SS Final Draft/Goals

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 warning “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, ma’am.” 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 he decided it would be most logical to visit the men’s room, although not for the use of its facilities. When he reached the last stall, he made sure that the lock was secured and set down his black leather briefcase where it could not be reached by unprincipled wanderers. He briefly contemplated the virtue of banging his head against the wall, as he had seen acted out in movies. The situation deemed itself appropriate: firstly for losing his outward composure in a public scene, and secondly for something he himself could not quite put words to… He leaned towards the enticing tiled wall. But it was no use. Who are you to think yourself a movie star? he thought, instead lowering himself to a perch on the toilet seat.

He had been so unexpectedly aroused to think on the very subject that he had successfully rejected from his mind for nearly 27 years. The sudden exposure of this perturbing fact made him vulnerable. His knees trembled uncontrollably and he pulled them in tight to his chest as if to ensure that his legs wouldn’t fall off altogether. Caught off his guard, he began to weep like a child, messy and unashamed. He could not recall a time when he had displayed such intense emotion, but nor could it be suppressed.

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 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 looking slightly disheveled atop 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 each one’s 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, her bosom enlarged by a warm, full heart. Her smile cracked open, revealing a pearly ribbon set against her chocolate brown countenance. Lilian busied herself preparing the midday meal, but did not relent to show that she was intimately engaged in the family gathering. The single bedroom dwelling 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 sensations. First came the initial petrifying shock, bursting in all directions at once like a tsunami wave. Its retreat came as rapidly as its arrival in the form of a devastating disconnect. He felt barren, lost in a wasteland wilderness. All that remained of the passing wave was the unnerving feeling of gloom and distrust.

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. It astounded him to think that he had not traveled more broadly than a radius of five miles from his current position all day. Virtually, it seemed he had transgressed multiple oceanic and continental boundaries. 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.

Reflecting on his life in real time, he regarded the hundreds of civilians milling through the airport, greeting and parting. As if detached from his own personality, he saw with transparency where he had gone amiss. He had submitted to the grooves of society, mastered them in fact, as was certified by his functional American lifestyle. He was the stark image of success, an inspiration to others, but still felt engulfed in an unforgiving void.

Now he knew with certainty that 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 youthful 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 glinting smile at all those who crossed his path and proceeded to stride cheerfully through the terminal, liberated at last.

Goals

1. I am proud of my ability to develop characters. I felt that I was successful in portraying a distinguished business man and how he becomes lost in his own nostalgic history. I was satisfied with my introduction, which set the tone of this piece, allowing the reader to gain some insight into the anonymous suited man's present life.

2. My writing tends to go downhill shortly after the exposition. I struggle with arriving at a sense of conclusiveness by the end of any story, and this is certainly something to work on. Also, I am certainly aware the I overkill the adjectives, which can be tedious to read at any length.

3. I would like to learn more extensively the techniques that can be used to "show" (as opposed to "tell"). I know there are segments in my writing that are plain narrative, but was unable to find a better way to engage the reader. Perhaps more exercises in this practice would be helpful, since we briefly discussed the article in class.