Serendipity
The man in the suit drummed his fingertips irritably against the ticket counter. His moustache twitched on cue with the chirp of his programmed watch as the hour hand aligned with the neatly labeled number eight. He knew what the signal meant, but checked the wristwatch again anyways, just for good measure. Glancing at the pixilated screen overhead, he was reminded that his status still read “standby”. Its blaring block letters partnered with his initials.
Just then, the portly grey-haired woman reappeared waddling back to her seat behind the desk. “Mr. Ogega,” she announced, butchering his family name with a strong southern twang. Family. For whatever reason, the word struck him poignantly in that moment as it streamed across his radar. He could not let it pass. It was as if a barricade had suddenly materialized before his line of vision, bombarding him with the command “Do Not Enter”.
How to even define the word? Did his family still exist? Would he still belong to them, even if they did? It was as if he were drowning in his own thoughts, gulping in mouthfuls of salty unanswered questions…
“Mr. Ogega,” the ticket lady repeated more sharply. He responded jerkily, his previously glazed eyes flickering as a response to her demand. “The best I can do for you is the double layover departing at six o’clock tonight.” Still recovering from his trance, he rubbed his weary eyes, but found himself incapable of protest at the time. Shaking off the last flooding sentiments, he emitted a deep exhale. Then firmly straightened the neck of his business tie, regaining a sense of his familiar selfhood. Not forgetting his manners, he managed a weak, “Thank you, madam.” He turned on his heel and strolled cautiously in the opposite direction from the gate marked N14.
His destination was yet unknown to him, although he made every effort to march deliberately. Promptly deciding it would be most logical to visit the men’s room, though not for use of its facilities. When he reached the last stall, he made sure that the lock was secure and set down his black leather briefcase where it could not be reached by untrustworthy passerby. He proceeded to slap himself forcefully on both sides of his face. First, for losing his outward composure in a public scene. Secondly, for something he himself could not put words to.
He had been so unexpectedly aroused to think on the very subject that he had successfully rejected from his mind for nearly 27 years. Now that it had resurfaced, he felt exposed and vulnerable. The next thing he did came as even more of a surprise than his previous course of action. Mr. Ogega wept. He could not recall the last time he had cried, or shown any sign of intense emotion for that matter. It was not uncontrolled, nor hysterical, but short, hot tears that dribbled in rapid streams from his eyes. This he found utterly perplexing, yet the more he worked to stop them, the blearier he became. So he dabbed tentatively at his welling lids and waited it out.
Eventually, the tears did wane, and he blew his nose in finale. But before he could begin to rack his brain back to the topic that caused such great inner turmoil, he suddenly realized that he had spent the better part of an hour in the confines of a rather unpleasant space. He jumped to his feet immediately, and reentered the bustling airport on stiff legs. At first, all he could muster was to stand dumbfounded in the midst of the chaos. Blinking wildly as if inside the shutter of a paparazzi camera lens.
Everything he laid his eyes upon seemed to be cast in an altogether unfamiliar glow. It was as if he were seeing beyond the human spectrum of color. He no longer stared blindly ahead with tunnel vision, but perceived even the most ordinary objects in a fourth dimension. Each passerby was illumined with histories and agendas. He could sense their purpose wafting by like a palpable odor. Time played no variable as it slipped slowly away with the preoccupied travelers. The man in the suit felt his own essence become swallowed in the sea of people.
Somehow, by some exterior force it seemed, he found himself in a quiet, empty place. Alone. Man versus conscience. It was the beginning of existence, as he knew it. He was transported to a rural village in the Okavango delta region of Botswana. There he was, a young boy with not yet a decade of experience. In his midst were his brother, sister, father, mother, and an elderly woman. Family. The one in closest proximity to him was his older brother, Jared. Pride and ambition were exuded merely through the intensity of his stare. Clearly this was the first child, a son nonetheless, the inheritor of property and fortune. It was equally evident that this was a man he admired with every fiber of his being. As he scanned the room, all but one other figure appeared indistinctly. This character was his mother, Lilian Ogega. A robust lady with a healthy bosom enlarged by her warm, full heart. Her smile cracked open, revealing a white sheen set against her chocolate brown complexion. Lilian busied herself preparing the midday meal, but did not relent to show that she was intimately engaged in the family gathering. The single room home reverberated with the peace and laughter of even the undistinguished faces beneath the heat of the African sun.
The next scene Mr. Ogega found himself immersed in entirely juxtaposed the sentiment of the first. It was not a photographic memory, but a smattering of chaotic emotions and sensations. First came the initial petrifying shock. But before it was allowed to settle, there was a devastating disconnect. It ravaged him body and soul, aching at his most tender spots, nearly running him aground. He felt barren, lost in a wasteland wilderness. It was followed by a hazy blue that washed all else away in a single wave. What was left was the unnerving feeling of gloom and denial.
This brought Mr. Ogega back to present day, walking again past the departure gates. This time the figures that surrounded him were as before, tangible and clear. He pondered the things he had witnessed, the Congo civil war that had brutally agonized his own country of origin. His separation from the village, his family. The refugee camp and relocation is where he lost track. Lost language, community, culture, pride, vitality. Here he found himself, 27 years later, still suffering from the aftermath of immense lack. He had submitted to the grooves of society, mastered them in fact, as was certified by his functional American life. He was the stark image of success, an inspiration to others, but still felt engulfed in an unforgiving void.
And yet, as he regarded the hundreds of civilians milling through the airport, greeting and parting, one thought became crystalline. His Tswana roots were an integral part of his identity. Never again would he abandon the hope of a culture whose future lay in the hands of intelligent minds and vibrant souls. Purpose effused him, reawakening his 10 year-old nature. Looking outward with eager eyes, he was directed pointedly to a currency exchange booth. Approaching the kiosk, he inquired after the Botswana pula. A vocabulary word that meant both money and blessing in his native tongue. The salesman was able to retrieve the small sum of 100 pula for the suited man, who gratefully purchased the notes and pocketed them with childlike glee. Mr. Ogega flashed a pearly smile at all those who crossed his path and proceeded to stride freely through the terminal.
Reflection
Although I am well aware of my writing blunders, it was helpful to hear feedback from students I don’t always work with and who offered multiple perspectives. They asked me thought provoking questions that made me rethink the message I was attempting to convey. They challenged me to write more concisely and if possible, with less description (it can be overwhelming at times!). They highlighted my strengths as good character development and good variation in sentence structure.
From the article, “Show Don’t Tell”, I was forced to consider the narrative style of my work. I recognized that for a large portion of the story, I was giving a detailed summary, which doesn’t necessarily engage the reader. Through the revision process, I definitely had to rework some of my sentences with the objective of “showing” in mind. There is still a long way to go before I will be satisfied with my story, but I feel that I am off to a good start anyway!
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