📘Chapter 3: Verses and Detours
449 Words
The community center was buzzing with energy. Posters of past events lined the walls; debates, dance-offs, youth forums. Tonight, the space had been transformed: fairy lights strung across the ceiling, a small stage set up with a mic stand, and rows of plastic chairs filling fast.
Harizon Ochieng stepped inside, hoodie zipped halfway, hands in his pockets. He scanned the room. No sign of Clarion.
He found a seat near the back, heart thudding. Maybe she wasn’t coming. Maybe the wrong number was a sign. Maybe he was chasing a moment that had already passed.
“You look lost,” a voice said beside him.
Harizon turned. A girl had slid into the seat next to him. She wore a denim jacket over a floral dress, her hair in a high puff, eyes sharp and curious.
“I’m not lost,” Harizon said, trying to sound casual. “Just… observing.”
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
“Wang’apala High.”
“Ah. Science fair guy.”
Harizon blinked. “You were there?”
“I was helping with logistics. I saw your purifier. Impressive.”
He nodded, unsure where this was going.
“I’m Zawadi,” she said, extending a hand. “I help run these events.”
“Harizon.”
They shook hands. Her grip was firm, confident.
“So,” Zawadi said, leaning in. “You came for the poetry or for someone?”
Harizon hesitated. “Both.”
Zawadi smiled knowingly. “Let me guess. Ogande Girls. Braids. Bioplastics.”
Harizon’s eyes widened. “You know her?”
“Clarion Harriet. Yeah, she’s been here before. She’s good. Real good.”
“Is she coming tonight?”
Zawadi shrugged. “She said she might. But she’s unpredictable. Like a verse that refuses to rhyme.”
Harizon chuckled. “That sounds like her.”
The lights dimmed. A host stepped onto the stage, welcoming everyone. The first poet was called up; a boy from St. Joseph’s with a piece about broken dreams and mango trees.
Harizon listened, but his mind kept drifting. Zawadi leaned over occasionally, whispering commentary, making him laugh. She was sharp, funny, and clearly knew the scene.
But still he kept glancing at the door.
Halfway through the event, Zawadi nudged him.
“You know, sometimes the person you came for isn’t the one you’re meant to meet.”
Harizon looked at her, unsure how to respond.
“I’m not saying forget her,” Zawadi added. “I’m just saying—don’t miss the poem happening right in front of you.”
He nodded slowly. She had a point. But his heart wasn’t ready to rewrite the verse just yet.
- Writer
