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The Man Who Waited Every Morning — Part II
The next morning, I went back.
Not because I had somewhere important to be, but because something about that man’s story refused to leave my mind.
6:38 a.m.
The city was already awake. Matatus blasted music that shook their windows. Conductors shouted destinations like auctioneers selling time itself.
“TOWN! TOWN! HARAKA!”
But just like the day before, he stood there.
Same brown jacket.
Same black bag.
Same quiet patience.
This time I didn’t hesitate. I walked over and stood beside him.
For a moment neither of us spoke. We simply watched the morning unfold.
“You came back,” he said eventually.
I nodded.
“I wanted to see if the story was real.”
He chuckled softly.
“Oh, it’s real.”
A matatu slowed down beside us. The conductor leaned out.
“Boss! Tao?”
The man shook his head gently.
The matatu roared away.
For a while we talked. Nothing deep. Just the kind of small conversation people have when the day is still young.
Then he pointed across the road.
“He used to come from there,” he said.
I looked.
Just an ordinary street. A kiosk opening its shutters. A boda rider arguing about change. A woman arranging fruits on a small table.
Life happening.
“That boy loved football too much,” the man continued. “Every morning he’d complain about Manchester United.”
I laughed.
“Most fans do.”
He smiled.
For a moment, the bus stop didn’t feel like a bus stop anymore. It felt like a place where memories had quietly settled and refused to leave.
At exactly 7:00 a.m., he checked his watch again.
“Same time tomorrow,” he said, almost like he was reminding someone who wasn’t there.
Then he picked up his old bag and started walking down the road.
But this time, before leaving completely, he turned back.
“You know,” he said, “people think memories fade.”
He shook his head slowly.
“They don’t fade.”
“They just learn how to live with us.”
And just like that, he disappeared into the moving city.
The next morning at 6:40…
He was there again.writing here...