Cloud Nine

I didn’t eat anything that morning. Not even the previous night. I had to starve myself for my own good. I’ve heard stories about people puking all over themselves aboard aircrafts. I didn’t want to vomit inside an airplane. That’d be the worst way to lose face.

And off I went to the airfield, hungry as I was. I didn’t want any chances of missing the flight so I was two hours earlier. But now there was a little problem. I wasn’t familiar with the check-in procedures but I joined the line nonetheless. I remembered one of my favourite comedy characters, Mr Bean. He always found his way out of situations like this. The trick was simple – be silent, just watch and do what everyone else does. I followed that advice. With Mr Bean in my mind, things were quite smooth. I watched as my bag was weighed, thrown on a conveyor belt and disappeared behind scenes.  Then I had to pass through a scanner – like everyone else. I didn’t mind the search and all. But I hated it when the security girl requested for my belt. Unbuckling the belt felt really awkward. What if my trousers fall to my knees? Anyways I passed through without triggering any alarm.    

The airbus (or minibus to be precise) was smaller than I anticipated. Not so cool, really. I wedged onto a seat by the window and looked around. Many seats were empty. It wasn’t crammed like in the buses at the town rank. No one was standing up in the aisle. There were no vendors screaming with bowls of bananas and maize cobs. The atmosphere was different – almost alien. Everyone was silent. Then a voice crackled from a speaker concealed somewhere within the parameters of the plane, breaking the silence in a thousand audible splinters. I nearly jumped out of my skin. Then I fumbled for the seatbelt and followed the instructions. Suddenly the small craft was rolling away, taking me along with it. Nice. It felt like a real bus; well, at least for a while as it sped on the runway. The voice in the speaker came again, alerting me that we were about to take off. I held on tightly to my armrests, bracing myself for anything that would follow shortly. Oxygen was still abundant yet I gulped for more air. I felt my intestines stirring as the craft ascended, pushing down the tarmac below. This is where I was supposed to vomit; I thought and felt really proud of myself for being smart. My head swelled and a wave of nausea swept over me. Then suddenly I had eagle eyes. I could see roofs of every building, getting smaller and smaller. A giant snake of the Thamalakane River glimmered down there. Up and up we went.  Trees became blobs of green. Roads turned into line drawings. Cars were tiny toys that ultimately vanished out of sight. Brown and yellowish shapes patched the landscape like haphazardly thrown pieces of fabric. Though it was a beautiful sight I was seeing, I still wasn’t yet settled. This was a damn risk I’ve taken. It was crazy. How could I put my trust on that man inside the pilot cabin – a man I didn’t even know?

I looked outside in space and there was a mist– a white smoke all around the plane. Something must have been burning, I thought in a trifle panic. But other passengers were calm. There weren’t any fire alarms blurring onboard. I shifted on my seat and held on tight. The mist gave way to yet another vision. Thick masses of white and gray mountains hovered just below me, like giant cotton wool balls. I wanted to reach out and scoop out a handful. It was a sea of cumulonimbus clouds. There were clouds below me and clouds above me. What a romantic sight! If only my girl and I can live in place like this. We’d walk and sleep on clouds every day. On cloud nine. I smiled, my face pressed against the small windowpane. If God was somewhere out there (for this must have been heaven of some sort) I’m sure He saw the glee in my eyes. Gone was the discomfort. I was in dreamland.

The crackling voice in the speaker, again. This time I listened intently as the captain informed us on a few facts. I learnt we were about 9 kilometres above the ground. Well, fine, that might be true. What I didn’t slightly believe was the speed at which we were supposedly cruising. This guy was lying! I know how speed feels like. I’ve jolted my Volkswagen Golf GTI at a breakneck speed of 260km/h. Trees were whooshing past me in a scary blur. Every car ahead of me was suddenly behind and rapidly disappearing in my rear-view mirror. That was real speed. Now this guy tells me we are cruising at 600km/h and he expects me to believe him. Bullshit! Truth is, this thing seemed to be dragging at a snails’ pace and at times it looked stationary.

Before long, I was told to the craft was beginning its descent to Sir Seretse Khama Airport in Gaborone. It was just over an hour since the flight left Maun. This was a journey of almost a thousand kilometres. By road, it stretches for over 10 hours. Then I thought about how unfair this whole game of capitalism is. They keep the airfare insanely high so as to keep people – the class to which I belong – struggling with uncomfortable and sometimes unbearable journeys. This mode of transport was surely for a selected few. The rest had to suffer. Now, instead of being happy that I arrived so quickly, I found myself inwardly complaining. This just wasn’t right; I fumed to no one in particular. Someone left Maun with the 5am bus to the same destination as mine. I left four hours later and arrived in an hour’s time. That someone was still somewhere in the heart and heat of the country, very many kilometres away from arrival. Mankind is really nasty with divisions. First it was the first world, second world and third world divisions. Then within those divisions there are subdivisions as well. And sub-sub divisions. And it goes on and on and on. This earth, my brother. 

