“I am Irmtraut,” I told him and stretched my hand to greet him. I was following what I had once learned. You don’t fight fear by walking away. You face it.
He looked confused but shook my hand. “I am Mohammed al Safal, and I come from Qatar.”
“Is that a place in Kenya?” I asked, completely overdoing it in the friendliness front.
“No, Qatar is near Dubai,” he responded and studied me in a way one does a person who isn’t very intelligent.
There were a lot of questions in my mind, but I didn’t dare ask. I was too scared of saying the wrong thing and offending him. Was he referring to Qatar in the Middle East? Why was he wearing a T-shirt with Kenya on it? I wondered silently.
I wanted to be on good terms with my seatmate. Nothing would be as catastrophic as an annoyed seatmate hiding my oxygen mask, I thought with a shudder.
Directly in front of us was a tall, slender woman. I remember first seeing her legs. They seemed to be endless. She had dark, supple skin and very subtle makeup. When she stood up to get something from the overhead compartment, I noted that her suit was Chanel.
I was still studying her when a plump, elderly woman brushed past me and went directly to her. I wondered if it was her mother and felt envy engulfing me.
She hugged her, but the tall, slender woman didn’t reciprocate. She just stood there with an awkward expression on her face.
“I am praying for you,” the elderly woman said in a tone that didn’t sound very friendly. She handed the woman a Bible and turned to go back to her seat at the right-hand corner. On the way back, she stopped to tie her scarf that seemed to have become a bit loose.
The slender woman didn’t seem the least bit surprised. I wondered if it was normal to get Bibles as presents in Africa.
The rest of the passengers in business class were the usual professional manager types. I could smell them from a thousand miles away. They all had an air of importance and urgency around them. Pretty much all of them were buried in some expensive electronic gadget. I also knew from experience that they would, in their real lives, never buy a business-class ticket. They were all there because someone else was footing the bill. I should know; I was one of them.
“Ladies and gentlemen welcome aboard KQ flight 802 to Nairobi. I am your captain, Thomas Maurer, and my first officer is…” I listened to the announcements carefully. Despite my being a frequent flyer, I was terrified of that flight. I remembered all the advice I had so far gotten. Marta had been categorical: “Do not take an African flight!” I knew I couldn’t take any of the advice from the sharks seriously, but I also couldn’t quite shake off the sickening feeling I had in my stomach. The security instructions followed, and for once I paid full attention. I was fairly sure that I was going to need them. I checked out the life jacket and watched carefully to be sure that I knew exactly where the emergency exits were located.
I could feel my seatmate stealing glances at me. He was busy reading an in-flight magazine with Msafiri written on the cover. I knew that takeoff and landing were the most challenging parts of flying, and I secretly hoped that in the very likely event that we crashed, it should be somewhere in Europe. I wasn’t naïve. I knew that air crashes regardless of location were death matters. But I convinced myself that the chances of surviving in Europe were much higher and much more realistic than, say, somewhere in Africa. And this wasn’t totally without reason. My recent research on the Internet had found out that most airports in Africa had no fire engines. I imagined that a crash in Africa would end up in hyenas and dangerous lions hosting a very delicious party. Or just in ashes.
“Safe flight!” my seatmate was saying in my direction. I looked at him and smiled politely.
I was about to point out that he needed to fasten his seatbelt when the plump woman brushed roughly past me. She pushed my elbow, but before I could say anything she was standing in front of the seat of the tall, slender woman.
“I am praying for you!” she said in a fake, sweet voice. “I am praying very intensely for you,” she continued while handing the woman another Bible. I stared at them, perplexed. A stewardess walked up to them. The younger woman looked as if she wanted to say something, but then she shook her head in a haughty way and looked ahead. My seatmate produced a chuckle. It was as if he knew what was going on and was itching to tell me. But at that point, I had more important things on my mind.
In no time, we took off, and it was fairly smooth. I started perusing the newspaper that the stewardess had given me, but I could barely concentrate. Somewhere along the way, however, I fell asleep. I didn’t realize I had fallen asleep until turbulence set in. I looked around the cabin. From experience, I knew that turbulence was harmless but that was a special situation. That plane was going to Africa. I listened carefully so as to be sure it was real turbulence and not some loose nuts and bolts. I watched my fellow passengers. The nuns were asleep, and the plump woman was mumbling to herself. At first, I thought that she was making a call.
“Bind all the devils in the air!” she shouted, pointing to the slender woman. I froze. Devils? The two stewardesses looked at each other without expression.
“Please stay seated and fasten your seat belts!” they said in unison. I suppose that was part of their training. Don’t show any emotion.
The turbulence was becoming worse, and the crew walked to their seats.
“Chase all the devils and clear our way all the way to Nairobi!” The plump elderly woman was sobbing and hitting her big Bible. I observed her and felt terror gripping me.
“Almighty, I beseech you! Take control of this plane! Punish the sinners!” she shouted while looking in the direction of the slender woman. The two stewardesses looked at each other, and I could see a slight embarrassment on their faces.
I stared at them and smiled cautiously.
