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.