Love in the Time of Swipes

A story by NZALIWE PHIRI

Tulisa ducked under a low-hanging wire, Eli tugging at her hand as they dodged a puddle the colour of red dust and spilt maize. The honk of a skidding minibus made her heart leap, and she muttered, “Careful, Eli,” as he spun toward a street vendor selling fritters. The scent of roasting maize mixed with fuel, a chaotic perfume of Kitwe’s streets.

Life moved fast here, and so did she. Between the clang of welders, the shouts of vendors, and schoolchildren skipping over potholes, Tulisa balanced it all like a woman who had learned to dance in storms, the bills, the boardrooms, and bedtime stories. By day, she was a respected marketing executive, running campaigns for telecoms and banks that barely saw the human behind the strategy. By night, she transformed into a different kind of superhero, crafting midnight snack inventions for Eli, battling school projects with glitter-stained hands, and offering wisdom far beyond her years to a boy who already asked big questions.

Tulisa was the kind of woman who held space for others, for her son, for her colleagues, for her girlfriends, even when she had little left to give. Her laughter filled rooms, her heels clicked with confidence, but her heart held stories she rarely told. The divorce. The disappointments. The sleepless nights, wondering if love, the kind that stays, was just a fairytale recited in Sunday sermons and rom-coms.

In between meetings and mothering, she attempted something that felt increasingly rare: finding genuine connection. The kind that existed beyond swipes and filters, beyond ghosted chats and breadcrumbing texts. She wasn’t asking for perfect, just someone consistent. Someone kind.

Flicker and Fade

Handsome. Tall. Confident. Smooth dark skin, easy grin. Steeju worked in Accounts, two floors below. Elevator smiles became teasing comments at the water dispenser. He called her “Queen” and listened intently when she spoke about Eli’s soccer games or her childhood.

He brought coffee unprompted. He mirrored her values. He told her he was tired of “playing games.”

Tulisa let herself believe him. After years of single motherhood and cautious dating, maybe someone finally saw her.

Dinner at her apartment felt right. Candles flickered. Creamy garlic chicken pasta steamed. “This is just the beginning, Tuli,” he said.

That night, they made love. His touch was deliberate, his kisses warm and coaxing. Breaths tangled, lips whispered truths that made sense only in that moment. He murmured, “You deserve to be wanted,” and, “I see you.”

Tulisa surrendered not just her body, but her guarded heart.

The next morning, reality hit hard. The sheets were cold. The space beside her, empty. No note. No breakfast. No goodbye. Her messages went unread. Her calls unanswered.

Tulisa stared at herself in the bathroom mirror, mascara wand hovering mid-air. She wiped a tear before it could ruin the other side. “Get it together,” she muttered. She replayed every interaction in her mind, hunting for clues she’d missed. The way he insisted they only meet at her apartment, never suggesting a public date. The way he casually borrowed money, never returning it, always with a laugh that made her shrug it off. He listened when she talked about Eli, her hopes, his school games, his little quirks, but never once showed the slightest desire to meet him. She had wanted someone who could step in, even in a small way, as a father figure if they were to date seriously. But he had carefully kept his distance. And she had let herself believe him. How had hope so fragile, so desperate, blinded her to all the signs that something wasn’t right?

Days became weeks. The truth settled like sediment: Steeju had ghosted her. Discarded her. When she asked a colleague, they shrugged. “Oh, Steeju? He does that. You’re not the first. By the way, did you hear he’s been transferred to a different branch? At least the ladies here can finally catch a break, though I do pity the ones at the new branch.”

The shame hit harder than heartbreak. She questioned her judgment. Her worth. Whether being a single mom made her less deserving of real love.

That day, she buried the pain. Smiled through work. Focused on Eli. For a long while, she stopped trying.

Whispers in Wine

The day after the ghosting, Tulisa felt like a balloon punctured mid-air, slowly deflating but pretending to float. Her eyes were dry but heavy, her chest tight. She didn’t cry. Not yet.

Instead, she called Chisha. “Wine night?”

No need for explanations. Chisha knew.

Within the hour, Tulisa was curled on a floral couch in Chisha’s flat, the comforting scent of sandalwood candles filling the air, microwave popcorn popping quietly in the background. A low kwaito playlist hummed through the speakers. Two bottles of wine sat like sentinels of survival on the coffee table.

Chisha was a whirlwind of wit and warmth, bold enough to roast but wise enough to listen. “Alright, spill it,” she said, perching on the edge of the couch. “Who broke your heart this time?”

Tulisa’s voice wobbled as she recounted the night with Steeju, the laughter, the warmth, the intimacy, and then the silence—the shame.

