The Charger Chronicles
UNISA, week one
“It does not exist, or I did not lift my eyes to find it when we shared a charger.”
— Vanessa, “My Love at First Sight”
As the tale unfolds, the unassuming laptop charger becomes the unsung hero in the dialogue between Vanessa and myself. The majority of the young leaders had brought their laptops to the YALI sessions, and it so happened that my compatriot utilised the same Type-C charger as mine, often borrowing my hub for his device. I could have easily borrowed their chargers or sought assistance from another attendee. Moreover, I am not one to sit idly by while my computer runs out of power; as a technology enthusiast with a background in time series analysis and stochastic processes, I often engage in forex trading, necessitating a perpetually powered laptop.
I could have procured my own charger or adapter, thus resolving the practical inconvenience without imposing on anyone. I am someone who prefers not to be a bother to others. However, such prosaic solutions would have severed the delicate thread that connected us. There would be no other valid pretext to approach her seat and request the charger, taking the opportunity to hear her melodious voice and gaze upon her radiant visage. In the scholarly haven where we had convened for enlightenment, it was not the norm — perhaps even considered inappropriate — to seek a lady’s company. The charger, therefore, remained an indispensable link, a most convenient excuse to engage with her. If I kept the charger with me, I knew eventually she would need to use it, thus she would seek me out, perhaps signalling through someone that she wished to retrieve it. That, for me, was a significant advantage.
Our seating arrangement, scattered across different rows, meant any request for the charger would have meant interrupting others or calling her name across a room full of people trying to concentrate — neither of which I was willing to do. WhatsApp bridged the gap. YALI had created several coordination groups for the cohort, and Vanessa and I found ourselves in a few of them. That was how I got her number. Quietly, without having to ask directly.
Fortunately, we live in a digital age, and YALI had astutely created numerous groups for the young African leaders to facilitate coordination during our studies in South Africa. Vanessa and I found ourselves in several common groups, which allowed me to discreetly obtain her number and initiate our dialogue over WhatsApp. This meant that I would no longer need to stand before her frequently, missing the opportunity to behold her visage and hear her voice, but it was a step in the right direction. WhatsApp became the conduit for our burgeoning communication. Initially, our exchanges were purely transactional, revolving around the charger. “Hey Vanessa, did you bring your laptop charger today? I need to send an email; my laptop just powered off,” I would message. Initially, she would pass the charger without any response, perhaps just to affirm that she had brought it. Her replies were reserved for when she needed the charger back, her texts initially terse and to the point: “Hey, can I have the charger please, my battery is dying,” followed by a barrage of question marks if I delayed.
I had not yet pushed beyond the charger in conversation, but I was looking for a reason to. It came on its own. Vanessa had been out of sight for a few minutes — we were supposed to be leaving UNISA for the hotel — and without overthinking it, I texted: “Where are you?” A minute passed. Then her reply came through: “U miss me?”
I read it twice. Then I put my phone down. Then I picked it up and read it again.
Three words. No punctuation. The kind of message that could mean nothing — a joke, a tease, a reflex — or could mean something. I did not know which. I still do not know which. What I know is that I wrote back: “I was worried where you were.” Safe. Reasonable. Not a lie, but not the truth either. The truth was closer to yes.
I have thought about that reply many times since. What would have happened if I had simply said yes? Probably nothing different. But you always wonder.
That very night, I was working on a project that required some background music, and I reached out to her over WhatsApp for assistance. She is Portuguese, so I translated my request from English to Portuguese: “I am working on a video. Now I am concerned about what kind of background music to use; can you help me?” which translates to “Estou trabalhando em um vídeo. Agora estou preocupado com que tipo de música de fundo usar, você pode me ajudar?” Her response indicated amusement: “You used Google Translate,” accompanied by a laughing emoji and question marks. Indeed, I had used Google Translate, having never spoken Portuguese before, though I had attended an international conference where it was spoken, and I only knew “obrigado,” which means thank you. It was the first day we had an extended conversation on WhatsApp beyond the charger. We had fun, laughed, and I asked how I could learn Portuguese quickly. She didn’t know but suggested, “Tell me if you find out so that I can learn English.” I speak English fluently, being from Zimbabwe, and she tries, but her primary language is Portuguese, and she wishes to perfect her English. In response, I said, “Get an English-speaking friend and be willing to be corrected and to be confident about it.” She sent another laughing WhatsApp sticker and a follow-up message: “sneaky.” Indeed, it was a subtle hint; I meant for her to befriend me, and I would help her learn English. She likely understood the underlying message. We talked until 11 pm. It was indeed interesting and enjoyable talking with her.
The following day, as usual, I took her charger, and fortunately, she left it with me after class as she took the first bus. How lucky I was, for it meant that I could possibly see her back at the hotel. The mighty charger was now going to be a game-changer. I would need to take it to her room. Back at the hotel, we shared the same floor. So, I reached out to her over WhatsApp, letting her know that she had left the charger with me, and her response was encouraging: “Please bring it to me when you can.” I thought to myself, “Wow, so this means I could knock on her door.” It seemed things were shaping up. I asked where she was around 8 pm, and she gave me her room number: “249.” I was elated until I read the follow-up message: “My roommate will answer you.” Disappointment set in; I wouldn’t see her after all. Just when I thought I had an opportunity, perhaps to linger in her room or even suggest watching a movie, it was not to be. I knocked, and her roommate answered, taking the charger from me. “Opportunity lost,” I thought to myself.
In the quiet moments beside the charger, my curiosity was piqued as I observed Vanessa — her reticence in class, her occasional retreats for what I surmised to be online calls. If I were to extend an invitation for a more personal acquaintance, it behoved me to appreciate her pursuits, her intellectual leanings. I speculated about her age; she had the youthful appearance of someone engaged in earnest endeavours, perhaps in the tender age bracket of 20 to 25 years. My inclination has always been to delve into the professional lives of those around me, yet a direct inquiry to Vanessa herself seemed the more honourable approach. Thus, my initial week post-charger discovery was dedicated to piecing together the mosaic of her life — her vocation, her age — hoping these fragments would coalesce into a clearer portrait of who Vanessa truly was.
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