Nyasha Choga had never needed noise to feel alive.
At twenty-three, she carried herself with a quiet confidence — not arrogance, but a calm, deliberate self-awareness that drew attention even when she didn't mean to.
She lived with her father in a modest, tightly kept house in Mkoba — walls painted warm peach, a tiny flower garden at the gate, always swept, always neat. Her mornings began before the sun.
By 5:00 a.m., she was up. No alarm. Just instinct. She prayed first — quietly, sincerely. Then jogged three laps around the neighborhood before returning to prepare breakfast and do the chores. She always left the house by 7:30 a.m., dressed in clean, pressed workwear: black trousers, simple blouse, flat shoes.
She worked as a pharmacy assistant-cum-admin assistant at a private surgery and pharmacy — nothing glamorous, but stable and decently paying. The job suited her. She dispensed prescriptions, restocked supplies, followed up on supplies, filed medical records, and liaised with the dentist, Mr. Tirivaviri, who trusted her more than anyone else in the building. He often said, "You're the pulse that keeps this place alive, Nyasha."
Despite the weariness of responsibility, she never complained.
In truth, her mind was never far from her father, a once-vibrant man now battling chronic kidney failure. Weekly dialysis had become part of the family rhythm — costly, draining, but necessary. Her salary mostly went to that, with a little set aside for the hope of a transplant one day.
Nyasha wasn't bitter. If anything, she was determined.
She rarely went out unless it was to church, the pharmacy, or grocery shopping. Her circle of friends was tiny — mostly two childhood friends who still lived in Gweru, both married, both constantly trying to set her up.
She never entertained it.
"God's timing," she would say with a smile, but her eyes would shift. Her gaze always seemed to be looking somewhere beyond — at a dream she hadn't spoken yet.
Evenings were quiet. Dishes. Prayer. A book. Her bookshelf held more devotionals and medical journals than romance novels. She liked structure. She needed peace.
***
Nyasha had learned, early and without ceremony, that love was not always gentle.
Her mother, strong and beautiful in her own quiet way, had carried the silence of abandonment like a shadow before she passed away. Her father, the man whose blood she carried, had only become a presence in her life shortly before his illness pulled him closer — too little, too late. She had resented him at first but with time she realized he was the only family she had left with.
So no, she didn't believe in love.
Not the romantic kind. Not the flowers-and-texts-and-butterflies type. To her, love was sacrifice, not sparks. It was staying. Paying hospital bills. Showing up. Being present. Not walking away when life stopped being fun.
That kind of love? She lived it. She gave it. But she didn't expect it from anyone else.
She kept a journal — neat, floral covered, hidden behind a row of devotionals on her shelf. Not for dreams of marriage or romance, but for goals, prayers, plans. Her handwriting was small and precise. Every month, she listed targets: how much to save, what scripture to memorize, her father's weight, blood pressure, and dialysis notes.
And yet…
There were times, in the quiet of her room, when her fingers paused over a page. When she'd glance out the window at the moonlight slicing across the street and wonder — what if?
Then she'd shake her head. Close the book. Love was for novels.
Her heart was anchored in duty.
In practicality.
In control.
She was not cold. She just knew that some things cost too much.
And love, she'd decided, was one of them. Most expensive of them all.
***
Nyasha rarely allowed herself to cry.
Tears, to her, felt like weakness she couldn't afford. But some nights, after her father had gone to bed and the house was still, the weight pressed too hard against her chest — the kind that prayers didn't immediately lift.
She'd sit at the edge of her bed in prayer, hands clasped, chin trembling, and let tears fall in silence. Never loud. Never for long.
She had to be strong — for her father and for herself.
No one ever saw that side of her.
To everyone else, she was composed. Efficient. Respectful. A little too serious, maybe — but dependable.
At work, she was friendly but kept a warm distance.
That was what made Tapiwa's attempt all the more awkward.
He was the assistant lab tech — friendly, talkative, always with jokes that landed just shy of inappropriate. For months, he had tried to flirt lightly, but Nyasha had always brushed it off politely with a smile and shifted focus back to files, appointments, invoices.
One Wednesday afternoon, as the sun burned lazily through the blinds, he'd caught her alone in the break room. She was stirring her tea, flipping through patient forms when he leaned on the counter beside her.
"Nyasha," he said, in that confident tone men often adopted when they assumed silence was attraction. "You ever let yourself have fun?"
She smiled at him. "I do have fun." She returned her focus to her mug.
"Come on," Tapiwa persisted. "We work hard. You should come out with me this weekend. Just a movie. Or lunch. Something simple. It will be fun"
"Then we have different definitions of fun."
"Please, Nyasha," he said. "I promise it will be worth it."
She didn't look up immediately. When she did, her eyes were calm — not cold — and she smiled softly.
"Thank you, Tapiwa. I appreciate the offer," she said, voice firm but gentle. "But I'm not looking for anything like that right now."
He chuckled. "Eish, you make it sound like I was proposing marriage."