Chisha’s eyes softened, but her tone stayed sharp. “You don’t get to disappear on a queen. Hell no. Who even raised that man?”

She handed Tulisa a glass of wine. “What happened says nothing about your worth. It says everything about his cowardice.”

Tulisa let out a bitter laugh, wiping a tear. Chisha rolled her eyes, tapping her own glass against the table. “Half these men wouldn’t survive a single therapy session. He knew you were real, Tuli. And he ran. Because real scares boys pretending to be men.”

They laughed, cried, and sipped wine. Chisha let Tulisa crumble, no judgments, no platitudes, just presence.

That night, between bursts of laughter over terrible Tinder bios and quiet confessions, Chisha leaned back on the couch, swirling her glass of sauvignon. “You know,” she said with a sly grin, “If you’re ever going to get back out there, maybe you need to play their game. Tinder. Just for fun. No pressure.”

Tulisa raised an eyebrow, hesitant. “Tinder? Really?”

Chisha shrugged. “Why not? Worst case, you swipe, roll your eyes, and delete it. Best case, you meet someone worth the effort. Besides, you’ve survived worse.”

A small laugh escaped Tulisa. “Alright. Maybe just to look.”

By the end of the night, with Chisha’s encouragement and a shared sense of daring, Tulisa opened an account. She didn’t expect much. Just a tiny flicker of possibility. And maybe, a spark of hope.

Thumbs and Heartbeats

Tulisa had chatted with a few guys on the app, three to be precise, but none had clicked.

The first was all “next big thing” energy: unemployed, yet claiming to run multiple startups with wild entrepreneurial ideas that sounded like they’d collapse under gravity. His texts were grandiose, but he never suggested meeting up. Tulisa quickly realised she was talking to a daydreamer, not someone ready to show up in real life.

The second seemed godly, overly pious, and dull. His conversations were safe, polite, but lifeless. He sent verses and motivational quotes but never laughed at her jokes, never asked the kinds of questions that revealed a personality behind the screen.

The third seemed promising at first. They had chemistry online, shared jokes, and exchanged memes late into the night. She finally agreed to meet him at a pub & grill, but when he appeared, the man in front of her barely resembled the profile photo. Taller, thinner, older, less put-together. Not quite a catfish, but close enough to sting.

Then came Siwiti.

Among the filtered selfies and recycled bios, his profile made her pause.

Tall. Well-built. A smooth, dark beard that framed a face both handsome and easy. There was a quiet confidence about him, nothing loud or performative, just an energy that felt steady and approachable.

His smile gave him away. Slightly crooked, almost boyish. The kind that hinted at mischief.

She tapped his profile.

Freelance Creative.

Better at making memes than decisions, but here we are.

A small laugh escaped her before she could stop it.

Of course.

Even in a single line, he hadn’t tried too hard and somehow, that made him stand out even more.

She swiped right.

Their first conversation was tentative, almost ordinary.

“What’s your favourite childhood snack?” he asked.

She blinked at the screen, then laughed. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly serious,” he replied. “I take snack nostalgia very seriously.”

Something unexpected and oddly sincere made her relax. The question wasn’t trying too hard. It wasn’t heavy. It simply was.

And just like that, the distance between their screens felt smaller.

They started with the usual. What do you do? Favorite food? Are you actually that tall?

“I’m a project engineer,” he said, almost casually. “Mostly site work. Long days, a lot of problem-solving.”

“And freelancing?” she asked.

He shrugged, even though she couldn’t see it. “Side hustle. Keeps me creative when work gets too structured.”

That made sense to her. He didn’t sound like someone chasing chaos. He sounded like someone who understood balance.

When he asked what her perfect date looked like, she replied, “A fancy dinner followed by a passionate kiss under the stars. But honestly? Pizza and Netflix without kid interruptions will do.”
They both laughed. He replied, “Then let's manifest the Netflix one first. The stars can wait until your babysitter is free.”

Weeks of late-night texts, voice notes, shared memes, and comfortable silences passed. Then they finally met at a quiet café near Riverside. Siwiti wore a navy button-down shirt tucked into khaki trousers, fresh white sneakers, and a cologne that subtly turned heads. He carried a small sketchpad, his tall frame relaxed, confident, waving at her as she approached.

He complimented her braid-out, nervously spilt a bit of his cappuccino when reaching for sugar, and spent five minutes laughing at himself. The connection was instant. They sat for hours, lost in conversation until the café dimmed its lights. As they walked out, he looked at her and said, “You’re exactly how I imagined. Except better.”

For the first time since Steeju, Tulisa felt the stirrings of hope but also the caution born from heartbreak.

The weekend came faster than she expected.

