Playing chicken on Mombasa road can be stressful. The road is full of trucks overtaking trucks, person cars following in their tails, and matatus overtaking them all. If you’re lucky, there’s a hard shoulder, or at least some flat gravel, onto which you can swerve when the oncoming vehicles start flashing their headlights. Once you’re through that stretch of the road, you reach the wilderness: Tsavo National Parks.

My travel companion, let’s call him Mr Honey Badger, had meticulously planned a route along the back roads to avoid the Mombasa road horror show. He thought we could do better than risking our lives. Thus, we found ourselves driving along a C-road with smooth tarmac and light traffic, and then through a smaller park, Amboseli, under a sky that was blue and sun that was white, past a green lake and pink flamingos, and zebras that were surprisingly clean.

By the time we reached Tsavo West it was already dark. Lava fields merged with the blackness of the night and tangled bush framed both sides of the road. We arrived at the lodge and soon made our way to the large, semi-open dining hall with tapestries hanging from the ceiling and a magnificent view over a watering hole and Chyulu Hills. Dressed for dinner, Mr Honey Badger and I sat down at the only candlelit table – we were the only guests – and took in the spotlighted view of the watering hole while eating vegan curry. All kinds of moths and beetles emerged from the darkness, buzzed around our table and nearly drowned in our wine. We rescued one after the other, while the wild animals stayed clear of the watering hole in front of us.

Mr Honey Badger and I slept late the next morning, got up, and put on clothes that were still fresh from the city. We decided to go for a drive. The blue mountains rose in front of us and we passed scattered bush that burst into technicolour green, giraffes with their heads in the Acacia crowns, and ostriches that gallivanted across the savanna. We soon learnt that the map was not to be trusted and had to turn back on more than one occasion as the road disappeared into a faint trail or pond of mud. Yet we got stuck. We were within mobile network coverage, and Mr Honey Badger called the lodge for rescue. Indeed, the white tablecloths and electric fences didn’t seem far. While waiting, we managed to collect enough dry sticks for traction and succeeded in getting ourselves out of the hole. Little did we know that this was the first hole of many that we were to encounter in the days to come.

On this second day our mood was still cheery, and we continued to wear our best behaviour like freshly pressed clothes. The next day’s stuck-in-the-mud situation got a bit dirtier. The cheeriness had already faded over breakfast as the kitchen staff repeatedly delivered the wrong order. Frustration and annoyance followed us into the car. Mr Honey Badger directed his anger at me and I looked for relief in the trees and the bush outside the window. Our mutual frustration and anger grew and swelled in the heat as the day progressed. We got stuck in the mud again. It engulfed the car like smooth porridge and nearly did the same with our feet. A few nearby construction workers came to our rescue and helpfully pulled us out with their car. We continued along the rocky, uneven road. Eventually we reached a river, only to realise there was no way to cross. We opened the windows to let in fresh air, but annoyance, frustration, and anger clung to our clothes like the red Tsavo dust.

Driving perhaps a little too fast, playing the music a little too loud, we got caught in a groove in the road. The car went up an adjacent ridge and rolled over: a dog ready for a belly scratch. We crawled out, a bit shaken, and investigated the damage. The windshield was cracked and the rear light was broken. Otherwise it simply lay there with its belly in the air. Fear overtook anger, compassion overtook fear. Under the blazing sun, we crawled back into the car and stretched out on the ceiling while waiting for help. With Mr Honey Badger’s arm around me, we stared at the upside-down seats of the car, giggling and imagining we were lying in a field gazing at the stars.

A crew from the lodge eventually turned up and took us back. Resting in our rooms, the wilderness started to encroach on us. Moths batted their heads against the windows and dead insects lined the edge of the terrace door. Our clothes and suitcases were full of dust, and the air swirled with insults. I could see a tortoise slowly making its way on the ground underneath the terrace. Apparently, a honey badger can chew through the shell of a tortoise. I can tell you it hurts.

