DIGITS OF THE HEART

📘Chapter 4: Zawadi’s Verse

After the slam ended, the crowd trickled out into the cool Homabay night. Harizon lingered near the stage, helping stack chairs. Zawadi was there too, sleeves rolled up, moving like she belonged.

“You always stay behind?” Harizon asked.

“Someone’s gotta clean up the metaphors,” she said with a grin.

They worked in silence for a moment, the buzz of the evening still hanging in the air.

“You ever perform?” Harizon asked.

Zawadi paused, then nodded. “Once. A long time ago.”

“Why’d you stop?”

She looked away, her smile fading. “Because the poem got too real.”

Harizon waited. She didn’t speak for a while. Then, softly:

“My mum used to write. She had journals full of verses; some angry, some beautiful. She’d read them to me when I couldn’t sleep. Said poetry was how she made sense of the world.”

“Sounds like she was brilliant.”

“She was,” Zawadi said. “Until she wasn’t.”

Harizon didn’t push. He sensed the weight behind those words.

“She passed when I was thirteen. Cancer. Fast and cruel.”

“I’m sorry.”

Zawadi nodded. “After that, I stopped writing. Felt like every word I put down was a betrayal. Like I was stealing her voice.”

Harizon looked at her, really looked. The sharp wit, the confidence; it was armor.

“But you still love poetry,” he said.

“I do. I just… curate now. Help others find their voice.”

“Maybe it’s time you found yours again.”

Zawadi smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Maybe.”

They finished stacking the last chair. The hall was quiet now, just the hum of distant traffic and the echo of verses still hanging in the air.

“You’re different,” Zawadi said suddenly.

“How so?”

“Most guys come here loud. Trying to impress. You came looking for someone, but you stayed for the words.”

Harizon shrugged. “Words matter.”

She nodded. “They do.”

Then, as they stepped outside, Zawadi glanced at her phone.

“Clarion just texted. She’s coming tomorrow. Wants to perform.”

Harizon’s heart skipped.

“You’ll be here?” he asked.

“Always,” Zawadi said. “But tomorrow… maybe I’ll perform too.”