A chair that appeared before I did

Written in Lagos, July 2019. Typed up today.

The chair was already there when I turned the corner. Metal legs on the cobbles, seat still damp.

This was Lagos, my second week. I had not slept properly since I arrived. Not the kind of tiredness that builds toward collapse. Something looser, less useful. I would lie awake until the walls went grey, then give up and put my shoes on.

Five in the morning, the streets belonged to gulls and the smell of fryer oil from the night before. I walked without a route. Down toward the water, back up, around the church, past the shuttered kiosk near the old gate. The shutter was usually half-up by the time I passed. A man inside was stacking cigarette cartons or wiping the counter. He had a radio on low. Portuguese, or maybe music. I never could tell at that hour.

On the fourth or fifth morning, the chair was outside. A folding chair, placed where the pavement widened. He was still inside, not looking at me. The radio was on. I think it was always the same station.

I walked past. The next morning, same thing. Chair out, shutter half-raised, him behind the counter. I started slowing when I reached it. Not sitting. Just slowing, hands in my pockets, looking at the harbour. The gulls were loud. The light came in flat off the water.

By the end of the second week I was sitting. He brought coffee without asking. Set it on the counter ledge, then pushed it toward me. We never spoke about the chair. He said bom dia sometimes. I said it back.

The last morning, the chair was out but the shutter was down. I sat in it anyway. He never came. I’m in a different town, counting morning swimmers instead of waiting for coffee.

I’ll tell you the rest if I remember it.