DAURIN BOYE

About this Novel

He meticulously tended to the mechanisms of his machine, a MOTO B lift model, the watch snugly strapped to his wrist ticking away as he glanced impatiently towards the entrance of the house. Save for a significant reason, he detested waiting; punctuality was a virtue he held dear, dismissing the notion of "African time" as mere folly. His hand dropped to his side, his gaze shifting towards the imposing gate leading to the house's interior. A figure emerged, her steps deliberate, clad in a form-fitting dress accentuating her curves. Her demeanor, though composed, did not escape his notice; there was a hint of unease in her countenance as she approached. She wore a light blue shirt paired with average denim, her feet adorned with sandals from the Wambai market. To him, she seemed flawless, yet one missing element tainted her perfection in his eyes. "Welcome, Princess Zulaiha," he greeted softly, his demeanor gentle—a trait that never failed to captivate her, despite her reservations about him. "Goodbye," she replied curtly, her tone tinged with ambiguity.