40: Canterbury Tales
On the chessboard, a queen sits uncomfortably where the king should be. The pawns stand in front like minions, pretending not to notice the problematic situation happening behind them. The knight, as always, is more focused on the pretty white bishop with the dimple across the board, pretending to be a damsel in disguise. Beside the knight, the rook looks on in anger, nudging the bishop at his side to intervene. But the bishop won’t budge. She whispers, “I’m a bishop, not a monarch! I am not going to interfere in what is clearly a family dispute!”
The rook is angry. No, mad. Enraged. If only he could bypass the knight and bishop and rearrange the king and queen, who are apparently helpless. The one piece with the power to fix this, the knight—who can hop around without physical boundaries—is too busy staring across the board, fraternizing with the enemy. The rook looks on, barely able to stomach this atrocity. Even the pawns are starting to jest. It’s an embarrassment, truly.
I watch from a distance as the fiasco unfolds. Just as the rook is about to do the unthinkable, someone from the other side of the bookstore bends down and rearranges the king and queen. From where I stand, I see the rook sigh in relief. I smile at the person, and they smile back. White skin. Long hair. Clumsily holding a stack of books with a bag in hand. Typical booklover.
They glance at me and notice I’ve seen them avert a civil war on the chessboard.
“Oh, do you play?” I ask.
“Yes, yes,” they reply. “Do you want to have a go?”
“Sure, why not?”
“We’ve only got about six minutes before the bookstore closes.”
I check the time. They’re right—it’s almost 6 pm. I have a train to catch at 6:47 pm. I sit on the black side, setting my bag on the floor. They do the same, and the game begins.
8:44 am
I’m in a taxi heading to the train station. This trip was supposed to happen days ago—specifically, the weekend after my birthday. I woke up that Saturday feeling super happy. It was my first birthday in England. I spent the day at home, as I usually do on my birthdays. The day before, I’d been on a call with a friend. We were talking about something random when they realized my birthday was coming up. We ended the call just before midnight, and that was it. I slept as I would on any normal day and woke up as I would on any other morning. Except it wasn’t an ordinary day—it was my name day.
A few days before, I’d visited a friend in London. As we walked through Northwick Park, I mentioned my birthday was the following week.
“Do you celebrate your birthdays?” I asked him.
“No. You know me,” he said. I wasn’t surprised—he’s too stoic for all that.
“My birthday’s next week. I don’t know how I feel about it.”
“Oh wow… you should celebrate it. Get yourself something.”
“Hmmm.”
“Yes. A pair of New Balance sneakers or something you love. It’s your name day, after all.”
I smiled at his Game of Thrones reference. We bonded years ago over books and our shared love of that show, and it’s why we can pick up conversations like no time has passed. He suggested sneakers, but I decided to one-up him: I’d visit a new city instead.
When playing chess, I don’t like being White, simply because I don’t want to start the game. Contrary to what most people think, I’m not very good at chess. I’m good at evading capture and checkmate but not at delivering one. You can’t be a good chess player if all you know is how to capture pieces but not how to finish the game. I compensate for my poor skills by playing as Black, always. That way, I never start the game, and this is quite intentional.
When my opponent makes the first move, sometimes it tells you a lot. Sometimes it tells you nothing. If you’re reading into my first move, you’re wasting your time. I usually don’t know what I’m doing for the first five moves. I play defensively, and one good way to play defence is to play as Black.
So, as we’re about to start, I ask to switch sides so I can play Black. They chuckle lightly and say, “Sure, that’s fine.” They’re confident, you can see it. I’m confident too, but confidence means nothing in chess unless your opponent can be distracted by it. Mine doesn’t seem like that type.
They make the first move, and the game begins.
I arrived at Canterbury East train station at 10:06 am and made my way to the city centre for a quick breakfast. I always go for pastries when I’m out—a good pastry and a cup of coffee. According to my ChatGPT itinerary, my first stop was The Beaney House of Art and Knowledge.
There’s something special about a place that mixes everything: a library, a museum, a gallery. I won’t bore you with every detail of my visit, but I’ll say this:
In one section, a young man holding a notepad greeted me.
“Hi, are we allowed to take pictures here?” I asked, smiling in that polite British way.
“Oh yes, sure,” he replied.
I walked through the museum, exploring the art, when I saw a 20th-century artefact from Nigeria.
“This is from my country,” I told the notepad guy.
“Oh, Nigeria?”
“Yes.”
“That’s great. We have a lot of art from Africa here,” he said, showing me around.
I am not sure what I felt seeing that artefact stuck in glass, looking at me. I looked back at it and wondered, what are you doing here? You’re far away from home. Are you visiting? The artefact looked at me without smiling and whispered, “What are you doing here? You’re far away from home. Are you visiting?” I left in silence.
By this point in the chess game, we were a few moves in. They played pawn to E4—apparently one of the most popular moves in chess. It’s fascinating playing with people who assume you know strategies. Sometimes, that assumption puts them at a disadvantage.
Westgate Gardens is as beautiful as it looks on Instagram—bright, green, and tranquil. Ducks swim in the river; swans glide by to peck at your hand. It’s a dreamy escape. Walking through, I felt so alive, so happy to exist in that moment. Life made sense, and it felt worth living
The chessboard is nearly empty now. My rook is on A5, their queen on E1. I’ve captured nearly all their pieces, leaving their king guarded by two weak pawns. With my queen and rook, I checkmate them vertically. Victory is mine.
“You play so well. Where did you learn?” they ask.
“Secondary school.”
“Really?”
“Yes, yes. You played well too.”
“Ah, thank you! Do you live around here?”
“No, I live in Minster. You?”
“Oh, I live here at the university.”
We rearrange the board as the bookstore closes.
“Well, it was good playing with you. Have a good day.”
“You too. Thank you.”
Later, I stumbled upon Dane John Gardens, a former Roman cemetery turned civic park. On a video call with my parents, I showed them the mound and terraced houses overlooking the gardens. We talked about the Roman Empire and double-decker buses.
What I’m trying to say is: I had a great day. I saw beauty, and my heart was full.
PS: If this feels disjointed, it’s because I struggled to finish it. I did the one thing I never do as a writer: tweeted about how good I am. After the tweet gained over 3,000 views, I locked up and couldn’t write. But here I am, finishing this on a cold Tuesday morning over cappuccino.
To everyone who said, “Why didn’t you call this Canterbury Tales?”—you won! Here’s your Canterbury Tales. Thank you for reading.
Share this with a friend or drop a comment. I wish you a week full of joy and beauty. I love you. Bye!
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I really love this...I the "disjointedness" makes me love it even more .
I so love the way you write. It's so relaxing to read. And I love the "disjointedness." It gave the story a unique flow. I even thought it was deliberate. I love everything about this story. Thank you. I hope you did enjoy your birthday.