kagablog

We are thirty thousand. Five hundred and forty feet. Above the ground. At the international airport. The conveyer belt hums. The suitcases don’t come. When they do they come in a pack, a crowd, bunched together. All black with zips and wheels that fold out. All so the same. I try to remember mine. Its distinguishing features, something that sets it apart. The exit is colour coded. We form two lines. The blue passports sail through, families, business men in suits returning. Suitcase wheels whir. My line, everyone else, the whole rest of the world, clogs and sticks. It moves in stops and starts. Up ahead: Customs. A whole set of rules, tradition: all pockets emptied, laptops unpacked, shoes even. Please remove cameras. Bags handed to the assistant. A tall man, blue suit. A badge that announces. I step forward. Meet his gaze: head on. I want to appear to him as he appears to me: suspect. No, I am not black, Mexican, Arab, I am not frisked, no one looks at me, can you prove you are not black at heart? Instead they pull over a young woman. She is dark, Arabic. Her dress gives her away. Her veiled silence. They take her to one side. They stab at her passport. “What is the purpose of your visit?” She shakes her head. She doesn’t know the answer. She is searched and frisked. They say to open the baggage. The scene is painful. She can’t get the zip. She pulls and she tugs. The whole airport stares. Finally it pops, the suitcase, her cloths, everything is so neat, careful. I look away. I feel sloppy, guilty, pale in comparison. Why was I so sure it would be me? Because I’m an African? Only in the book. I show it. In the passport photo I am smiling. My skin is white, almost transparent. Skin that burns and shines in the heat. My hair is long, unkempt but none the less blonde. If there is any doubt the book confirms. Colour of Eyes: Blue. Colour of Hair: Blonde. That’s all that matters. Everything is in order. Security. Papers. Titles. The letter of invitation. Everyone is so welcoming. The man says: “Enjoy your stay!” I sail past. The machine that goes ping is silent, recognises me as “accepted,” even down to my bones, my skeletal structure.

Emerging through the sliding doors and into the airport. Outside, big glass windows, a plane is landing. Men with orange jackets wave coloured sticks. I walk dragging my case. Airport sounds from a distance, blurred, incomprehensible, then suddenly loud and clear. “Flight thirty-nine has been— ” Static…fades into the distance… “Flight…” I understand nothing. I look for a sign, a hint of recognition. Finally they find me. Am I the South African? “Sorry, it’s just we expected…” An awkward silence. The man breaks in: “Let me take your suitcase…” His eyes are hidden by sunglasses. His mouth looks somehow familiar. He introduces himself: the driver. I think how funny that is, a driver in a black suit, like a body guard, a spy movie. The car is also black. I don’t recognise the make. The engine purrs. The roads are smooth and curvy. Closer to town we clatter over cobblestones.

The city itself: a disappointment. The air is thick, dirty. Everything grey. High rises, low façades opposite parading peeling tin cornices. An air of stagnation. The hotel looks like an office block, a hostel; modern. No renaissance architecture: turret and turnstiles. Nothing like the fairytales. I take the stairs. I climb up one story, two stories, three stories.

I open my suitcase and take out my laptop. I am meant to be working on my talk: “Minority Texts, Majority Rule: Writing in the Post-Apartheid Deep South.” I have written the title and nothing else. I had meant to work in the plane. Instead I drunk whisky out a tiny bottle and watched the movie. I stare at the screen. I open the letter of invitation. I read the theme again: “Words Without Borders: writers from around the globe consider the future of narrative.” I wonder: Can it be a narrator who doubts its premises, a narrator that doesn’t know or doesn’t say? A liar, a cheat? I close the laptop. I walk to the window. No view. A tight space then a brick wall running straight up. The sky is a tiny silver sliver above. I press my face against the glass, suddenly too tired, too heavy, as if the clouds are too close. I go to the basin and drink cold water. I think afterward that I don’t know if one can drink the tap water or not. Nobody has told me, no mention. At dinner everyone drinks bottled water, glass bottles with silver lids. The invitation says: formal. I don’t have formal, didn’t bring. I search my suitcase. I sit tight, chair pushed right against the table to hide my jeans. I glance at the man next to me, my neighbour. Recognise his smiling round face from the conference programme. I wonder: is it coincidence they’ve seated us together? Side by side. Our elbows nearly touching. Me and the Hungarian? The only two blondes at the table. He orders another round of food. He says “Eat! You’re so thin.” The food is too rich. Everything covered in sauces. I pick up a forkful. I put it down. I push it around my plate. I feel his eyes boring holes into me. I focus on my food. I think the egg plant looks like a dead animal, a wilted frog.

Across from us the French Algerian is saying, “But surely it must be written, what is the other option? Silence?” He says to write the most obvious things you must first write about death, rape, violence… The Ethiopian writer shakes her head. She is so tiny – thin. I look at her hand next to her plate like a sparrow. I’m jealous of her perfect Afro-chic formal, of how she wears her hair, long braids that twist, her voice. I love listening. How it lilts, sings. She says it doesn’t have anything to do with asceticism when someone sits in a cell and writes. Says, “The challenge is to move beyond expected roles: heroine, martyr, victim. How to write about something that can’t ever be written, how to write responsibly? Paul Celan? Primo Levi? Not to make it cosy…” She waves her hands when she speaks, like she’s directing the words. “How does one speak after a violence that literally reconfigures the cellular structure of things, that, in its erasure, records the shadow of what is no longer present?” I say nothing. I am excluded. By definition. By history. Compliant. I have no place in their violent debate about race and violence. What is my role? Observer, faker, leach. Treachery.

She finishes and canvases the table, eyes fixing from face to face. She must see my aversion. She pauses, asks me a question. Afro-pessimism. What is my position? Considering international attitudes, the books that get published against my own experience? Considering my country’s history, the four-year process of reparations and reconciliation, Nelson Mandela — her face is beaming hope.

I look at my fork. I make a fist. I jab at the eggplant in olive oil. I put a piece in my mouth. The oil is heavy, bitter. I think how there are different oils: Sunflower, Extra Light, Heavy Virgin, Crude. I think how the names all sound like sex. Erotica, a porno. I think: Different kinds of oils, different kinds of war, different stories. I try a start. I say, “Well…” I start but my mouth is dry. My throat jogs. “More wine please waiter.” I take a sip and cough. All eyes at the table are on me. At the far end the Nigerian is tapping his fork against his plate. He cocks his head. Tap tap tap fills the silence. I feel myself flush: the shame of the wine, the cough, the eyes. The shame of compromise, of being in the middle. I don’t want to disappoint. I don’t want to answer yes or no.

The Hungarian comes to my rescue. He says, “In my country. Life is cheap, and it’s only getting cheaper.” The conversation turns: communism. The wall. He tells a joke about “Goulash Communism.” He shouts: “More soup waiter!” Everyone is laughing. Barriers, borders come tumbling down. Something we can all agree on. The Hungarian is nodding. He is beaming. I’m shocked when I feel his hand. Under the table. It cups my knee. At first, so light, a comforting gesture. Then he squeezes, harder. A secret shared. Something that passes hot and tight between us.