"I'm not saying no to you," she replied evenly. "I'm saying no to dating."
He tried to press again, but her tone shifted slightly — still polite, but no longer soft.
"I'd rather we keep things professional. It's better for both of us."
And just like that, she turned back to her forms. The matter was closed.
What no one knew was that later that evening, on her walk home, she wondered briefly if she'd made herself too closed-off. If her independence had become isolation.
But she shook the thought away.
People – ladies who let emotions rule them ended up shattered.
She couldn't afford cracks.
***
It started small.
On a Monday like any other, Nyasha missed her usual kombi. The driver she trusted — the one who always played soft gospel music and never overcrowded his vehicle — had left two minutes early. She was forced to board another, crammed between a woman with a loud phone call and a man who smelled of cheap alcohol.
She hated being late. Her whole day ran on order, precision, control.
At work, she was unusually quiet. Her tea break came ten minutes later than normal, her lunch was rushed, and a critical report she usually delivered with ease had a typo. Just one. But enough for her to notice.
Then it happened again — this time on a Wednesday. Being tired and distracted, she had forgotten to set the water aside before ZESA went out. No bath water. Nyasha had to use cold water in a hurry. She hated how it made her tense all day. That morning, she dropped her phone. The screen cracked at the corner.
Small things.
But for Nyasha, who found peace in predictability, it was unsettling.
That Friday, as she walked towards the kombi terminus near T.M. later than usual, she noticed a black Jaguar idling across the street from the clinic — sleek, shiny, out of place. Loud music, laughing voices inside. Someone leaned out the window and whistled at her. She rolled her eyes and kept walking.
The car didn't follow. But something about it stayed in her head. She had never seen that type of car in Gweru. She knew it was expensive that's why in Zimbabwe it was estimated that the cars of that brand were fewer than 200.
Later, at dinner, her father mentioned his friend, Ncube, who had visited him. He always pretended to be ok so that she wouldn't worry but Nyasha knew better.
"Apparently Ncube has found a big client at his carwash in town," Mr. Choga said. "Big car. Different cars."
Nyasha didn't respond. She noticed that he had barely touched food and that worried her.
"You should eat, baba," she said. "Before it gets cold."
But when she prayed that night, her words stumbled.
There was a tightness in her chest again — not sadness, not fear — something unnamed.
***
It was the middle of the month when the surgery announced a small outreach program — a wellness drive in Southdowns. Nyasha had helped organize the logistics. They would set up a mobile tent and offer free BP checks, basic consultations, and medication refills for elderly residents.
She didn't think much of the location.
Saturday morning came with clear skies. She wore a crisp white blouse and navy-blue skirt, modest and neat. As always, clipboard in hand, she moved with purpose.
The Southdowns grounds were spacious, and the crowd light at first. Children played nearby, elderly people lined up patiently. Nyasha, efficient as always, handled the paperwork, calmly speaking to each patient with soft authority.
What she didn't notice, not at first, was the black Lexus parked several meters away — windows tinted, engine off.
Takudzwa sat inside, wearing sunglasses, arm resting lazily on the window frame. He wasn't there for a checkup. He was there with a girl who had spent the previous night at his place and now was in need of morning after pills and family planning pills as well. And also, he was bored. Curious. The loud noise from the speakers in the usually quiet neighborhood had drawn him out and offer to drive the girl. And now he was waiting for the girl who was taking long to finish her business; and watching.
He noticed a young girl in the tent immediately.
The way she walked, how she kept glancing at her clipboard, the neatness of her bun, the sharp lines of her skirt. She was… plain, almost. But not forgettable. There was something quiet and unshakable about her.
He didn't realize he was staring until she happened to look up.
For a split second, their eyes met.
Nyasha didn't flinch. She barely acknowledged him. Just a glance — then she turned back to the elderly man she was helping, her voice warm and focused.
Takudzwa smirked, lips curling slightly. How had she not acknowledge him? He liked being noticed. He expected it. Then he remembered, his car was tinted, she couldn't have seen him.
***
The outreach ended late afternoon.
Nyasha and her small team packed up the tent and equipment with tired hands and dusty shoes. She was scribbling the last names on the attendance sheet when the wind picked up slightly, blowing loose papers across the open ground.
She darted after them, managing to catch one just before it flew into the road.
The other page landed at the edge of a driveway — wide, paved in fresh black tar, with trimmed hedges and silver gates.
As she stepped forward to grab it, the sound of metallic groaning and the the loud purr of an engine startle her. Nyasha froze just a second too long.
A car swept past her, missing her by an inch. Her heart pounded in her chest as she watched the car disappear. It was a black Lexus, gleaming in the soft dusk light and tyres barely humming over the road. By then her team mates had run to her asking if she was ok. She was shaken but ok.
Nyasha watched the car go, lips pressed into a line. But something about the moment felt… strange. Unsettling.
She picked up the paper, returned with the team, and said nothing.
***