The Mt Kenya Times 
The message came in at 9:02am.
“Good morning. I love you.”
At 9:47am the reply came.
“Aww thanks babe! Can you send data? And maybe lunch.”
Tafadzwa stared at his phone. He was 29, a junior accountant, and he had been praying for a wife since he was 24. He had read all the books. He had tithed. He had waited.
And now, 45 minutes after “I love you,” the ledger had opened.
He didn’t answer immediately. He walked to his window in Harare and watched traffic crawl along Samora Machel. He thought about his father. His father had married his mother with one suitcase and a Bible. They fought, they prayed, they stayed. There was no data, no nails, no lunch allowance. There was only _us_.
“Lord,” he whispered, “when did love become a side hustle?”
Two weeks earlier he had met Rudo at a church conference. She was bright. She laughed with her whole body. During the Q&A she asked, “How do we date in a way that honours God and doesn’t leave us broke?”
The room laughed. The speaker said, “Pray about it.”
Tafadzwa didn’t laugh. He wrote her question down.
After the service they talked by the gate. She told him about her job at a salon, about her younger brother at school, about how tired she was of men who disappeared after the first date.
“I just want to be happy,” she said. “Is that wrong?”
“No,” he said. “Happiness is good. I just think happiness lasts longer when it’s built on something.”
She looked at him. “Like what?”
“Like people,” he said. “The kind who stay when there’s nothing to withdraw.”
She nodded, but he saw the flicker. The flicker that said: prove it.
That flicker had a history.
Rudo’s first boyfriend paid her rent. Then he left when she lost the job.
Her second sent groceries every Friday. Then he asked for pictures she wasn’t willing to send.
Her third said “I love you” and vanished after she said she couldn’t lend him money.
So her nervous system had learned a simple equation: Affection = Provision. Silence = Danger.
Psychologists call it anxious attachment. Theologians call it a wounded _imago Dei_.
Rudo just called it survival.
They dated for three months. Coffee, walks, Bible study on WhatsApp voice notes.
Tafadzwa liked her mind. She asked questions. She noticed people. Once she bought chips for a street kid and didn’t post it.
He thought: There is something here.
But the messages kept sliding.
“Morning. How are you?”
“I’m okay. My hair needs redoing. It’s 60.”
“Praying for you today.”
“Thanks. Data finished.”
He would send. Not because he was rich, but because he was afraid that if he didn’t, she would disappear.
And sometimes she would say “You’re so sweet” right after.
Philosophically, something had shifted. The _telos_ was gone. The _why_ of them was no longer “to know and be known.” It had become “to give and receive.”
Aristotle would have called it a corrupted friendship of utility.
Buber would have called it I-It.
Tafadzwa called it 2am anxiety.
One night he asked her, “Rudo, what makes you feel truly happy? Not in the moment, but deep down?”
She paused. Then typed: “What do you mean by kind of people?”
He smiled at the question. It was honest.
“By ‘kind of people’ I mean the kind of people who make you feel safe, respected, and at peace. People who are kind when no one is watching. People who don’t just take, but also give. People who are there for you on good days and bad days. That’s the kind of people I believe bring real happiness. What do you think?”
She didn’t reply that night.
The next Sunday the pastor preached from Romans 5:8.
“But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”
Tafadzwa wrote in his journal: _No invoice. No collateral. He loved us at our worst._
After the service Rudo texted: “Can we talk?”
They met at a park. She was quiet.
“I read your message,” she said. “About kind of people.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t know if I’m that kind of person,” she said. “I keep score. If you don’t send, I panic. If you do send, I feel guilty. I’m tired of it.”
He didn’t defend. He didn’t preach.
“Me too,” he said. “I keep score too. I send and then I watch to see if you’ll say thank you fast enough.”
They laughed, but it was the sad kind.
“I think,” she said slowly, “I’ve been treating love like a side hustle. Because I’m scared if I’m not useful, I’ll be left.”
Tafadzwa nodded. “And I’ve been treating it like a contract. Because I’m scared if I’m not needed, I won’t be chosen.”
The wind moved through the jacarandas. Somewhere a child was shouting.
“What do we do?” she asked.
“I don’t know all of it,” he said. “But I know the Gospel starts with a God who gives before we ask. Who stays when we have nothing. Maybe we start there. We practise giving without keeping receipts. And receiving without panic.”
She looked at him. “That sounds hard.”
“It is,” he said. “Love is a cross before it’s a crown.”
They didn’t get it right the next week.
She still asked for lunch. He still felt the twitch to send and secure.
But they started naming it.
“Hey, I’m asking from fear, not need.”
“Hey, I’m sending from guilt, not joy.”
They started praying together, badly, awkwardly.
They started serving at church together, not to impress, but because it was hard to commodify someone you’re washing dishes next to.
Slowly, the ledger faded. Not because money stopped mattering. Rent still came. Hair still grew.
But because something else grew louder: the sound of two people choosing each other on an empty day.
Six months later Rudo texted at 9:02am again.
“Good morning. I love you. No request today. Just wanted you to know.”
Tafadzwa read it twice. Then he replied:
“Good morning. I love you too. And I’m staying.”
The side hustle
Essential voices
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