He returned a week later, though she had replayed their first meeting in her mind every day since. His name, he said, was Asher.
He spoke like a man accustomed to holding secrets gently. His accent was unplaceable—somewhere between Cape Town and Cairo, with a hint of the desert in his vowels. He told her he worked in “strategic intelligence for development” —a phrase that meant nothing and everything.
Their conversations were elliptical. He asked about her book. She lied and said it was fiction. He smiled like he knew the truth.
“Stories are the only real history we have,” he said. “Everything else is propaganda.”
He listened more than he spoke, and when he did, his words felt like scripture smuggled through conversation. He asked about her dreams. She told him of the fire, of the symbols, of Judáh. He nodded gravely, as if recognising a prophecy he had long expected to meet.
Later that week, she dreamed of him. In the dream, they stood in a vast desert where time had no direction.
He handed her a chalice carved from bone, filled with light. “Drink,” he said, “and remember who you are.” When she woke, her lips tasted of salt and honey.
The next day, the café burned down.
Lele Muthali 