Our replacement car arrived the next day. Mr Honey Badger took it for a test drive while I was still asleep. Before too long, he called me and said, ‘Wake up, get dressed, I spotted a pack of wild African dogs!’ I dragged my sleepy body out of bed, found some clean clothes, and we both delighted in the sight of a dozen or so of these rare, playful, curious dogs running along a landing strip and playing tug-of-war with a piece of black plastic. Later on, a guide told us that wild dogs often don’t kill their pray, they just eat them alive.

We decided to try being better towards one another. During another candlelit dinner with white tablecloth, soup spoons, wine glasses and beetles buzzing around our heads, we talked about ways in which we would try avoiding falling into the same holes. I hid behind laughter, he looked at me and said, ‘Well at least I’m trying.’

In the days that followed, we went for game drives and nearly fell off the map, nearly got lost in darkness, yet managed to stay on the road, caught the last glimmers of daylight. We saw lions snoozing by the roadside, a puff adder crawling across the road, a pair of ostriches racing alongside our car on the open savannah, a rock monitor emerging from a riverbed.

We went deeper into the wilderness, to the other side of the national park. The night before the long drive, an offhand comment about past lovers stung me, venomously, and I fell asleep paralysed on the edge of the bed. We woke up and drove through a jungle of criticism and contempt, then crossed the savannah in defensive silence. We stayed at a lodge outside the park gate, but wilderness surrounded us. Out of clean clothes, we sat down for dinner in shirts and trousers encrusted in dust, sweat and sunscreen, at a table laid for us next to a crocodile-infested river.

We started our drive back to Nairobi the following day, the way we came. Too long a distance to complete in a single journey, we stayed over at a lodge in Amboseli. As darkness fell, safe in our room, we heard an animal calling out in distress. We soon found out that a set of lions had killed a wildebeest right in front of the hotel terrace. The staff swiftly laid a table for us al fresco and we watched the lions in torchlight while we ate. Eventually the lions dragged the carcass away and only darkness remained.

Alexandra Cronberg is a Nairobi based survey methodologist and occasional writer.

Their eyes meet. She thinks the woman is smiling, but she can’t quite tell. The woman’s face is covered by a mask, and so is her own. They pass each other, like they often do in the hour before curfew. She continues her walk. A latex glove lies by the roadside. The index and middle fingers are crossed, as if for luck or hiding a lie. She passes another person on the street, moving away to keep the required distance.

It makes her think of an occasion, months earlier, when she had come jogging down a mountain, sweaty, tired and slow. Two girls were coming the other way; they smiled as she approached. As they passed each other, the girl closest to her stretched out a hand for a high-five. Now, high-fiving a stranger seems unthinkable. It makes her feel a little wistful. The distance, the masks, the gloves, this strangest of times. Everyone hiding in their homes. She continues walking back to her apartment. She unlocks the door, and steps inside. Safe, perhaps, and lonely.

She takes off her shoes, and the facemask. She sheds her gym clothes in a pile on the floor and gets into her pyjamas. It’s virtually all she wears these days. She likes the simplicity and the comfort. The limited number of combinations of trousers, tops, and robes. She’s gotten used to seeing her plain face in the mirror, make-up free. Nothing to dress for.

There is a knock on the door. Unexpectedly, her neighbour. He has trouble with the shared internet, and asks for help. They’ve only greeted each other in the stairwell before, yet she invites him in. Something to alleviate the boredom. He takes off his facemask, seeing that she’s not wearing one. He clearly hasn’t shaved in weeks. He is the first person in days she’s spoken to face-to-face without a mask.

They have a drink on her balcony. She pretends they’re sitting on the terrace of a bar, like they might have in virus-free times. Instead they’re alone, inside her home. Two strangers in soft clothes and plain faces. The sun sets. The conversation stumbles, accelerates. They talk of fears, politics, childhoods, their intimacy growing in the darkness. The street is quiet. The buzz of cicadas and their own voices the only sounds cutting the air. Until they run out of things to say, and the cicadas alone save them from silence. Yet they refill their glasses, and move inside. She puts on music.

