You go to the coast and decide to go for a walk along the beach because you have become that guy who goes to think at the beach. There is a breeze blowing from India or wherever the hell breezes blow from. You are barefoot and your brow is creased, probably thinking about how you will raise two million shillings in three months. Or how you will take the corner office from that phonie who came from Atlanta with his porcupine hairstyle that girls like to touch during tea break. Or maybe you are nursing a heartbreak and are lying to yourself that you will never get into another relationship because women are shit and you are done and from that point on, you will just tap and move on; no cuddling on a sofa to watch another goddamn romance movie. None of that romantic stuff. Or maybe you just like it at the beach at this time of the evening because the beach commands you to go deeper into yourself.
Anyway, whatever the reason, you run into a shoe. Just one shoe. It is a small shoe belonging to a boy or a very small man- like Kevin Hart. It looks like a decent shoe that doesn’t seem to belong to someone from the swahili village. Not that people from swahili village don’t have decent shoes, it just looks like it belongs to a city dweller. A local tourist. So you pick it up, look at it curiously, turn it in your hands and look around in case the owner is lurking around. Or maybe it’s a trap set by a mermaid and if you touch it, you will promptly get the overwhelming urge to jump into the sea where she will then turn you into her slave (not a bad idea).
You don’t get that urge, unfortunately.
Nobody walks up to claim it either. So you absentmindedly carry the shoe with you for the walk. You pass a group of hippies drinking coconut water and they wave at you, the shoe man, and you wave back with the shoe. You walk to the end of the beach where the corals start and sit there wondering who the owner of this shoe is.
Later that evening, you sit at the hotel balcony bar with your whisky. A man sitting on a high stool is telling this girl in a sequined dress and a shiny nose how he -earlier in the day – saw a shoe on the beach that was some sort of a deja-vu, because he swears he had seen it once before. He keeps repeating that word “deja-vu” and making it look like the universe was sending him coded messages. Like he was the chosen one. You sit there listening to him wanting to ask, “So if you feel like the universe sent you this shoe, how come I also found it? How come I have it in my room?” But of course you don’t, because the girl with the shiny nose seems to be really intrigued by his story, and perhaps feels like this deja-vu guy is the man chosen for her by the universe. Eventually you drown your whisky and ask the barman to hand you another double which you sip slowly as you stroll back to your room.
Only, when you get there, the shoe is gone.