Naledi Ruvane & Kellan Sefu

I gave our first date ninety minutes. Naledi still brings that up.

In my defence, it was a practical limit. I had promised to collect my sister from the bus station that afternoon. Naledi had work to finish. When we arranged to meet after talking on WaBanja, I thought being clear about the time would make things easier.

“Ninety minutes, if the bus behaves,” I wrote.

“You make it sound like the bus has been invited,” she answered.

She arrived carrying a small notebook and wearing sunglasses that kept sliding down her nose. I had chosen a place near the water because it seemed pleasant. I hadn't considered the wind. We spent the first ten minutes holding down napkins, moving a chair and laughing at my attempt to read a menu that refused to stay flat.

I expected her to ask about my job. Most people did. Instead, she asked what I was looking forward to that week. I couldn't think of anything impressive. A parcel containing a replacement kettle switch. She asked why I was repairing the kettle rather than buying another one, and suddenly we had an actual conversation.

Naledi made drawings for packaging, though she said that description made her work sound tidier than it was. She showed me a page from her notebook. Between useful measurements were sketches of shoes, leaves and an excellent portrait of a bored cashier. I told her about learning repairs from my uncle, who believed every screw you lost would return to embarrass you.

My phone vibrated. My sister's bus had been delayed. I put the phone away too quickly, and Naledi caught the movement.

“Has our guest cancelled?”

I told her we had another hour, if she wanted it. She pretended to check with her notebook.

We walked beside the water. Our conversation wasn't unusually profound. We disagreed about whether breakfast counted as a proper dinner, discussed a neighbour who cleaned his car in the rain, and both became distracted by a child trying to persuade an adult to buy a much larger ice cream.

I didn't try to hold her hand. I wanted to, but I also wanted another meeting more than I wanted to rush the first one. Before we left, she said she had enjoyed herself. She said it so plainly that I managed to answer plainly too.

The next few weeks were less smooth. We both had schedules, and being interested in someone did not make those schedules respectful. Once, she postponed because a client had sent changes late. Once, I forgot to reply to a question while helping my sister sort out a broken suitcase. Naledi told me she preferred a short honest answer to a long silence. I stopped assuming she would somehow know that silence meant I was occupied.

Our third date was a walk with no dramatic view. Our fifth involved takeaway food eaten from awkward containers. The seventh had to end early because she had a headache. By then, I was comfortable enough to ask whether she wanted company or quiet. She chose quiet. She thanked me the next morning for letting that be an uncomplicated answer.

We took this photograph on a later visit to the water. I wore a white shirt, which immediately attracted a mark from something I had been carrying. Naledi noticed, decided it wasn't worth mentioning until after the picture, and put her arm through mine.

There is a version of this story where I tell you that the delayed bus changed our lives. I don't think it deserves that much credit. It gave us an extra hour. We chose to keep making time after that.

These days, when I suggest an afternoon together, Naledi asks how many minutes she has been allocated. I tell her to stop keeping records. She taps the little notebook in her bag and says she has no idea what I mean.