By the time I’d realised my Kindle was gone, I was already on my next flight. The year was 2014 and I was treating myself to a trip to South Africa before starting my first graduate job, but this was not an auspicious beginning. I’d left the Kindle in the seat pocket in front of me during the 14-hour Sydney to Johannesburg leg and I was horrified.
My e-reader was my constant companion and comfort, living under my pillow after I read myself to sleep every night. I had spent months curating a selection of my favourite books, and now it was gone for good. Still, I was almost in Cape Town, and I couldn’t let it ruin my holiday. To me, South Africa was both foreign and familiar, the place of my parents’ birth but not my own.
A few days later, my phone pinged. An unauthorised user had tried to send a document to my Kindle account. A Google search of the email suggested it belonged to a young man from Pakistan. I thought it curious that my Kindle had resurfaced with a person who, like me, was from somewhere far away from the place it had been lost. I wondered what had brought him to South Africa and if he found the country as beautiful and vibrant and terrifying as I did. I sent him an email, asking if he had found my Kindle, and if so, could he please return it.
Almost instantly, I received a reply. He had purchased the Kindle from someone and loved my book collection. He asked if he could keep it – he’d be happy to pay me for it, but if not, he would return it. I was touched by his enthusiasm for my book collection and offer to return an item he had purchased in good faith, but now that there was a prospect of getting my beloved Kindle back, I was eager to seize it. I replied, thanking him for his honesty and asking if we could arrange a meeting.
His reply didn’t disguise his disappointment at not being able to keep the device, but he was philosophical about it: “I can’t take it if u don’t give me.” He sent his phone number and the Johannesburg suburb he lived in. The next 10 emails we exchanged dealt with logistics. I asked him how much he had paid for the Kindle and said I would reimburse him for that amount. I wondered if he would disappear throughout these logistical negotiations, but he was patient, and we finally settled on a time and place for him to return it.
One friend said if we got married it’d make a magnificent story. But the reality was less dramatic. He had simply liked my books and wanted to return them to a fellow booklover, and from seeing the Quran and other Islamic books on the Kindle, had realised we also shared an interest in our mutual faith.
In the end, we never met in person. When he eventually returned the Kindle to friends in Johannesburg, they relayed that he was so shy he had handed it over then quickly walked away. He had gently rebuffed my offer of payment, asking only that I remember him in my prayers. And every time I turned on my Kindle from then on, I made sure I did. Back home in Sydney, I read my books before falling asleep, feeling grateful for the adventures I’d had, for all the adventures yet to come and most of all, for all the people I’d met along the way.