The night swirls around them, music filling the room. Or perhaps it’s them swirling, with the wine, the lockdown. Dancing, badly on her part, well on his. She has her arms wrapped around his neck. After weeks of restricted movements, working from home, sunset curfews. She’s longed for human touch.

He kisses her. Or perhaps they kiss each other. He pulls back, says, ‘I’m with someone.’ ‘No comment,’ she says. He smiles a little, and looks at her. Gets closer again. They keep dancing.

He untangles himself, decides to leave.

Days pass. She sees him in the courtyard. They greet each other, stay metres apart. Social distancing. They both pause, but don’t stop. She continues up the stairs to her apartment. Tired and slow.

Yet another day passes. She sees him outside again. This time they stop. They talk of virus numbers and the extended lockdown, then of music. She invites him in. Again they sit on her balcony, watching the light shift and sink. The conversation fills the air, occasionally stumbling. They finish a bottle of wine, swirling the last dregs in their glasses. He stands up, rests a hand on her shoulder. He steps away. She stands up too, walks him to the door. He leaves.

The weekend comes around. He knocks on her door, asks if she’s busy. She invites him in. He steps inside, eyes on the floor. He lingers in the hallway. She goes to fetch a bottle of wine and two glasses, prompts him to go out onto the balcony. She smiles slightly at his awkwardness, both pleased and puzzled by his presence. They drink, talk. She’s wearing a printed green robe. He says he likes the way it catches the colours of the trees around them.

Later on they get hungry, cook a simple meal together. Spaghetti carbonara. They are both in the kitchen, navigating the small space as if one of them might carry the virus. They finish the cooking and, with relief, carry their loaded plates back out. They sit down to eat, talking about art, ideas, and aspirations. Trying to find common ground, failing. Night falls and the cicadas come out.

She wants to reach out a limb and feel his skin but doesn’t. Instead she looks at him through the darkness, trying to meet his eyes. He holds her gaze, briefly, then looks away. He talks, she listens. They stay out on the balcony until the cicadas have gone quiet too. Eventually he says he should go home, go to bed. They stand up, she walks him to the door. He kisses her cheek, she hugs him briefly. She touches his wrist. They look at each other, a little too long. He leaves.

She goes to bed too. Wakes up, picks out a robe, puts it on, makes coffee. The dirty plates sit by the sink, reminding her of yesterday. She finishes her coffee, wants some air. She swaps her robe for a jacket, dons her facemask, leaves the building, and goes for a walk. She smiles when she passes the spot where the latex glove lies, now half-buried in the ground, its fingers still crossed as if for luck or for hiding a lie.

Alexandra Cronberg is a Nairobi based survey methodologist and occasional writer.

THE TAILOR WAS TUCKED away in a small alleyway behind a brown, dirty door. It was hard to find him. Still, he had a loyal set of customers. The ones who came back, time and again. They came with requests for new coats or jackets. More often, they came with requests for alterations to old, beloved garments in need of repair, or perhaps a waistline taken out to accommodate a growing belly.

Klaus was one of those customers. He hadn’t been for a while, but now he had a piece of leather waiting to be turned into a jacket. Its quality was the softest, most buttery leather he had encountered. The piece had been sitting in a cardboard box for a couple of weeks. Tucked away in a corner under the stairs, he had avoided looking at it, let alone touching it. Then again, he had for the most part been stationary on the couch in his living room.

There he had lain, guzzling painkillers – he had heard that was good for heartache – and gazing at a patch of sky through the window. He had become closely acquainted with the small, erratic paint strokes on the window frame. They were his own mistakes from that day, years ago, when he and two friends had re-painted the apartment. The small recklessness he granted himself as the owner of the place. His friends had been more meticulous with the masking tape. These drifting thoughts let him forget his grief and abandonment for a second. Let him forget his new loneliness.

