by Auma Obama
I did not stay long at Boehringer Ingelheim because my contract expired after eight months. I left the company with a heavy heart. At that time, Akinyi was going to preschool, which I paid for from my salary. It was very expensive, which was due to the fact that in England those institutions are privately run. Now I understood why so many British mothers stayed home. They probably didn’t see why they should give up all their earnings for preschool.
I applied at the University of Reading, which is about half an hour away from Bracknell. There, I was hired as a part-time lecturer. A few hours a week I now taught German literature and grammar to undergraduates. But the job was not very fulfilling.
Meanwhile, the relationship between Ian and me was worsening. We barely had anything in common anymore; our conversations revolved only around our daughter, her well-being, her activities.
“Just do something,” Ian often said when I complained that I found no satisfying occupation in our town.
However, I didn’t want to do just anything. He had once wanted to help me make films in England, but there was no longer any mention of that. And I was too proud to remind him of his promise. In a way, I was not only angry with Ian, but also with myself. I was, in a sense, trapped. Why has this happened to me? I thought reproachfully. I should have known better.
Eventually, I resigned myself to my role as mother and housewife. Often, after I had brought the little one to preschool, I lay down in bed again and did not get up until it was time to pick her up. In retrospect, I can say that in those days I was functioning more than I was living.
* * *
“Auma, is that you?” The ringing of the telephone had roused me from the half-sleep into which I had sunk that morning as I so often did.
“Yes, who is it?” I asked drowsily.
“Tsitsi.”
“Tsitsi?” Suddenly I was awake and sat up in bed. “Tsitsi? How’s it going? What’s up?”
“I searched for your number for a long time,” she replied.
Tsitsi was from Zimbabwe and had, like me, studied at the film academy. I was happy to hear a friendly voice from the past. We talked about what had happened since we had last seen each other. After a few sentences, she knew that something was wrong with me.
“What’s going on, Auma? You sound so different,” Tsitsi asked worriedly.
“I’m doing fine.” I tried to sound cheerful. “Really!”
“I don’t believe you. I can hear that you’re faking.”
Her words cracked a dam. Her familiar voice, which awakened memories of all that I had once been, and the thought of what had become of me, brought tears to my eyes. Silently, I let them flow.
“Auma, what’s going on? Talk to me.”
“There’s not much to say. I’m here, have the sweetest daughter in the world, and have a husband who loves me and works hard. What more can you ask for?” With almost every word my voice broke.
“What more can you ask for?” Tsitsi repeated in her dry way. I began to cry again.
“Much more. Much, much more,” I said softly.
For a few seconds, she just let me cry. Then she said, “I have something for you. That’s why I’m calling.”
Tsitsi explained to me that in her native Zimbabwe an event called the African Screenwriters Workshop was being planned. The organizers were looking for young, talented filmmakers who wanted to write screenplays. Of course, prospective participants would not be accepted automatically, but had to apply for one of the few places.
“You definitely have to give it a shot. I know how well you write stories,” she said enthusiastically, after she had finished explaining.
“I don’t even remember how. It’s been so long. I don’t know if I can still do it.” Fear welled up in me; I had grown so insecure that I had no more confidence in myself.
“Auma, you have so much talent. What happened to the energetic woman I met in Berlin?” Tsitsi said many more things about me. She brought back to my mind a person who had become a stranger to me.
Finally, I asked her what I had to do for this project. Her relief was palpable even through the phone. She would not have hung up without a yes; in retrospect, I was certain of that.
“Well, you don’t have much time and here’s what you have to do.…”
She gave me all the necessary information and let me know that I had to send the organizers a screenplay as soon as possible.
“And Auma!” she said at the end of the call. “You don’t need to be afraid. Really. You just have to write. And you can do that. I’m sure that you’ll get in.”
Tsitsi’s phone call was my salvation. After I had hung up, I suddenly felt less alone and lost. I realized that I was excited about the possibility of being admitted to the screenwriting workshop.
I called Ian and told him what I had been offered.
“And who’s going to pay for it?” he asked.
“The organizers cover everything. The whole thing lasts ten days.”
Ian hesitated briefly, and then he said, “Maybe you’ll actually get in.”
It was not only a chance for me that presented itself here, but perhaps also for our marriage.
* * *
The trip to Zimbabwe was like a resurrection; I recognized that I was heading toward a better place and a better stage in my life. The workshop was exactly what I needed. I had applied with a screenplay that revolved around my parents’ youth. It depicted how they had grown up under British colonialism and how, at the time when Kenya attained independence, both of them had abandoned themselves to their love of ballroom dancing. The participants from all different African countries as well as the instructors were enthusiastic about my story.
In this friendly atmosphere, I could open up and let my old self come out. It was like coming back to life. Surrounded by people who believed in me even though they hardly knew me, I recovered my energy, my ambition, and my enthusiasm for life.
24.
WHEN I HAD BOARDED the plane to Harare, Zimbabwe’s capital, at Gatwick Airport on a mild spring evening in 1999, I did not yet suspect that the impending trip not only would save me from slipping into deep despair but that I would also meet the love of my life on the way back.
