Edgars Echoes

The fluorescent lights of Edgars hummed, a sterile drone that did little to soothe the simmering frustration coiling in my gut. Gweru, usually a sleepy hum of everyday life, felt particularly suffocating that afternoon. I was twenty-one, armed with textbooks and a fierce, almost desperate, ambition to carve out my own corner in the glittering world of hospitality. Tourism was more than a degree; it was an escape, a promise of something more. And I was chasing that promise with every ounce of my being.

Then, he walked in. Or rather, he strode. He moved with a proprietary air, as if the very air in the clothing store belonged to him. Tafadzwa Nyathi. Even his name felt like a pronouncement, sharp and unyielding. He was older, perhaps thirty, with a tailored suit that whispered of wealth and a jawline that could cut glass. He was exactly the kind of man who made my teeth ache, the kind who exuded an effortless superiority that chafed against my own hard-won sense of self.

It happened near the menswear section, a blur of fabric and a clumsy collision. My shopping bag, brimming with a carefully chosen selection of linen shirts for my father, went flying. Shirts scattered, a colourful explosion across the polished floor. My heart leaped into my throat, a frantic bird desperate for escape.

“Watch where you’re going!” The voice was a low growl, laced with an impatience that drew my immediate ire.

I knelt, scrambling to retrieve my purchases, a mortified flush creeping up my neck. “I’m so sorry,” I began, my voice trembling slightly. “It was an accident.”

He stood over me, arms crossed, his gaze sweeping over the scattered clothes with disdain. “An accident? You’re the one who wasn’t paying attention. Typical.”

Typical? My breath hitched. The mortification evaporated, replaced by a surge of indignation so potent it felt like a physical blow. I stood, meeting his dismissive stare with a fury that surprised even myself.

“Typical of what, exactly?” I demanded, my voice rising, drawing the attention of a few nearby shoppers and a sales assistant who suddenly found a fascinating interest in a rack of ties. “Typical of someone who’s just been run into?”

He let out a short, sharp laugh, devoid of any humour. “Typical of someone who expects the world to bend to their whims. You’re careless, miss.”

Careless. The word struck a nerve. I, Joyce Makara, who meticulously planned every step, who juggled classes and a part-time job, who poured over every detail of my assignments, was being called careless by this man whose arrogance was as vast as the Gweru sky.

“I am not careless,” I retorted, my voice ringing with conviction. “And I certainly don’t expect the world to bend. I expect common courtesy. And an apology.”

His eyes, a deep, unreadable brown, narrowed. The arrogance didn’t falter; it seemed to deepen, solidifying into a wall between us. “An apology? For what? For your own clumsiness?”

“For your rudeness!” I shot back, my hands clenching at my sides. “For your insinuation that I am ‘typical’. You bumped into me, or rather, I bumped into you because you were standing in the middle of the aisle like a statue, and then you insult me? That’s not how decent people behave.”

He took a step closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming. I felt a tremor of something akin to fear, but it was quickly drowned out by the white-hot anger. “Decent people,” he scoffed, his lips curling into a sneer. “You have no idea what decent people are. You’re just a spoiled girl playing dress-up.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. Spoiled girl? Playing dress-up? My father, a hardworking mechanic, and my mother, who ran a small tuck shop, would have been heartbroken to hear such a thing. I was fighting tooth and nail for my future, for a life better than the one they’d had.

“You know nothing about me,” I said, my voice tight with emotion. “Nothing at all. And I don’t need your judgment.”

I turned away, my heart pounding against my ribs. I couldn’t stand there another second, allowing this man, this complete stranger, to diminish me. I gathered the last of my scattered shirts, my hands still shaking, and practically fled the store, leaving him standing there, a monument to his own self-importance.

As I walked away, the heat of my anger began to cool, leaving behind a residue of something else. Resentment. And a strange, unsettling certainty that I would never forget his face, his voice, his infuriating arrogance. It was an encounter etched in my memory, a sharp, unpleasant shard that had lodged itself deep within me. I didn’t know then that this single, explosive moment would echo for years, a prelude to a future I couldn’t possibly have imagined. A future that would, inexplicably, involve him again.