Her thumb hovered over the screen. Every message from him felt like a spark, one she wasn’t sure she wanted to touch, yet couldn’t resist. The way he wrote, casual, funny, curious, made her heart lean forward, even as experience held it gently in check.

He could be different. She wanted to believe. Or he could be like the others. She shivered at the thought.

Somewhere between a laugh at his jokes and a pang of worry at his delayed replies, Tulisa realised she was waiting. Waiting for a move, a sign, a reason to let herself care. And in that quiet anticipation, the air seemed to hum with possibility, an invisible tension that promised the ordinary could tilt into something extraordinary.

Then came the text she’d been both hoping and dreading: “How about dinner tonight? 6 at Crumbs & Cream near CBU. I’ll come get you.”

Her heart skipped. 6 o’clock. Tonight. He was coming to her, to pick her up, to drive her somewhere—a place where they could really be.

Tulisa sat on her bed, fingers brushing over the fabric of dresses she hadn’t worn in months. What should she wear? Something effortless, yet not too casual. Something that felt like her, but also like the woman he deserved to see. She debated colours, textures, shoes, and even how her braid-out would hold in the evening air.

And him. She pictured the way he’d look behind the wheel, calm but alert, scanning the street before glancing her way with that tilt of curiosity and something tender. Her chest fluttered with a strange cocktail of nerves and hope. This was different from the last casual meet-up they had. Tonight was about being intentional, being risky and daring even if her heart protested.

She smoothed her dress one last time, checked her reflection, and slid into her heels. Each click on the floor was a countdown. With a deep breath, she picked up her bag, glanced at her phone and froze.

The low hum of an engine approached. Headlights cut across the window, bright and steady.

Her pulse leapt.

The car slowed, and everything held its breath.

And then it stopped.

She held her breath, hand on the doorknob, the world narrowing to that single, perfect moment.

Old Shadows

As her relationship with Siwiti deepened, so did Tulisa’s anxiety. Every late reply, every unanswered message churned her stomach. Compliments sometimes felt like tests she didn’t trust. She wanted to believe him fully, but the shadow of her past lingered in the corners of her mind.

Siwiti noticed the way she flinched slightly when he reached for her hand, the way she sometimes apologised for things she hadn’t done wrong. But he never pushed.

One warm Saturday afternoon, everything unravelled. Tulisa was at Shoprite, balancing Eli’s school snacks and a bottle of laundry detergent, when a familiar voice cut through the hum of the aisles.

“Tuli. Wow. You look good.”

She turned. And there was Steeju. Calm. Smug. That same signature smirk, as if nothing had happened.

“I’ve been meaning to reach out,” he said casually, voice smooth. “Been thinking about you and how things ended.”

“You mean how you disappeared after sleeping with me?” she asked coldly, meeting his gaze.

He chuckled, as if it were a shared joke. “C’mon, don’t be like that. You know, there was chemistry. If you ever want to catch up”

He stepped beside her cart, casual but deliberate and slid a crisp business card across the handle. “For you,” he said, that same smug grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Tulisa blinked, incredulous. Her heart thudded not with longing, but with pure rage. He’s such an asshole, she thought, rolling her eyes before shoving the card into her bag, certain it would never see the light of day.

That evening, she and Siwiti shared a comforting meal on his balcony, golden light painting their plates in a soft, warm glow, but Tulisa found herself unusually quiet.

“You okay?” he asked gently, brushing the back of her hand with his thumb.

She shook her head. “I saw him today. Steeju.”

Siwiti’s brows lifted, but he didn’t interrupt.

With hesitation and quiet reservation, she opened up. She told him everything.

The night. The ghosting. The weight of shame she had carried.

But it didn’t start with Steeju.

Her voice softened, eyes drifting somewhere past the balcony lights. She spoke of how her marriage had slowly unravelled into something unrecognisable. A man who needed to be admired, who bent truth to suit himself, who loved in ways that bruised more than they built. A narcissist in charm’s clothing. A cheat who made her question her own reality. The emotional exhaustion of constantly shrinking herself just to keep the peace.

“When I finally left,” she said quietly, “I thought that was the hardest part.”

She let out a hollow laugh.

“He said if I was walking away from the marriage, then I was walking away from everything. Including him being a father.” Tulisa swallowed. “Like Eli was just… collateral. Like being a parent was optional once the relationship was over.”

The words hung heavy between them.

“I had to rebuild everything,” she continued. “Myself. My home. My sense of what love even looks like.”

She paused, fingers tightening slightly around her glass of water.

The mere thought of Steeju made her exhale, her shoulders tightening as memories pressed in. It had felt small at the time, insignificant next to a whole marriage, but it hadn’t been. It had pulled everything back. The doubt. The quiet, creeping sense of being disposable. Like she had been too easy to leave.

