The Outsider(S) (9 page)

Philister Taa

Ramona

Germany, 2010, Öko Sisterhood

I
will
make
her
like
me
, I swear to myself.
I
will
make
them
like
me,
no,
love
me
. I am practicing positive affirmation. I read that the more often someone says something, the more one believes it. I have practiced it with Mother all my life. And so far the results point to a different conclusion. So I have changed plans. I have been working hard to make sure that my mother-in-law, Ute, likes me. Some years have passed, though, and I don’t even look like I am close to the middle, let alone to the target. It seems like the more I try, the more I fail. Her visit to the shop has decimated all the little confidence that I had. I bite my teeth and swear for the umpteenth time not to give up.

As I walk out of Engelhorn, I see someone across the street. It is someone I don’t wish to talk to. I quickly look down and pretend to get something from my handbag. I glimpse across and realize to my horror that she is doing the same. I instantly know that she is also trying to avoid me. Something in me is furious. What can make her want to avoid me? I am suddenly overcome with the need to know. I feel massively offended. I run across the street. A car hoots and brakes violently.

“Renate, hello!” I say brightly, standing directly in front of her. She looks surprised but moves forward and pecks my cheek. It’s not like I gave her a choice. Out of habit, I positioned my cheek directly in front of her face. We are standing almost in the middle of the street.

“Ramona!” she exclaims in an over-eager voice as we move to the sidewalk. The kind of voice one uses when one is caught red-handed doing something wrong. Or to feign an emotion when one is feeling the exact opposite.

“It has been a while since I saw you. How are you?” I ask in a voice that should sound enthusiastic but that actually comes across as accusing.

“We are doing great. Magdalena is talking, and…” I nod vigorously in a way one only does to feign interest. But impatience gets the better of me, and before she is done, I cut her off. I don’t like the direction this conversation is taking. I’m not interested in how her brood is doing. I have my own, and in all honesty, there is nothing so interesting about them. I am more interested in business. Renate and I know each other from the pelvic floor–strengthening group. Those are exercises women do after giving birth so as not to pee on themselves later. And the other reason is to keep their husbands from roaming. That is what Hebamme
37
Elke said. So in about six months ago I shared my idea with Renate about my upcoming Öko shop. I was actually naive enough to believe that we were friends. Of course, I had no idea that an Öko mom could steal from another Öko mom. I thought we were the alternative to the corrupt world. Now it’s been six months since I confided in her. A new Öko shop has been set up, and the proprietor is—surprise, surprise—Renate. I’m tempted to punch her in the face, but I don’t. Instead I do what I always do. Play nice. I am obsessed with being the bigger person even when it hurts so badly.

“I’m so glad for you. You actually managed to open an Öko shop,” I say glowingly. I have feigned niceness for so long that it is difficult even for me to know what I really feel.

She looks at me uneasily. I feel guilty. I have no right to make anyone feel uneasy. Other peoples’ feelings are very important to me. “I will come by soon,” I whisper and bid her good-bye.

I feel tears welling in my eyes. I know that I have once again let myself down.

Irmtraut

Germany, 2010, My Departure

I
was woken up the next day by the ringing phone. I realized to my horror that it was ten forty-five a.m. I had never overslept in my thirty-nine years of existence.

“Hi, I have sent Thomas to drop your plane tickets on his way to a client. I just wanted to find out if you are at home.” The voice of Emilia with her thick-accented English came through.

“Tickets?” I asked, horrified. “Which airline did you book?”

“Royal KLM Dutch Airlines.”

“Oh… they fly to Africa?” I asked, relief spreading through my soul. What she forgot to mention was probably the most important bit.

I spent the rest of the morning packing and watching daytime TV. There seemed to be all kinds of social misfits trying to outdo each other. On one of the channels, a man who claimed to be a prince was selling a wonder necklace for ninety-nine Euros. Anyone who bought the necklace would instantly become rich, he stated without blinking an eye. I was not just disgusted but shocked at the gullibility of daytime TV viewers. In my experience, nothing worth having came that easily. And money was certainly at the top of that list.

Later that afternoon, I left for the airport. An hour after we left Frankfurt, we landed at Amsterdam. This was where I was going to take my connecting flight to Nairobi. It was to leave in two hours, and so I rushed through the terminals to check in. I stopped at the front to check the list of the flights and boarding gates. There was a Kenya Airways flight leaving for Nairobi at exactly 9:40 p.m. just like my supposed KLM flight. I looked around confused. There was no sign of a KLM flight to Nairobi. Was it possible that I was, in fact, booked on the Kenya Airways flight? Was it possible that Emilia had failed to mention that I was, in fact, booked on an African airline? I grabbed my handbag and drew the tickets out, and just as I had dreaded, my connecting flight was with Kenya Airways. I felt sweat dripping down my face. My hands and armpits were soaked in sweat.

“Ma’am, is everything all right?” I heard a man’s voice with a distinct American accent. I tried to put on a nonchalant face and nodded that I was fine. He walked away, and I was very grateful. I was aware of Americans’ notoriety for small talk. I dialed Emilia’s number several times. No response. I was in no mood to leave any recorded message. I just didn’t believe that it could relay exactly how I was feeling.

