At first he noticed her because she was the only other black person on the platform at the Central station. But in this part of the world, it wasn’t easy to talk to black people. They could be from anywhere and it was not good to assume that they spoke English. Not all black people here abided by the universal black brotherhood solidarity code and it was definitely harder because she was a woman. It could be taken the wrong way, and there was no room for small talk between strangers in this land.
The social code here was keep your distance, mind your business and avoid eye contact. This wasn’t Nairobi where you could walk up to a woman with a broad smile and start by saying “Sasa, siste!”. Here in the Netherlands, you stayed rigid, face firmly glued to your phone.
He wanted to ignore her but he kept looking in her direction. There was something about her he couldn’t place. She had a smooth chocolate complexion, a soft face, dimples, and a quality weave that framed her face. But that wasn’t it. This country was full of beautiful unapproachable women and he had never been compelled to talk to a stranger. The force drawing him was the sheer weight of sorrow around her.
The time on the announcement board had disappeared. He looked at his transport app and the train had been cancelled. He could feel the fidgety frustration all around him. He had read on the Dutch news in English website, about the partial train strike that morning. The trip to the embassy in The Hague was uneventful, but returning to Amsterdam was now a challenge. He contemplated changing platforms, but instead found himself moving closer because she was seated right under the train schedule screen. He couldn’t read Dutch, so he needed to get closer to take a picture and use Google Translate.
Train delayed. The time slot was blank. Just dashes. She was seated on the silver metal bench all by herself, a bench that could sit three.
There was this space thing in the Netherlands, a kind of first come, first occupy. He had seen it in trains and buses too. Outside peak hours, people would rarely sit next to each other. Personal space was enforced here. He could now take a good look at her face. She was staring at the rail tracks, alone in the crowd and her face…what was that? Sadness. Yah, that was it. Sadness.
The air around her was thick with melancholy, and people were just walking past her like she was a sign board. Maybe she was new here, just like he was six months ago, completely overwhelmed by the foreignness of the place, just stuck. An announcement came over the intercom in Dutch. There were loud sighs after that and some people started walking away. He was lost but his mind was still on the stranger, this sister.
So he did something completely out of character: he sat on the bench. She did not even turn in his direction. He just sat. Two black people in a sea of whiteness, staring at the tracks, like old veterans in a hospice watching a foreign movie with subtitles.
Then he broke the ice. “Excuse me”. She didn’t hear him at first so he raised his voice above the din. “Excuse me, do you speak English?”
She turned. The sadness was now even more pronounced. “Yes”.
“Do you know what’s going on about this train?”
“The Intercity express to Amsterdam is delayed. They are not certain when the next will be available because of the strike”.
She reverted back to that stony silence.
He wasn’t going to let that window shut. He had gotten her to speak and that accent. What was it? West African, maybe not Nigerian, with a Dutch inflection, probably Ghanaian.
“Sorry to bother you again, are you okay?” She turned again and she didn’t even try to hide it.
“I am just sad”. God, people are direct in this country. What was he going to do with that? Must be this depressing weather. All this greyness and wetness. He was sad to be far from the warmth of Nairobi. He did that thing he had seen nosy white people do, confronting strangers with their curiosity.
“Hope you don’t mind my asking, what makes you sad?”
This time she didn’t turn and he was sure she had heard him. Silence again. Then she shrugged, her shoulders seeming to slump down even further.
“I don’t know, I am just feeling sad”.
“I know, it’s this weather”.
“Not, for me. I grew up here. I am Dutch. This is not so bad. It can get worse than this.”
Great, she was talking, he had to latch on.
“You are not serious. I came here at the end of summer, and it was raining every day.”
That seemed to get her.
“Ja, Dutch summers, two weeks of sunshine if you are lucky. Where are you from?”
“Kenya”.
“Kenia? There is real nature there and animals.”
She was definitely Dutch.
“My mother has been to Kenya on safari”.
Roll out the cliche’ sweetheart, roll them out. He was Kenyan and had never been on a safari, but he wasn’t going to let this traction slip. They were having a conversation.
“Do you plan to also go on a safari?”.
“It looked nice, but it’s too expensive and I haven’t returned to Africa since I was a child”.
Oh, the surprise must have been written all over his face and she immediately put his concern to rest.
“I am adopted. My mother is Dutch. I am originally from Rwanda, but I never returned.” She paused, finally meeting his gaze, her voice low. “I have no memory of the place. I came here when I was three”.
Rwanda? She was carrying ghosts. She did not look Rwandese. At least not typical.
“Why are you talking to me?”
That threw him back. He was still getting used to this Dutch directness.
“Aah, because you just looked sad and I know that feeling. Sometimes, I just wish someone would talk to me, but people are so afraid of sadness.”
“I don’t think I understand you?”
“Look, I used to be sad a lot. It would just overcome me. Like this weather. I would even feel guilty about being happy, always waiting for the other shoe to drop, certain that the happiness wouldn’t last. I thought getting this opportunity to do my Phd here in the Netherlands, something I always wanted, would make me happy. But I still feel unhappy. I don’t know what it is. Everything is going great for me now but I still feel sad. I am much better at hiding it these days”.
“Your mother, is she an anxious type?”
Damn, how did she guess that.
“You telling me? If my mother called me right now, she would insist on a video call to see if I was dressed right for the weather. Me, a grown man like me. She fusses over me all the time. I know it is because she loves me, you know mothers and their boys”.
“Are you an only child?”
“Yes, technically not. I had a brother. I never met him. He died before I was born. Mother rarely talked about it but I was kind of a miracle baby. My middle name is actually Miracle. I came after many miscarriages. Three. Mum was always afraid something could happen to me, so I taught myself how to manage her fear. I was never too carefree, too independent or too happy because that would trigger my mother’s anxiety. I had to make sure I didn’t ever give my mother any cause for alarm. I shouldn’t say this about my mum, but I feel I am emotionally responsible for her distress. I can tell her mood from the first word that comes out of her mouth on the phone. Maybe that’s what makes me a people pleaser and perfectionist”.
Where did all that come from? He had blurted out a full confession. Just then, the familiar rumble of a train approaching came. Her disposition changed, a new urgency arose like she needed to get on that train quickly. To the contrary, his earlier urgency seemed to have dissipated.
She stood up and for the first time, he noticed how tall she was. She could be Rwandese. She now looked at him dead in his eyes, the sadness still there.
“That sadness, it does not belong to you…thank you for talking to me…Miracle”.
And she walked away towards the train doors as the carriage came to a stop in front of them.
He didn’t feel like moving, so he sat staring at her as she disappeared into the carriage in wonderment, the silver bench now freezing beneath him.
The sadness remained, but it felt smaller, somehow lighter, now that a stranger had named its true owner.
