I knew it was her. That jacket was unmistakably hers. It was a Sunday and she was heading to the direction I was heading. I had noticed her from a distance and increased pace. Though I would had rang her telling her to stop and wait for me, I thought it was better to give her a surprise by tapping her shoulder once I approached her from behind, and thus increased the pace of my strides. The bus stop was a few hundred metres away, and being of athletic endowment, it would have taken me a couple of minutes to, well, overtake, no, to surprise her. Those who saw me taking long strides must have wondered what was up with me. I’m sure I was leaping kangaroo style if that is what my walk style could be classified as.
There she was. Few metres ahead of me. Agnes is one of those ladies blessed with unearthly beauty. In classical times, she would have passed for a goddess. She had that face that made many a valiant soldier lose their lives fighting over a woman – for those acquainted with classical Greek literature. She was sort of Helen of Troy. I made that bounding leap and I was behind her. I’d have passed for her bodyguard had circumstances allowed. Then I gently tapped on her right shoulder. I was prepared to call her name demurely. A smile was plastered on my face.
She turned back as my hand tapped her gently. I grinned expecting to see her surprised face.
Then I froze on the spot.
It was Agnes’ mother!
The scrawl on her face was like that of a baboon in labour pains…