into our chests, heavy now. The stairs leading into the ocean. Crushing lemon and ginger between sugar cane to make a sweet drink. Água de coco e Frango de Moçambique. Pretending to know more Portuguese than what I do. Cooking my mother's best meals for him in his own house. Getting sun burnt because of all things to forget, sunscreen was the worst. I even forgot how I got here. Knowing him for less than a month only to pack everything up and use my last bit of money to get a bus ticket to his home town, Maputo. Was I in love or was I lonely in my own city? Johannesburg shows no kindness to warm hearts. In Maputo, the sand blows into everyone's eyes the same way. No one body is gone ungreeted and the ocean knows all names. Maputo moves slow and has a strong heart beat. The music and the food speak to each other in an upbeat and tasteful rhythm. There is life here. There is life there. I've left him. Laying in his arms I am already home in my cold bed, missing him. Kissing him softly I am missing him. "We are not ready to fall in love... " one of us says, in English, "but I love you." "But I love you!" we echo that moment through time. My first moment knowing was sitting at a restaurant where light fixtures were made of steel kettles and the chef was coated in a strong dagga smell. I asked him "Can I kiss you?" I was so used to Johannesburg's queer lifestyle of drunk hookups at the most popular gay bars. "Nao." "Por que?" "This is Maputo meu amor." He told me how so much as a public hand holding was a sure way to get yourself into a dangerous situation. I wasn't sure if he was scared or if it really was that bad. Looking into his eyes and seeing how badly he wanted to tell me 'Yes!' and hold each other the way we do, I knew there was a lot of pain sitting underneath a deep scars from a past that belonged to him and the streets of Maputo. I wanted to cry with him and tell him it would be okay, that love would always win and that I would die for him. But I would be leaving on the Friday night, and he would have to stay. What a selfish ask to create a storm and drive away without leaving even an umbrella. So I sat across from him and looked at the fingers I knew so well and stroked my beard the way he loves to do. I ate my burger and drank my beer and said nothing queer again that night. We had lustful sex in his room with the curtain always closed. The wind roaring loudly to cover our moans from being heard by curious ears. We always slept with our legs intertwined. "Are you ready, meu amor?" I must leave him now. The bus is almost here. He walks me to the stop. Everything is within walking distance. He buys me a bottle of water for my trip and a chocolate, the most public display of affection we share over the past week. My bus comes and as he found me there, he leaves me. I am thinking about him hourly. He is still messaging me daily. Nothing seems to have changed except where and when we may kiss each other again. The sun is not so hot in Johannesburg and I miss my skin peeling off layers of unnecessary protection. I miss him entering walls long standing. I miss him showing me around his upbringing. I do not miss Maputo much. I can wander pasts with him on any land. I am counting the cents in my pocket until I can see him again. I will be ready to dive into him.