On my return flight to London, Marvin was on the plane. He had boarded late and only caught my eye when he moved up two rows, having apparently sat in the wrong seat. Because the plane was pretty empty, I, too, had previously changed my seat. I had barely seen the stranger’s face, only his profile, which was also concealed by a small leather cap.
Because I had gotten into the habit of reading during takeoff, I was soon absorbed in a book—or at least I thought I was, for my eyes repeatedly moved away from the pages and wandered over to the stranger who had in the meantime taken off his cap so that I could see his clean-shaven head.
Back then I did not yet fly as much as I do now, and I liked to strike up conversations with other passengers. Never before, however, had a fellow passenger attracted my attention as much as this man. In vain, I tried to focus on my book. I noticed how nervous I was. I simply could not sit still, so I got up and went to the bathroom. There I stood in the ridiculously small space and looked into the mirror. “What’s the matter with you?” I admonished my reflection. “You don’t even know the man!” I slapped my cheeks, washed my face with cold water, and tried to come to my senses. But nothing helped.
When I had returned to my seat, I was again powerfully drawn to him, with a downright palpable magnetic energy, which was stronger than I was. Again I fled to the bathroom and talked to myself. “You haven’t even seen his face!” I reproached myself. I simply could not figure myself out. “Are you interested in the back of a stranger’s bald head?” Shaking my head, I left the bathroom and returned again to my seat. But the desire to get to know this man did not abate.
He was sitting by the window, alone in a row of three seats. After my initial change of seats, I, too, had claimed a row of three seats for myself, so that I would be able to s
pend the night on the plane lying down.
Suddenly, it occurred to me that the man was sitting in the exact same row I myself had abandoned to look for a better one. If I had remained in the seat designated on my boarding pass, I would now be sitting next to him!
That must be fate, I thought, although I am not at all superstitious—and then the solution came to me. I would simply go back to my old seat! Now I had a good reason to sit down next to him. My heart raced, and I felt my palms become damp. You can’t do this! said an inner voice. But like a remote-controlled being, I hung from an invisible wire; I resembled a will-less marionette. For the third time I proceeded to the cramped, now-familiar bathroom. From the sympathetic looks of some fellow passengers, I could tell that they suspected some sort of gastrointestinal problem behind my repeated urge to visit this place. They were not entirely wrong. For, out of sheer nervousness, I now felt ill.
“Now go over there and ask for your seat back. He can’t say no,” I said, emboldening myself in front of the mirror. “It’s your seat, after all, right?” I looked myself sternly in the eyes. Oh God, I can’t let him notice how flustered I am.
Someone tried to open the bathroom door. That meant that at least one passenger was waiting outside. This time I had stayed a little too long in the tiny room. In my nervous excitement, I would have preferred never to come out again. But I had no choice; I had to free up the room. Slowly, I walked back to my seat. No more restless trips to the bathroom, I decided. I would simply yield to the magnetic power of attraction. I promptly took from the seat pocket in front of me the small bottle of wine that had been served with the meal and that I had saved to calm my nerves and walked down the corridor toward the front.
“Um … I … This here is my seat.” I pointed to the aisle seat. “I … uh, changed my seat, but…,” I stammered, “I’m bored back there … all alone. Can I have it back?” I quickly added the last words before my courage threatened to abandon me.
The man at first gave me a puzzled look. Then he smiled.
“Of course.” He had a deep voice and an American accent.
I sat down and put the small wine bottle in the seat pocket in front of me. The seat between us remained empty. I did not dare to look at the man.
It was he who finally turned to me with a friendly, polite smile. A handsome, strong face, I thought. His expression revealed that he was open to small talk. I had, after all, given boredom as the reason for my seat change.
“You’re flying to England?”
If I hadn’t been so nervous, I would have answered cheekily, “No, to China!” But all I managed was to ask politely where he was heading.
He told me that he was on the way home. He lived in Auckland, California, about half an hour away from San Francisco. Because our conversation became more intense from minute to minute, I could finally get a good look at his face. I liked it. His shaved head formed an interesting contrast to his gentle and masculine features, the narrow eyes and the full mouth under a neatly trimmed mustache. His prominent forehead, strong cheekbones, and large nose stood out against the gentleness that emanated from his eyes and mouth. He radiated an inner peace, which made him even more attractive.
He was a businessman in the United States, as I now learned, and traded in arts and crafts from southern Africa. I told him enthusiastically about my week in Harare, about my family, about Ian and my daughter. I talked almost nonstop.
In the course of our conversation, I found out with mixed feelings that he had already been married twice and now lived with his girlfriend. No surprise, I thought. He was well built; the rolled-up sleeves of his denim shirt revealed muscular arms. His dark skin was a few shades lighter than mine and had a slightly reddish tint. I had a practically irresistible desire to run my hand over the fine, downy hair on his dark skin—and was startled by what was such an unfamiliar thought for me.
