I am writing this on a Sunday afternoon because it seems fitting. On my way home from the gym this morning, the man walking in front of me fished out his ringing phone from his pocket. Slamming it to his ear, he bubbled, “Hey, beautiful.” He then proceeded to laugh silently, smile repeatedly following an animated conversation with ‘Beautiful’ on the other end of the line. And I thought to myself, damn! Nobody is beautiful-ing me. No one has, in a long time.
It’s a warm Sunday afternoon. Supermarkets and malls are full of children and their parents, clad in their Sunday best, shopping. Almost every home in the estate where I live is streaming music—loudly or softly, depending on whoever is handling the aux. Some are gaslighting themselves with Christian worship songs to compensate for not going to church. Others are listening to old R&B, reminiscing about the good old days. Millennials are curled up with their lovers, watching movies, savoring their last moments together before the week begins—before the madness of deadlines, responding to emails, circling back, touching base, putting a pin on it, putting ducks in a row, and meeting KPIs.
And then, there’s me.
I am home alone, a laptop nestled on my lap, writing this.
I think Sunday afternoons are for lovers. There’s a beauty in sleeping in on Sunday mornings—the sun streaming through thin bedroom curtains, caressing your back as you lay on your lover’s chest, savoring the last moments of sweet morning sleep. Sunday mornings are for pancakes. Your lover humming in the kitchen, flipping pancakes, while you’re curled up in bed like a lazy cat. Eventually, the smell of fresh coffee will pull you from bed, and you’ll hug your lover from behind as he tries to rescue a pancake from burning. The two of you will sit on the floor, plates in hand, speaking softly, breaking bread (or pancakes in this case).
Sundays are for softness.
Dawn is for lovers and bakers, they say. But Sunday afternoons? Sunday afternoons are when love is best seen. When there are no highlights, no grand gestures—just people existing in each other’s presence. People just being. Sunday afternoons feel like a time when spirits go to bed and, for a moment, only human beings are left in the universe. No chaos. No events. Just being.
I want someone for Sunday afternoons. Someone with whom we’ll just sit and exist in each other’s presence. I can read my book while he reads his, but my free hand will rest somewhere—on his back or thigh—even if I am seated at a small distance. Like, I want to exist in my space but still remain connected to you, even in this small way. I can hum to myself while scrolling through my phone, and he can type away on his laptop. I can simply stare at the ceiling, listening to Etta James’ A Sunday Kind of Love, while he stares at me, wondering what is going on in my head. Or we can be like ordinary lovers—curled up under a fleece blanket, watching a romantic comedy, sharing quiet laughter.
You see, Sunday afternoons are where intimacy is seen best. Not the loud kind, not the movie-type kind. But the one hidden in shared silences, in physical closeness, in thoughts exchanged through glances and gentle sighs. There is a magic that comes with Sunday afternoons.
A few weeks ago, on a Sunday afternoon, I found myself sitting opposite this handsome man from Meru County. We were eating plantains and chatting about politics from his county, about how Governor Mwangaza may just yet survive another attempt to oust her from her gubernatorial seat. We had just come from the swimming pool, our skins still smelling of water and chlorine. At some point, convinced that he could not win an argument against me on women’s issues, he sighed, hung his head, and listened to the music streaming into the hall where we were seated. Then he smiled to himself, turned to me, and asked, “Do you know why I like this place?”
I shook my head.
“The first time I came here, there was a live rock band. And they played a song from one of my favorite bands—The Cranberries.”
He smiled in nostalgia. He has a beautiful smile. When he smiles, the corners of his eyes thin, and there’s a lightness in his face. It’s sweet to look at. And I thought to myself, Wouldn’t it be beautiful to spend Sunday afternoons with him?
We could listen to The Cranberries, eat plantain, and talk about any one of the 47 counties in this country. I could wonder why his favorite band is named after food. Or we could simply exist in each other’s space. I thought that driving toward the sunset, with him, on a Sunday afternoon wouldn’t be so bad—not compared to the many Sundays we’ve both spent in our separate lives, lounging on our couches, binging Netflix, thinking of someone to spend the afternoon with. I thought about many things in that silent moment. I thought about it all, but I did not say a word.
Some things are better left as thoughts.
But in that moment, I wanted so badly for him to be my Sunday afternoon love.
Fast forward to now—it’s a Sunday afternoon, and I am writing to you. If I stretch my hand, there’s no lover to touch. Things didn’t work out with Cranberries. Sigh. Nairobi lawyers. It’s always a quick one with these wakilis.
I will probably finish this piece and then step out for a walk. Because, see, life has to continue with the same beauty and cadence—whether one is by themselves or with a paramour.
Cheers to Sunday afternoons.
As the sun dips lower, casting long shadows that dance with the fading light, I contemplate the essence of these afternoons. They hold magic, a promise of intimacy, a shared existence that speaks volumes in its silence. With each passing moment, the desire for someone to fill these afternoons grows—a yearning for a presence that would transform the mundane into the extraordinary.
But I realize now, Sunday afternoons are not just a backdrop for lovers. They are a canvas, waiting to be painted with the hues of companionship, love, and shared moments of simple joy.
Perhaps, one day, I’ll find that someone. Someone with whom to share the sweet, tart essence of cranberries and Sundays. Someone to paint a masterpiece of shared silences and soft laughter.