He stared at the window. He had observed the phenomenon of a perfectly blue windowpane while the adjacent one was a perfect square of grey. Strange how the cloud could have such an edge. Admittedly the bar in the middle of the window was quite thick. But still. How often did that happen? Proceeding with that thought, he realised he wasn’t quite ready to find out. As much as he hurt, he decided to pull himself together and get off the couch. A cup of coffee, a shower, some fresh air. Yes, today. He would make the trip to the tailor.

Showered and dressed, with a cup of coffee still in his hand, Klaus approached the box. He put the cup down and started unfolding the cardboard flaps, his stomach knotting like a shoelace. He swatted away the thought that perhaps he wasn’t ready quite yet. Opening the box fully, he pulled out the piece of leather. It was as buttery and soft as he remembered it. He imagined it as a jacket. He imagined slipping his arms through the sleeves and zipping the collar up high. His throat tightened.    

He thought of Lydia and wondered what it was that had gone wrong. He had felt her drifting away from him like the cloud in the windowpane. He’d just stood there. Until she collected her things, kissed him on the mouth and walked out of the door. The cardboard box had remained. It was filled with her. Her touch, her kindness, her skin.

He held the piece of leather in his hands and gently folded it back into the box. Breathing, conscious of the air entering his lungs, he stood up. He put on a pair of shoes and an old denim jacket, gathered his emotions and the box, and carried it all out of the door.  

He had visited the tailor twice before, years ago. From what he had heard, the tailor was still stitching pieces of fabric together under his bright light. Holding together his customers in fancy coats and jackets, containing their overflowing pain and their bellies. Indeed, those perfectly fitted garments never threatened to burst.

Arriving at the tailor’s door, Klaus pressed open the handle and peered into the cluttered room. The old man recognised him and smiled. Klaus put down the box on the wide counter and pulled out the piece of leather. The tailor’s eyes glinted at the touch. ‘You want a jacket, do you?’ In his mind, he saw another heart-broken customer struggling to let go of the pieces. Not all of them came with quality leather like this, though. He kept on tailoring as the customers never ceased to ask for his service. Life and worked ticked on.

A few days later Klaus went back to collect the finished garment. It was as handsome as he had hoped. He tried it on and felt a little less at loss. His sadness and pain padded and tucked away. The jacket made him feel like a better version of himself, and he thought, perhaps he could meet life again.

Back home he reluctantly took the jacket off and hung it in the closet. It occupied a chunk of the abundant space, reducing the emptiness that faced him. It was like Lydia was there with him, offering him an embrace. In his head he knew, of course, it was only the memories of her, but nevertheless it warmed him.

Gradually he resumed life again. Picking up work, going out with friends, playing squash. He always wore his new jacket. People complimented him on the quality and cut, and wondered where he’d got it. His eyes just smiled.

One night he met up with his friend Max over beers in their local haunt. On their second pint, the air felt soft and warm. The music and chatter filled every crack inside and out. Klaus felt at ease. The conversation flowed. After a while they both ran out of words and fell silent. Klaus lifted his glass for another sip. Max’s gaze followed the movement and then lingered on the upper part of his arm. His brow furrowed slightly and a quizzical look came over his face. ‘What’s that figure on the inside of your sleeve?’

‘Oh,’ Klaus said and looked away, the silence swelling.

‘It looks like the tattoo Lydia has on her arm, just there.’

‘I had it made. I just need a little time.’

‘Klaus, let go of her, she’s gone.’

The lightness evaporated.

Soon after, they both finished their drinks and stood up to leave. They parted and Klaus folded his arms tight and began walking in the direction of the bus stop. What was wrong with the jacket? It made him feel better.

And it wasn’t just him, he thought. He knew the tailor made good business sewing coats and jackets just like his.