“Madam, please calm down!” one of them said in a voice that betrayed her own anxiety. A little while later, the turbulence stopped and the crew got up from their seats.
The plump woman quickly stood up and went to the slender woman.
“I am praying for you!” she said, while handing her another bible. My seatmate, unable to hold it any longer, squirmed in his seat. He turned to face me.
“You know that one snatched the other one’s husband,” he whispered knowingly.
“You know them?” I asked, remembering that he had said he was from Qatar.
“Yes. They are the women of the Minister of Finance,” he finished with satisfaction. I smiled to myself. I looked outside and realized that it was totally dark. We had already crossed the Mediterranean Sea and were now in Africa. There were no lights. It was literally pitch black in the black continent.
Philister Taa
Germany, Papers
Dear Tamaa Matano,
Sorry that I have not been able to write to you. I have big news. I have papers! You know what that means? That I am now a citizen of this country! There is only a small complication. I am now a new person. My name is now Maria Kotoko. Can you believe it? Maria Kotoko! I am still trying to get used to the name. It is not a name I would choose for myself. You know that some of my most favorite names are names like Agripina or Clementina or I forget the name of that musician… Mariam Makeba! Anyway, I am digressing.
The name belongs to a Nigerian woman who went underground. I don’t know what that means, but that is what Karata said. I am not allowed to say anything other than that. Karata said that as soon as I mention that the name belongs to a Nigerian woman, I will be history. I think that means I will go underground just like the real Maria Kotoko.
Karata said that I always have to carry my passport. So now I carry Maria Kotoko’s passport around. Now do you think that she looks like me? Not at all! She has a big head that seems to have corners everywhere but apparently, white people think that all black people look alike! To be
honest, I ‘m not sure if that is true. But that is what Karata said. He even said that if I went to his neighbor and introduced myself as him, his neighbor wouldn’t know the difference.
There are a lot of benefits to being a citizen of this country. One of them is that I can drive around in the trains and the buses. Did I tell you how nice the buses and the trains are? They are so clean and believe it or not, they are for free. Yesterday, I drove the whole day in a bus and no one asked me to pay anything ha!
Now I am going to dedicate myself to looking for a job. That is the biggest benefit of having papers. I will look for the best job possible. Karata said that once one has papers, the jobs start flowing and with it the money. Apparently there are so many jobs here that they don’t know what to do with them.
I miss you very much, Tamaa Matano, my friend. I miss speaking Swahili with you. I miss seeing you shopping in Mrs. Patel’s shop… ha!
That is the end of my letter today.
Philister Taa
Ramona
Germany, 2010, Flying Away
“So you want to be a cabin crew attendant?” the smartly dressed man behind the counter asks for the third time. I can clearly discern the apprehension on his face.
“Yes,” I respond calmly resisting the urge to sigh. I am determined to make a good first impression. First impressions, so claims the self-help book I just bought after leaving Mother’s place and which I furiously read, is the gateway to success. Do it well and all paths are open; do it badly, and all doors close. And the other thing, there is no chance to make a first impression twice. So naturally, I am under pressure. But I try very hard to look calm, which believe you me is not too easy when one hasn’t smoked a joint. Well, when one has only smoked one joint. I smoked a joint today for the first time in a long, long time—eighteen years.
“Have you flown before?” he asks while straightening himself. His voice is very kind, which kind of throws me off. I am used to being pushed around. I am used to being the one who makes an effort to be nice. This role of being the recipient of kindness makes me uncomfortable.
“Yes of course. I was once in Mallorca and Ibiza,” I answer quickly, determined to sound confident.
He looks at me thoughtfully, which prompts me to continue talking, which turns out into a stammer and a mistake.
“I was also once in Croatia… Prague.’’
“You mean in the Czech Republic.”
“Yes,” I respond, blushing. I know that my pale skin has probably turned completely red. It is as if blushing is a phenomenon that only afflicts me. Which reminds me, I have never seen Irmtraut blush.
“Please come with me,” the smartly dressed gentleman says, showing me into an adjoining office. It is a sleek office with glass walls. I wonder why people have walls with glass. Aren’t walls supposed to create some kind of privacy? Why have walls if they are going to be transparent anyway? My thoughts are interrupted by Mr. Perfectly Dressed. Somehow my navy blue trousers with elastic on the waist and the flowered top that I carefully chose for this occasion seem all wrong.
“My colleague will be with you in a moment,” he says gently and turns to leave. Then he turns back. “Would you like something to drink?”
I am tempted to say yes—no, shout, “Sure!” but I don’t. I do not want to come across as greedy. Besides, I can’t know if they have enough. Maybe he is offering me the last of what they have. And that I can’t bring myself to take.
“No, nothing, thank you!” I say timidly.
From where I am seated, I see him busy himself with the telephone. I’m sure that he’s talking to his colleague and I’m sure that he is talking about me. I retrieve the printouts from the Internet from my bag. Lufthansa, it reads, is a global player in the airline industry. I take this to mean that it flies to every destination in the world. This is what I want for my life. I am going to fly away from my current life. Just like that. I am going to just leave it behind. Now, I am not one of those people whose childhood dream is to fly. No. I actually hate flying. In fact, the three times I have flown in the past were a nightmare.
