by Alexandra Novis

British Airways Flight 67 from Nairobi to London Heathrow, I barely made it into the cramped cubicle of the lavatory before I burst into tears, narrowly avoiding embarrassing myself in public. I rested my forehead on the cold stainless steel sink and shoved my fist into my mouth to stifle the sounds of my sobbing. I was only one quarter of the way into my journey back to Canada and was overcome by a tsunami of grief. I would pass through three time zones heading for a place I was certain would never feel like home again.

In spite of the post-election turmoil in Kenya I was loathe to leave. I would have given anything to be back there. My relief at escaping the chaos was short lived. I agonized over how I would ever reconcile myself with my life after what I had experienced there. I had never been so in love with anything or anyone as much as I was with Africa. The feeling of finally being “home” resonated deep within me the whole time I was there and gave me chest pain once I had departed.

I had spent months preparing myself for my 28 days in Africa volunteering in an orphanage. I had read all the guide books, devoured numerous memoirs and received an ungodly number of vaccinations to protect myself from a grocery list of exotic diseases. I realized too late I had failed to plan for coming home. I was unprepared for this catastrophic decompression. Was there an antidote for the Kenyan Bends?

I live alone but I felt like a guest when I arrived at my condo. “Nice place” I thought to myself, “I wonder who lives here?” This was my address yet sadly it seemed as though I had arrived in a foreign land. I felt like a misfit more than ever. After 24 hours of arduous travel, I suffered from exhaustion so severe it prevented sleep. I stared up at the ceiling reminiscing: “yesterday at this time….”

The next morning I tearfully watched the last of the red Kenyan dust swirl down the drain of the shower. I had cut off the wild mass of tangled hair that hadn’t seen a comb in weeks. Putting on make-up was an inherently remembered skill like riding a bicycle. It was bizarre putting on civilian clothes. Surely I must have appeared like a cross-dresser teetering on my shoes.

My heart and mind remained tied up with Kenya. I missed the children desperately. I would catch my friends peering at me strangely and I know they were asking themselves “Who is that?” and “What happened to her?” The wise ones cut me a wide berth. They could sense there was a battle raging inside me as I struggled to reconcile myself to who I was and where I wanted to be.

I looked at them when they spoke to me. I think I grunted or murmured responses at the appropriate times but I was a hemisphere away.

I continue to struggle to fit back into my old life. I have taken my final anti-malarial pill. My tan is fading. I go through the motions. Breathe in. Breathe out. At home there are several unfinished novels lying around. Nothing gnaws at my conscience like an abandoned book but I have trouble concentrating on anything. My mind invariably makes its way back to the savannahs of Africa. I stare off into the distance for long periods of time. I emerge from my reverie and it occurs to me that I may have turned pages but have not retained a single thing. This fixation invades my sleep. Every morning as I resurface there are those few brief wonderful seconds when I think I will wake up in Kenya. A quick glance out the window at the bleak Canadian winter and I slam back down to earth.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, March 11th, 2008 at 3:11 pm and is filed under Contest, Travel. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Responses are currently closed, but you can trackback from your own site.