Klaus needed the skin, the touch, the warmth. The jacket fit so well. He sent a grateful thought to the tailor, walked on, and hugged his coat a little tighter.  

Alexandra Cronberg is a Nairobi based survey methodologist and occasional writer.

Other days she opens the wardrobe and picks out a flattering dress to wear. Days when she wants to bare her shoulders, her legs, her skin. When she wants to be touched. When she is open and bold. For him, those days are easy.

Some days she flicks through the clothes hangers but finds nothing to wear. She doesn’t find it because she does not know what she is looking for. She picks out a silky shirt and dark trousers. The garments feel all wrong. Clothes that don’t quite match, trousers that don’t quite fit. Short of time, she leaves to meet the day, meet him. He says she’s beautiful. His words are ill fitting too.

At night she sleeps wearing no clothes at all. In her sleep she is not afraid to expose her skin. His touch and the warmth of his body a cure for her loneliness. She no longer spends the small hours of the night flushed by acid emotions. He wishes her days would be peaceful like her nights.

At times, she wakes and picks bright joyful clothes to put on. A sky blue skirt and a cream sweater. She feels happy, content. Light-hearted and loving. They collapse in tangled embraces. He feeds on those moments.

Those days rarely last long. Soon she’ll wrap herself in layers of sweaters, shirts, and scarves again. She covers her body with garments no one cares turning their head for. Jeans and sneakers. Wearing those items she feels comfortable, self-contained. Ready to simply get on with her life. Hiding behind his sunshades, he watches her walk through the door.

Stills from Robert Whitman’s performance piece ‘Flower’ performed at 9 Great Jones Street, New York in April of 1963 and featuring performers Trisha Brown, Simone Forti and Mimi Stark, among others.

Alexandra Cronberg is a London-based writer.

He saw her hunched over the table, the fabric surrounding her like a moat. He failed to see the point of it. They weren’t lovers like that. They slept together, they drank together, they laughed together. But they did not holiday together. They did not go to parties together. No, they did not make plans together.

Except on this occasion. He had invited her to a wedding party. He did not want to go alone. She sensed the ambivalence in his invite, yet she was happy. She hoped, like a temporary promotion, that perhaps it would last.

She laboured over the dress for hours on end. Even half-done on the hanger, it looked beautiful. When he saw it, he smiled and turned on the TV. Sat down, then lay down on the sofa next to her. Put his head on her lap. She smiled also, pushed a piece of fabric to the side. She stroked his chin. He rested. Declared a momentary ceasefire with the world. He liked the retreat she provided. He liked too that she asked nothing of him in return. He let the relationship tick on. Still, he wasn’t in love.

She devotedly finished the dress. When she put it on, on the day of the party, she did indeed glow. He, meanwhile, thought she had tried too hard. They arrived at the party. He danced, attracted glances from the crowd. She spent the evening chatting to a drunken girl outside. They went home and talked like they had been at two different parties.

They woke in the morning with the midday sun on their faces, stayed in bed. He said, ‘I don’t think I love you.’ The threads holding her together loosened: ‘Why are you here?’ ‘I like the intimacy,’ he replied.

She left.

Months passed. After carefully examining, sorting, and labelling her memories, her hurt, she tucked them away in a drawer within her mind. She sealed the box and hoped to never open it again. Meanwhile he kept himself busy, avoiding a post-mortem like the plague.

The last scrap of their time together was the dress. It remained in his apartment. She wanted it back. She rang the bell. He opened. They looked at each other. Noticed the receding hairline, new lines around the eye. Her hair was shorter. He hadn’t changed so much.

He handed her the dress and she went home. She took it out of the bag and looked at the sprawling fabric. Gave in to temptation and pulled it over her shoulders. It didn’t fit so well. Perhaps her body had changed, or perhaps it never really fit at all. She took it off, shrugged her shoulders, and put it in the bin.

He remained seated on the sofa. Scratched an itch on his chin. Looked at the empty hanger and wondered what it was he had lost.