Her throat tightened, but she swallowed it down.

Maybe she hadn’t healed the way she thought she had. Maybe she had just learned how to carry it better, how to hide it in places no one could see.

The old thoughts returned before she could stop them. Maybe it was her. Maybe she was too easy to discard. Something temporary. Something people used, then walked away from without looking back.

Siwiti stayed quiet, letting the silence wrap around her story like a shield. Then he reached for her hand, squeezing it.

“You weren’t too anything. He was too small to carry what you offered.”

Tulisa’s shoulders sagged in relief. “I’m scared sometimes,” she whispered. “That I’ll fall again, that I’ll raise Eli alone forever.”

She rested her head against his chest, inhaling the calm warmth of him. The gentle rise and fall of his breathing, the steady presence of his arms around her, reminded her of everything she’d almost stopped believing in.

In that moment, the shadows of the past, the ghost of Steeju, the doubt and shame softened their grip. She wasn’t broken.

She was held and safe.
She was seen.
She was safe.

Brick by Brick

That weekend, with Eli at his grandparents’, Siwiti cooked her a dinner of grilled tilapia, seasoned vegetables and her favourite mango-ginger juice. Candles flickered softly, and soft music draped around them like a warm, familiar blanket.

After the meal, he reached for her hand and led her to the living room. Junetober’s “Conversation Pit” hummed low from the Bluetooth speaker, filling the apartment with a hazy, comforting intimacy. Their bodies swayed in quiet rhythm. Tulisa rested her head against his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart and the gentle pulse of the song. Every note seemed to trace the edges of old wounds, comforting rather than cutting, whispering that it was okay to let herself feel.

When he kissed her, it wasn’t urgent. It was reverent. He brushed a lock of hair from her face, whispering her name as if it were a vow. She touched his face, fingertips gliding along his jaw before her lips found the warmth of his neck.

They undressed each other slowly. No rush. No performance. Just a series of silent questions, gently answered. Her blouse slipped to the floor. His shirt followed. When their bodies met, it wasn’t about proving anything; it was about presence. Connection. Release.

She gasped softly, emotion catching in her breath as they moved together, steady and unhurried. When she came undone, it wasn’t just pleasure, it was the quiet collapse of walls she had carried for years. His hands grounded her. His presence held her.

Afterwards, they lay tangled together, her head resting on his chest, his fingers tracing slow circles along her back.

“I didn’t know it could feel like this,” she whispered.
“Like what?”
“Like being safe and wanted. At the same time.”

He pressed a kiss to her hair. “That’s how it should always feel.”

And for once, she believed it.

In that moment, the past loosened its grip. The future could wait. There was only this: this warmth, this breath, this quiet, fragile beginning.

For the first time in years, Tulisa didn’t feel like she was surviving love. She felt like she was living in it.

The Morning After

She woke to the gentle light of sunrise slipping through her curtains, the warmth of Siwiti’s arms wrapped around her like a second blanket. His breathing was slow and even, and for a moment, she allowed herself to simply lie there, absorbing the quiet.

No rush.
No panic.
Just presence.

Her gaze drifted across the room to Eli’s drawings on the fridge, to the half-folded laundry in the corner, to the life she had built and fiercely protected. His laughter echoed faintly in her memory, and her lips curled into a soft, sleepy smile.

Later that morning, she made coffee while Siwiti wandered in, still sleepy, wearing one of her oversized t-shirts.

Domestic. Uncomplicated. Real.

They shared breakfast and quiet laughter between bites. It felt easy. Familiar. Whole and Steady.

Weeks later, it was time. Eli met Siwiti at Funworld. Sticky cotton candy, bumping cars, laughter spilling over itself as they raced and tumbled through the afternoon. Eli’s face glowed with the kind of joy that couldn’t be staged.

That evening, back at the apartment, they built LEGO castles on the living room floor. Siwiti listened as Eli explained every detail as if it mattered, because to him it did.

Tulisa lingered in the kitchen, chest light yet tender. Healing wasn’t sudden or flashy. It was a soft, persistent pulse in her bones, like morning sunlight spilling across a room: steady. A gentle insistence that life could be whole again.

Later, on her balcony, as Siwiti and Eli stacked yet another toy tower below, she whispered a quiet truth to herself. “I’m still here. I’m still worthy. And I’m still open.”

Eli’s laughter drifted up from the living room. He glanced toward her balcony, eyes bright. “Mom, can Uncle Siwiti come around more often?”

Her chest tightened, an old, familiar anxiety curling in her ribs. Shit! What if God forbid, we break up? What happens to Eli