I paced around muttering under my breath. There wasn’t a worse sin in the shark kingdom. The unwritten rule was to be available anytime one was needed. That applied to everyone, especially those lower in the rank. After what seemed like an eternity, she picked up the phone.

“Who do you think you are?” I asked before she could say anything. “I will have you fired first thing in the morning!” I was seething with rage and breaking my number-one rule. Control your emotions.

“I don’t understand. Did something happen?” I heard her panicked voice from the other end, barely audible. I didn’t know where to start. Of course, so many things had happened.

“Kenya Airways?” I asked finally in a livid voice. “Was that the best you could do?”

“KLM, the Royal Dutch Airlines, has a partnership with Kenya airways. They assured me that most of the pilots on Kenya Airways are Dutch,” she responded, her voice breaking in sobs. Being driven to tears wasn’t exactly a rare occurrence in the shark kingdom.

“They better be!” I whispered with gritted teeth and hung up.

I headed to the KLM business lounge. It was by no means the best that I had been to, but I was sure that it was all going downhill from then. I shuddered at the thought of what was awaiting me at my destination. If I reached it at all.

The American who had asked me before if everything was fine passed by. He was talking on his cell phone. I didn’t want to eavesdrop but it occurred to me that he was repeating the same word over and over again: “Awesome, awesome, awesome…”

My Blackberry rang. I checked and saw that it was Emilia. I composed
myself. Watching the “awesome” American had calmed me down.

“Yeah?” I started restlessly.

“I am really sorry that I didn’t pick up your call right away. I was attending to a family matter and had forgotten my phone in the car,” she started breathlessly. She paused, but I didn’t say anything. I knew the power of silence. “Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that according to the airlines ranking, KLM and Kenya Airways are both ranked three-star, so theoretically one can expect similar or comparable standards.”

“That’s not the point,” I interrupted her curtly. I could feel the uneasiness on the other end of the line. Of course, she didn’t dare ask what exactly the point was. But we both understood. When it came to issues concerning race, one was best advised to keep it to oneself.

“Listen, I have to go,” I said abruptly. “I am very dissatisfied with your performance. If you don’t pull up your socks, I might be forced to look somewhere else.” There was an uneasy silence. “You are aware that this is a chance of a lifetime?” I prodded.

“I am very sorry. This will not happen again,” she pleaded. She continued tentatively, “You are booked at the Sarini Hotel. Someone will pick you up from the airport.”

I felt a shiver. “Is it any good?” I asked.

“Angelina Jolie stayed there the last time she was in Kenya,” she responded cautiously. I pondered that. Even though Angelina Jolie with her tendency to adopt anything exotic could not be trusted, there was at least the hope that it would not be a total disaster.

I disconnected the call without a word. It was a habit I had learned early in my career. My first boss never bothered to end a call. I would talk for minutes before realizing that I was talking to myself.

“Ladies and gentlemen, KQ flight 802 to Nairobi, boarding now!”

I sprang from my seat and remembered that I had not talked to Philippe. I knew that he was at home playing the perfect husband and daddy.

“Ready to go?” he asked when he picked the phone.

“Yeah sure!” I replied and felt a lump in my throat.

“Good luck!” he said finally. The tears I had been trying to hold back suddenly dripped down on to my shirt. Luck was what one wished people who were in an undesirable position. Every single shark had made a point of wishing me luck, and now Philippe of all the people had joined the bandwagon.

“I’ll be fine!” I said brightly. Whether I was going to crash on that flight or be eaten by some dangerous African animal on arrival, I was going to maintain my dignity.

“KQ flight 802 to Nairobi boarding now!” the announcement boomed over the speaker. I quickly bid Philippe good-bye and rushed through to the gate. Almost all the passengers had boarded by the time I reached the plane. I was met by a stewardess in a red uniform. “Ma’am, may I see your boarding pass?”

I smiled broadly. It was the kind of exaggerated smile that I always flashed whenever I felt anxious.

“Ma’am, you are in business class. Let me show you your seat,” she said smoothly.

“Thank you,” I responded sweetly and followed her into the cabin. I was trying to act as carefree as possible.

The business-class cabin was surprisingly spacious and clean. Compared to many of my previous European flights, the cabin looked very nice. I noted that the plane was fairly new. It was a Boeing 777-200 ER.

I looked around the cabin to check out who my neighbors were. There were around ten people in the business class. Two white nuns sat directly in front of me. I wondered where they got the money to book themselves into business class from. I had always thought anyone who chose to live as a nun had no appreciation for material things. Wasn’t the criterion for admission into nun-hood a love for poverty? I mused.

A black man who had been busy stuffing his luggage in the overhead compartments came and sat next to me. I couldn’t guess his age. He was very skinny; in fact, one could have easily mistaken him for a kid were it not for the small moustache that he wore. He was dressed in a green Nike track suite with
Kenya
written boldly on it.

“Hello,” he said to me.

“Hello,” I responded a bit too enthusiastically. The lone memory of my train ride to Hamburg flooded back. “Are you going home?” I asked, feigning cheerfulness.

“Home?” he asked, smiling widely. “I am Qatari,” he said, looking very pleased with himself.

“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.