After a while, my neck began to hurt from turning my head and shoulders to the right the whole time in order to chat better. At first I tried to ignore the pain, but ultimately I brought myself to ask Marvin—we had introduced ourselves in the meantime—whether he would have anything against my moving one seat closer to be able to talk to him more comfortably. It was somewhat embarrassing for me to say this, but he just smiled and said completely without irony, “Be my guest!” And in the next instant I was as close to him as I had desired the whole time.
In the course of the next few hours, I eventually noticed that he liked me, too. There was something very cozy and intimate about the way we sat next to each other and talked. At one point, I thought I glimpsed an amused smile on the face of the passing stewardess. She had seen me change my seat. But that seemed unimportant. I was finally seated next to this attractive stranger and nothing else mattered.
A couple sitting in the middle row of the plane who, judging by their outward appearance, might have been from Somalia, kept looking over at us disapprovingly. For, in the meantime, I had asked Marvin’s permission to lay my head on his shoulder. The nervous tension and the desire to be really close to him had actually intensified to the point that I could no longer restrain myself and again gave my neck pain as the reason for my request. Once again he answered without batting an eye, “Be my guest!”
“Please don’t get the wrong idea…”
“Of course not!” he reassured me, and immediately I leaned on him and lay my head on his shoulder. I felt his body shake slightly. At that moment I knew that he was laughing.
“Fine, go ahead and laugh,” I said, laughing myself. “Okay,” I confessed, “my neck is not to blame—I just wanted to lean on you.”
He looked at me with amusement. “That’s what I thought. I just wanted to be sure.” And then he drew me to him and gently pressed my head to his shoulder.
In this position we continued to talk, repeatedly joking about what the stewardesses and the people sitting near us must have been thinking. Ultimately, we stopped speaking in order to sleep a little. I enjoyed the intimacy between us, knowing well that our togetherness would only be short-lived. But in the few hours aboard this airplane inevitably approaching London, all that existed was the small world in which the two of us sat close together on our narrow seats.
* * *
“Looks like we’ll be there soon,” Marvin said softly. It had gotten light out, and the sun was coming out behind a layer of clouds. My head was still lying on his shoulder. His voice was barely audible, as if he wasn’t sure whether I was awake yet.
“Yes, looks like it,” I whispered. I had been staring out the window for quite a while and thinking with some sadness about the fact that I would soon be leaving Marvin and would never see him again. The feeling that we belonged together had crept up on me—but it was apparently simply not to be. It was the wrong time.
As if he could read my mind, Marvin suddenly said, “Bad timing, huh?”
“Sure is,” I answered. “Sure is.”
We had agreed not to exchange contact information so as to avoid painful complications in our lives. I was married, albeit unhappily, and he had a girlfriend.
“You know that I’ll never forget you,” I said, after a pause, with a hoarse voice.
“I won’t forget you, either,” Marvin replied.
“And that I usually don’t do things like this,” I added.
“Like what?”
I sat up and pushed him lightly away from me.
“This here, of course,” I said with a laugh, and gestured to the two of us.
“Oh, I never would have guessed that. It seemed very skillful.”
I nudged him again and punched him playfully in the shoulder.
“I really mean it. I have no idea what came over me.”
“This guy here!” he said, laughing and pointing to himself. And I, who didn’t at all want to, couldn’t help laughing, too.
“You’re impossible!”
* * *
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are now approaching London Gatwick Airport. Please get b
ack to your seats, fasten your seatbelts, and bring your seats to the upright position.”
“That was it, I guess.” Marvin looked at me.
I took his hand and held it tight. He returned the pressure, as he averted his eyes from me. And so we remained in our seats, our gazes lost in the clouds, until the landing in Gatwick.
* * *
“Take care,” Marvin said for the third time.
“You, too.”
Our ways parted; he had to leave the airport and take a bus from Gatwick to Heathrow.
“You really have to go now,” I said, “or else you’ll miss the connecting flight.”
Marvin let go of my hand and moved toward the transit exit. He took a step and then suddenly turned around at the exact moment I was about to call him back. Almost simultaneously both of us began to talk. We couldn’t just separate like that, without a chance of seeing each other again. And when he gave me his business card, which he had apparently had ready in his jacket pocket, I opened my hand, which contained my own card. Both of us knew: We should not get in contact with each other. But Marvin looked at me so intently that it almost took my breath away.
“Good-bye for now,” he said, then he blew me a kiss—and now really went to the exit. I just stood there, emotionally drained, and watched him disappear behind a door.
* * *
Ian picked me up at the airport. In the car, I asked about Akinyi and my mother, who had come to England in my absence to look after our daughter.
“She’s doing well,” he answered.
“Could I have your cell phone? I want to talk to Akinyi. And I want to tell my mother not to take her to preschool today.”
“Why not?” Ian asked sharply.
“I haven’t seen Akinyi for ten days. I’ve missed her, and she has probably missed me, too. I want to spend some time with her.”
“That’s selfish. She likes to go to preschool, and you’ll get to see her soon enough.”
Taken aback, I looked at Ian.
