(Revised from a 2012 submission to the Commonwealth Writers Short Story Prize)
“Love doesn’t understand the concept of time,” Simon said, taking the drink I handed him.
The sun was sliding behind the mountains to the west as we looked north over the quiet golf course. I had finally built the house of my dreams on a piece of land nestled within a golf estate, thirty kilometres south of Windhoek. After years of sacrifice and saving, the moment was finally mine. Tomorrow my wife and daughter would move in—but today belonged to me.
Simon, an old friend, was visiting. A solitary soul who insisted he was never lonely, Simon had a gift for conversation that always began with a jarring observation, followed by a story that crept into your bones.
“Do you know the One Bullet Theory?” he asked, not waiting for an answer. “It says you can fall in love many times, even make love many times—but there’s only one bullet with your name on it. And if you’re lucky enough to get hit by it, the wound never heals.”
We sat in silence. I, like him, was probably remembering the one person who might’ve carried our name on that metaphorical bullet.
“I saw Martin the other day,” Simon continued. “He was having coffee with Catherine. Imagine that—after all these years. You remember their story, right?”
I knew better than to interrupt Simon when he was telling a story. I nodded, just enough to let him know I was listening.
“Martin was born in Windhoek but raised mostly in Johannesburg with his grandparents after his mother passed. Catherine, born in Cape Town, came to Windhoek to live with her aunt after losing her father. Maybe it was the grief in both of them that made their souls echo.
“The first time I saw them, they must’ve been six or seven. It was at a wedding, back when you invited the whole neighbourhood to the reception. She was the little bridesmaid—dressed in white, glowing. Even then, she stood out from the other kids. Martin was there too, awkward in his suit, staring off into the garden.”
Simon paused to relight his pipe, eyes glazing with nostalgia.
“I had just started smoking myself and snuck to the back of the garden. That’s when I saw her walking down the steps toward him.
‘What are you doing here alone?’ she asked.
‘I was wishing a special wish,’ he said.
‘And what was that?’
‘I was wishing the beautiful girl in white would be my friend.’
“Johannesburg had already given him that overconfident flair,” Simon chuckled. “She ran back when someone called for photos. I returned too, but I looked back and saw him standing alone, eyes fixed on the sunset. I could clearly hear him say, ‘One day I will marry her.’ I thought it was sweet at the time—just a child’s dream.”
Simon’s storytelling voice softened as he looked at our empty glasses. I got up to refill them.
“Years passed. I forgot about Martin until he showed up in my high school class—mid-year transfer, quite the scandal. Word spread quickly that he’d been in juvenile detention—something about a bank card robbery. Smart as anything, but stubborn. He’d interrupt class to ask questions, never shy, always probing.”
The sun had set, and the coals were just right. While Simon started on the potjiekos—bosvark rugstring simmering in cast iron—I laid out the springbok chops I’d marinated the day before.
“Martin was a pariah,” Simon continued. “Shunned by classmates, avoided by parents. He walked the neighbourhood alone, always smiling like he knew some joke we didn’t. The only time he got serious was when he watched the other students. Especially Catherine.”
He paused, staring into the flames. “I remembered that look—the same he had at the wedding. It was the One Bullet. His eyes followed her like a shadow follows light. And yet, they lived in different worlds. She was beautiful, from a respected family. He was a jailbird.”
I prodded, “So what did you do, Simon?”
He grinned. “You know me. I had my own heartbreak once, and I wasn’t going to let fate win again. Turns out, I wasn’t alone. We teachers began orchestrating little ‘accidents’—messages that had to be passed between their classrooms. They were always the messengers. The students noticed before long and teased them mercilessly.”
“Martin didn’t shrink from it,” Simon continued. “The teasing made him bolder. And one day, he asked her to be his girlfriend. She said yes. The whole school was shocked.”
Simon’s eyes twinkled. “Together they created a school newspaper, revived the drama club, won national competitions. At their matric farewell, she wore white, he wore a blue suit. Just like the wedding. I swear I’d seen it all before.”
He poured himself another drink. “But like all love stories, it was doomed. And I had no small part in the ending.”
We ate then, piling our plates with grilled chops, rich bush pig stew, and baster poeding. After grace, we ate in silence, as Namibians do when food is sacred and words must wait their turn.
After dinner, coffee replaced whiskey. Simon lit his pipe.
“Martin came to see me after the exam results. He’d passed brilliantly. Catherine hadn’t. He had a bursary; she had nothing. Her foster parents had cut her off. He asked me what to do. And I gave the worst advice.”
“What was the dilemma?” I asked gently.
“He wanted to join the student struggle. 1988—the time of protests, boycotts, toi-toi in the streets. He couldn’t bear the thought of blaming her one day for not answering the call of duty. He chose the cause over love.”
I nodded, remembering that turbulent time.
“Within two years,” Simon said, “Namibia was independent. Martin was the one who raised the flag on that first morning. But the price he paid was Catherine.”
“And after?” I asked.
“Martin became a diplomat, married, divorced, left it all to become a writer and beach bum. Catherine got pregnant, married the father, divorced, and became a top lawyer. Both lived full lives—but apart.”
He sipped his coffee, now laced with whiskey. The silence stretched.
“They had coffee, recently,” he finally said. “I saw them—awkward at first, then warmer. I left them quickly. Maybe I felt guilty. Maybe I still do.”
I remembered his opening line. “What did you mean by, ‘Love doesn’t understand the concept of time’?”
Simon smiled wistfully. “They were speaking in the present about their past. But their souls—those souls—were already sharing future dreams.”
