Chapter 3 - The Good Guy
1095 Words
Mukoma Gwanz was an ordinary man by every visible measure, yet there was something about him that quietly unsettled the common pattern of ordinary life. He blended into any crowd with ease, never loud, never claiming attention. His brilliance was the kind that didn’t shout, it existed in the fine threads of how he spoke, how he understood others, and how he made silence feel like a language. People often misread him until they saw him act, until his calm decisiveness unfolded like a ripple that could steady even the roughest waters.
He was intelligent in a way that refused arrogance. His emotional and linguistic sharpness made him the kind of person who could listen to someone’s chaos and return peace in the same breath. An introvert by design, he rarely sought company, but when he did, he left behind a quiet impact that lingered. He was the kind of man who noticed the tremor in a friend’s voice before anyone else did, and even though most people never truly understood him, he understood everyone.
Mukoma treated every person he met with respect. He greeted with warmth, listened with patience, and smiled with sincerity even when the world responded with cold indifference. He was God-fearing but not fanatical, his faith was not worn like a badge but breathed through small acts of kindness, through the way he spoke, and the gentleness that clothed his decisions. He prayed sometimes, not out of ritual, but from that deep space in the soul where gratitude and pain intertwine.
To those who knew him, Mukoma was a man who never raised his voice in anger. He dissected moments with the calm of a surgeon, responding not with emotion but with empathy. His restraint was his shield, his composure his greatest discipline. In love, however, the quiet flame in him burned fiercely. He was expressive and tender, the kind of lover who bought gifts not to impress but to translate the affection words could not contain. When in love, he became a sanctuary of time and attention, giving himself fully, believing that love, if pure, should never need defense.
His social circle was small, and his devotion deep. He was the son who honored his parents, the brother who remembered birthdays, and the preacher who carried sermons not on his tongue but in his character. Some of the Sundays, he stood at the pulpit as a local preacher, his words gentle yet charged with truth. And when he stepped away from the sacred podium, he returned to the secular rhythm of his profession: an IT Support Technician and a supernova prompt engineer, quietly excellent in his field yet never boastful. His job was modest, his pay average, but his diligence unmatched.
He laughed with everyone, kept no gossip, and avoided the pettiness that so easily infected human gatherings. Yet, behind his calm laughter was a loneliness that only silence could recognize. Crowds surrounded him, but connection rarely followed. During social weekends, when others found joy in smoke and drink, Mukoma found discomfort in the noise. He would stand quietly, a stranger among friends, watching conversations freeze when he arrived and resume when he left.
He carried the aura of being needed but not understood. A few saw through him, but most just saw the surface—an unassuming man too ordinary to be extraordinary. At work, he kept his focus tight and his interactions minimal, his competence often overshadowed by louder personalities.
In love, his story was a quiet tragedy of goodness misunderstood. Eight times he gave his heart sincerely; eight times it was returned bruised. Five of those women had refused his proposal, not out of dislike but from a haunting sense of unworthiness. They said he was too kind, too good, too pure for their brokenness. They confessed they didn’t deserve him, that his calm scared them. He could never understand why being good felt like a punishment. He saw himself as just a regular man, yet somehow his simplicity became a mirror others couldn’t bear to face.
He lived alone, his apartment filled with the gentle hum of solitude. In the silence, he wrestled with thoughts he never voiced. His esteem was a quiet battle, his strength a tender disguise. He watched birds to feel free, listened to the wind through pine trees to remind himself that even invisible things sing. From childhood, sunsets were his ritual of hope: a moment when time seemed to forgive existence.
He dreamed of ordinary happiness: a wife, a home, laughter echoing through walls, peace at the table. He longed to fulfill that childhood vision: to speak and have the world listen, not with applause, but with understanding. His mornings were silent, his mind disciplined to stillness. He loved music that carried mood and meaning such as SA Deep House, Amapiano, Hip Hop and Gospel Hip Hop. They spoke the language of his internal rhythm. He was cool, measured, never trying to dominate a room yet always adding value when he spoke. Mukoma Gwanz was the kind of man the world often overlooks until he is gone, the good guy whose story is not a headline but a heartbeat.
Fingers snap and Mukoma speaks within himself.
I see myself as a regular guy: nothing flashy, nothing worth a headline. I’ve never been in trouble with the law, never raised my hands in anger, never hurt anyone deliberately. I live quietly, do my best, and somehow, that never seems enough. Sometimes it feels like goodness is a curse that locks you out of the world’s rewards. The harder I try to be humble, the more invisible I become.
I carry the weight of being too kind, too patient, too forgiving. My goodness feels like a heavy coat in summer that is unnecessary and suffocating. I see people moving on, succeeding, loving, living and I wonder if being good has made me lose touch with what it means to win. I will not hate anyone for leaving; I will not curse those who broke my heart. To all my exes who live brighter lives without me, I am truly thankful. Thankful for the laughter we shared, for the brief moments when love felt real. Maybe they were right: I was never meant to be special. Just a good guy, standing in the wind, watching the world move, and whispering to it softly, If I could be.
- Writer