So this is a big decision. And a risky one, for that matter. But I am being pushed forward by the unlimited possibilities ahead. A flight to New York City, to Rio de Janeiro, Los Angeles, Beijing, Zanzibar, Cuba… I feel a shiver of excitement down my spine. I am going to realize this dream.
My daydream is intercepted by movement at the reception desk. A woman who looks relatively young is talking to the man at the desk. She turns in my direction and flashes me a smile. She is in a navy blue suit with a yellow scarf on her neck. She picks up a notebook and walks towards me.
“Good afternoon,” she says pleasantly. She smells of roses, and I am completely mesmerized by her perfect face, perfect hair, and well-toned body. Her hair is a shade between blond and brunette. She has beautiful eyes and supple skin. Something about her reminds me of the supermodels I see on TV. Except I always thought they weren’t real. Isn’t that what we are told all the time? Not to compare ourselves with the women in the magazines and TV because that is not really how they are in real life?
I suddenly become very self-conscious. My blond hair is brittle and dull and does not have any volume.
“I am Frau Bitter,” she says, stretching her arm to shake my hand.
A thin smile spreads across my face. I hope that she is bitter with her life. “I am Ramona Rosler,” I say in an unnecessarily high-pitched tone, standing to shake her hand. One of the best things about my marriage is my surname, Rosler. In fact if I’m honest, I have to say that the chance to drop my original surname, Eickelschaft, played a big part in my decision to get married.
“My colleague says you want to work for Lufthansa,” she proceeds. The smile doesn’t leave her face.
“Yes,” I respond enthusiastically.
“Why Lufthansa?” she asks. Her curiosity is not artificial. I can see that she is either shocked at my audacity or thinks that I am the best applicant she’s ever come across.
I try to think of an answer. My kind of answer would be truthful. It would be something in the direction of “I would like to run away from my current life.” But I don’t say this. I search for the kind of answer Irmtraut would give.
“Because Lufthansa is the best airline in Germany.”
She smiles, and I can’t tell if that is a good or a bad thing. I just know that I don’t feel good giving such an answer. It sounds contrived.
“How old are you?” she asks patiently. I hand her the folder containing my CV. It’s a CV I prepared seventeen years ago. Nothing much has changed in my life since then. Only, I now have four children, four boys. I thought of including that in the CV but decided against it. A CV is a professional document, and raising children just doesn’t fit in. And the other thing is that I have been planning to open an Öko shop. I would have actually opened it already were it not for Renate stealing my business idea and potential customers.
“So you are thirty-nine?” she asks while removing a strand of hair from her face. I note that her nails are perfectly manicured. In contrast, I have almost chewed all my nails off.
“Yes,” I answer timidly even though I hoped to come across as self-assured.
“Most of our in-flight attendants actually join us just after Abitur,”38 she says softly while watching me for a reaction. It is the kind of way one watches someone who is mentally unstable. Someone who might run off and commit suicide if you say the wrong word.
Irmtraut
Kenya, 2010, My Arrival
I heard the applause before I realized what was happening. I froze and held the iPad I was carrying tightly to my chest. I didn’t have the courage to open my eyes. “I am praying for you!” The familiar voice of the plump woman reverberated in the cabin. I opened my eyes slowly. It was exactly six forty-five a.m. Kenyan time, and we had landed at the Jomo
Kenyatta International Airport in Nairobi. My first landing in Africa had been so smooth that I didn’t even notice it. Ever since we left Amsterdam, I had been expecting something to go wrong. I had spent every moment listening for strange sounds or anything to confirm my fears. The rest of the time I spent cramming the security instructions. I was convinced that we were not going to be lucky twice. Takeoff had worked out fine. There was no way landing was going to be OK. I had all along expected something along the lines of “Ladies and gentlemen, we can’t locate the airport. We will let you know when or if we locate it!” I expected that we would then fly around aimlessly and eventually crash because of lack of fuel. I broke into a smile.
The deep voice of the pilot bellowed through the loudspeaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for choosing to fly Kenya Airways. On behalf of the crew, I would like to wish you a lovely stay in Kenya.” The tall, slender lady was already standing in the aisle. She couldn’t stay a minute longer in the plane, and I didn’t blame her. There are only so many Bibles that one can accept. There was commotion of passengers getting up and retrieving their luggage from the overhead cabins but the cabin door stayed closed. I looked up and saw the tall slender woman staring at me. There was something gentle about her eyes, and sad. Our eyes met and she smiled wryly.
Within no time we were out of the plane and on our way to pick up our luggage. I was nervous. I had pretty much packed all my clothes and shoes in the two suitcases. I wondered whether they would arrive in time. I tried to put out of my mind what Nadia had said in a self-possessed voice: “Most luggage in African airports gets lost.” Then she had added, “But that will not happen to you. They only take expensive stuff.” The dig wasn’t lost on me. But I couldn’t do anything. Everyone had watched and listened a few moments earlier when I had gifted her with hair color for her “few gray hairs.”
The Outsider(S) Page 7