What an Invitation!

A few months ago, a friend of mine tossed a book into my hands and said, ‘You are a reader. Read this! I know you’ll like it. You like every book anyway. And tell me the story afterward, Mr Storyteller.”
 I looked at the small book, judged it by its pink cover and the stylish calligraphic font type and thought, ‘This looks girlish, no way am I going to waste my time with superfluous and delusive feminine stories.’ But I, being myself, didn’t say these words out to her. Instead I pocketed the book and promised I will read it. She had no idea that it was going to lie in my shelf for months. It didn’t look ‘hard’ enough for me. Plus, it was too short a read – less than 150 pages. Again, I didn’t quite flow along with the author’s name which just didn’t look authentic to me. What kind of a name is Oriah Mountain Dreamer? And so I ignored it.

Then, last week I took a bus trip to Tonota to a national meeting on developing a culture of reading in our country. Somehow I took this book with me. I think I needed something physically small, something that I can stash in my pocket without creating extra luggage. Of course I didn’t read it on my way there – partly because I was sitting next to a loudmouthed friend who babbled all the way to Francistown, and also because I basically was still not inspired to read this little pink book.

The meeting was only one day. It was a highly fruitful conference attended by Botswana’s giants in the writing and reading fraternity. The night after the meeting, a nasty situation slashed me like an axe-chop that hit without any warning whatsoever. I mean one of those deep, personal conundrums I can’t share with you here. You understand. I couldn’t find my sleep that night in a hotel room. I tossed and turned, pardon the trite. I was in an intense emotional turmoil. I was tearing apart. Blood dripped from every pore of my skin. The TV couldn’t do any help. My friend, whom I told about the situation earlier, called from his room trying to give me some comforting words. He tried, yes, and I highly appreciate. But he sounded like a robot to me. When I finally slept, I thank God I didn’t have any nightmares.

In the morning we took the 500km trip back to base. The bus was almost full when we boarded. This time I couldn’t sit next to my friend, yet it was a time I really needed close company. The bus pulled off. My mind continued with its torturing thoughts, tormenting this little soul of mine.  As I stashed my hands in my pockets in attempt to sit comfortably, I felt the small book in there. I pulled it out. I read the cover again, almost for the first time. ‘The Invitation’ was the title of the book. And just under that, a short stanza from what looked like a poem read ‘It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.’ I saw these words lifting from the cover, one by one, and dancing in their calligraphic font right in front of my eyes. I smiled, in spite of myself. For the first time, I opened the book and read the first page. It was a poem! A poem that was written for me; written for the stranger next to me; written for my situation; written for the world; written for happiness and sadness; for fear and beauty and failure and joy; written for everyone and everything. But the poem was on only one page and a half. The whole book was filled with amazing prose, words based on this poem, weaved in a tense, cohesive, potent and gripping style I had never read before. The writing was deep and poetic, as though written by a seer or prophet of some sort.

Suddenly I wasn’t in the bus. There was no one around me but stars of words as I spun like an astronaut in this writer’s world. Pure meditation! It talked of my joys and pains and everything; my achievements and the lack thereof.  I learnt that in life we face obstacles that seem impenetrable; hindrances that threaten the very fabric of our existence. But despite all these, there’s always a steady push from within our deepest core – a push to survive and do right. We all can get this. And as we voyage through our lives, we get confronted by phenomenons that are interwoven into life itself. But nonetheless, we have to strive to live and beckon for those that impact us positively.

This little pink paperback opened my mind and poured me with floodlights of wisdom. It was nowhere near a chimerical book that I had so irrationally believed it to be. It filled my heart and fired up my hearth. It cured that nasty situation I was in. I greedily consumed it all and by the time I reached my destination, I was reading it again. Now, as I finish reading it for the third time, I can’t help but think of my friend, the friend who gave me this book. Such a beautiful book from a beautiful friend. Beautiful in cover and in content – both the book and the friend. I have a story to tell her. And I will tell it wholeheartedly, with the passion that I know the book has fired up inside of me. I respect this writer, Oriah Mountain Dreamer. Weird name or not, she just joined a list of my favourite non-fiction writers. Let us please turn off our televisions and READ.