He stops, knife hanging loosely in one hand, the other grasping a long green leaf sprouting from a banana tree, intending to cleave it from the trunk and add it to the ever growing pile at his feet. But now he stands frozen, the task at hand forgotten.

He doesn't see him. Doesn't see anyone. Plodding along, eyes glued to the red soil, trying to ignore the beeping of horns and the steady growling of motorcycle engines as they whiz past him. 

The second man halts suddenly on the edge of an enormous puddle that spans half of the red dirt road. People shout at him to move out of the way, laughing at this foreigner with his pale skin that blisters beneath the equatorial sun, mocking the ambling pace at which he walks, never looking up as if afraid of the world around him. His hair his soft and growing long, wisps of soft brown locks falling against the back of his neck and into his green eyes.

The first man keeps watching. The knife, blade glinting, slides from his hand and strikes the earth with a soft thud that is drowned out by the voices of so many people.

"Look out!" someone shouts, finally finding the words to speak to this foreign man in a way he will understand.

He looks up, blinking in confusion, and jumps out of the way. The hair on the back of his neck prickles and he turns to see the first man staring at him.

For a brief instant they both stare. One imagines what it would be like to touch the soft locks of dark hair and looking closely into the brilliant green eyes and not see them flinch away. The other imagines the sensation of stroking the smooth brown skin, the scent of sweat and green things stripped from the lush undergrowth of the African bush. They both imagine how easy it would be to disappear into the dense forest. The second man reaches out his hand as if to touch. Just as suddenly a passing motorcyclist brushes against him, wobbles, and falls into the puddle.

Water surges upwards, spraying the women on their way to the market with muddy water. The second man is soaked, murky droplets dripping down his pale skin.

The first man calls out. "Are you alright?" he tries to say, but the words are not the same to the second man. He stares, blinking those green eyes again. "Are you okay?" he tries again.

The second man shrugs his shoulders, as if to apologize for not understanding. "I'm very sorry," he says. Then he grimaces, and their eyes meet for a second, then he turns and continues on his way, the connection broken. The motorcyclist swears and pulls his bike from the mud.

The next time they pass each other, shopping in the market, the first man brushes up against the second. For one brief instant, they touch. They never speak again. Words are no use.