August 14, 2003
Martin
MY FLIGHT WAS SCHEDULED TO leave in three hours when the phone rang. Tecla jumped to get it. She then handed the receiver to me. It was Anne.
“Mom,” I said, relieved. “Am I coming?”
“We’re still working on it,” she said.
I could tell she had been crying, and that started my own tears.
I was so stupid to believe that these voodoo rituals might work—and angry that I allowed myself to think they would.
The tears were now stinging the backs of my eyes. I handed the phone to Tecla and ran up to my room. I couldn’t cry in front of Wallace’s parents. It was too undignified. As soon as I was able to shut the bedroom door, I fell onto my bed and buried my head beneath my pillow. The sounds that came from my belly were as primal and terrifying as the prophet’s. They hurt my throat as they clawed their way up and out.
Ten minutes later, there was a knock at the door. I wiped my face dry before opening it.
Phanuel and Tecla were there.
“Get your things, we’re taking you to the airport,” they said.
“How come?” I asked, confused.
“We’re not sure how, but you’re getting on that plane,” Phanuel said.
I grabbed the few things I was taking: my money belt with all my paperwork, a toothbrush, and one of the very first photos of Caitlin, in which she is wearing her mother’s sun hat. I placed that picture with my passport in the money belt and followed Tecla and Phanuel downstairs and into the car. They had already packed a suitcase of African art for me to bring to Anne, who would send it to another friend in the US to sell to raise funds for Wallace.
Wallace’s father drove so fast, I thought we might actually crash. We now had less than an hour before my flight left. We pulled into the airport and went to the British Airways desk to explain the situation. The attendant pointed us toward the manager’s office, down the corridor.
The manager was on the phone when we arrived. Phanuel knocked on her window—we knew this was rude, but the flight was boarding. There wasn’t time for manners.
She looked up from her desk and waved us in.
“Martin Ganda?” she said.
“Yes,” I answered, stunned.
“I’m talking to a man who claims he’s your American father,” she said.
Five minutes later I walked outside onto the tarmac with a ticket in my hand.
I was the last person to board the small jet to Johannesburg. I took my seat, by the window, and waved at Tecla and Phanuel, who waited to make sure I got on the plane.
“Welcome to British Airways Flight 429,” the stewardess announced as the propellers outside started to whir. “Please prepare for takeoff.”
I had never been on a plane before and had no idea what that meant, so I looked around at the other passengers. There were only thirty or so people on board, most of them white men in business suits. A few were likely tourists, I guessed, based on their khaki pants and matching shirts. There was one other black guy a few years older than me.
Copying the others, I snapped my seat belt on and tugged it extra tight. As the plane began to move, I held on to the arm rest with both hands, my knuckles straining through my skin. When the nose of the plane tilted upward, I thought I might throw up the meal I had eaten at Tecla and Phanuel’s house earlier that morning. I closed my eyes and prayed.
I opened them when the stewardess announced that it was fine to walk around. All these people snapped off their seat belts and got up to get books or stretch or use the restroom. I looked out the window and saw clouds and blue skies forever.
I closed my eyes again and did not open them until we had landed safely in Johannesburg.
The airport was the busiest place I’d ever seen. All these people, many talking with funny accents, or in languages I had never heard before. There were signs with lists of flight numbers followed by the names of exotic places they were heading to. Tecla had given me ten US dollars to get snacks. I saw a McDonald’s and got very excited. Some of the wealthier kids from Marist Brothers had bragged about it. So I walked up to the counter and bought my very first hamburger. It cost eight dollars, but I did not care. It was delicious.
I went in search of my next flight, but did not know how to find it. My ticket had so many numbers on it, but I was not sure which ones corresponded with the flipping and flashing board. So when I saw the one black guy from my Victoria Falls flight walk by, I asked him for help. As it turned out, he was heading to Paris, as well, where his father was a diplomat. We walked to the gate together and then waited for the flight to board. When he had to use the bathroom, I followed him. I didn’t want to get lost.
That was a huge plane. I watched movies, ate food served on very fancy trays, and wished I could keep the cozy blanket and pillow they offered all the passengers.
We arrived in Paris, and once again, I didn’t want to take any chances. This time, I asked the attendant to bring me to the next gate. My flight was not for a few hours, but it did not matter. I wasn’t going to risk it. I just stayed there, not moving. Once the flight began to board, I was the first person in line. The next stop was Philadelphia.