Day 2
30 Minutes Before Landing in Kigali
The flight to Rwanda has two legs. Atlanta to Amsterdam. Amsterdam to Kigali. Both legs are just under nine hours in the air.
Maintaining my low carb diet was more of a challenge than keeping myself entertained and preoccupied. On both planes, there were thirty-or-so movies loaded in a screen that was snuggled in the back of the headrest facing my seat. I had work – grants and notes for a strategic plan. I had a novel that I was eager to read. And I had an audio book that I was eager to listen to.
During the Atlanta to Amsterdam leg, I enjoyed about a two-hour conversation with a Morehouse brother who had just changed his major from pre-med to finance. He wanted to travel that gilded path to Wall Street. For me, our conversation bee-bopped like an improvisational jazz performance. I shifted from a mature brother with personal and professional experiences, to a Morehouse brother with the same praises and complaints of our beloved institution, to an entrepreneur who had learned the science of making money. We went through all this and more like one of those drawn-out Ornette Coleman saxophone notes. To be sure, this was the lengthiest, uninterrupted conversation I had experienced with a Morehouse brother since I moved myself to stand underneath mother Morehouse’s crown. A feeling of fraternity assured me that I had developed my slots among the brotherhood. While I didn’t fit into every slot, there were a few that were especial to me.
After the conversation faded into silence, I slid a mask over my eyes, placed my headphones over my ears, and listened to one of my favorite albums of all time – Al Jarreau’s live recording of “Look to the Rainbow.” I dozed on and off. Silence roused me as the hours had drained the battery in my headphones. I found a movie on the screen that was an old friend that I wasn’t obliged to give my full attention to. I screwed the complimentary earphones in my ears. I dozed on and off for the next few hours.
In the Amsterdam airport, a Morehouse brother who was from Miami and I walked along three terminals in search of a salad or a piece of fruit for me to sate my appetite. I had reached my daily quota of carbs by relenting to a serving of ravioli on the previous flight. We walked through one bay after another. Around one serving counter after another. There wasn’t a green leaf or orange or red sphere to be found in any of the baskets, shelves, or stalls. We returned to our gate. I was hungry and defeated. He was sympathetic and a bit amused.
After sitting there for a few minutes, I saw a group of young women who were all identically dressed like members of a sports team carrying Starbucks coffee cups. Suddenly, I was excited and hopeful. Not for any of their specialty coffees, most of which included too much sugar for my taste. Rather it was because I had a ritual of buying a cup of oatmeal with dried blueberries and shaved almonds each time, I arrived early at the Memphis airport. No doubt, these complex carbs would hold me for a while. I told our host that I would be back soon because it was about an hour from boarding time, and I didn’t want her to WhatsApp me. Then I set out, solo, in search of the iconic green sign.
I retraced the steps that I had taken with the Morehouse brother from Miami. But to no avail. I didn’t want to stray too far away from terminal E. Then, during my return to our gate, I saw it – the green sign. It shone against a white wall, up a flight of stairs that I mounted, two steps at a time. On the landing, I joined a line of people that was about 30-minutes long.
About 15-minutes into my advance to the counter, I came across an employee who was restocking a cooler with cellophane wrapped sandwiches. I asked him if they sold oatmeal. He nodded and said that they did. My stomach moaned in anticipation. I promised it that if it would chill out for just a few more minutes, I would buy two cups of oatmeal.
There’s hardly a better feeling than being ‘next’ after a long wait in a long line. This is doubly true for me, who enjoys the journey more than the destination.
After I was motioned to the counter, I ordered two classic oatmeal cups. The cashier asked for my name. I spelled my abbreviated name to avoid confusion. “E. K. Ek like in the word heck.” The cashier pressed a couple of buttons on a digital screen. An amount flashed dark red on the credit card scanner. I touched my credit card against the face of the scanner. There was no option to leave a tip. Oh yeah. Europe. I moved along the counter and joined the throng of people waiting to hear their name.
I waited less than a minute before I heard, not my abbreviated name, but the two letters that compose it. I walked up to the counter. My stomach was jubilant. It puckered and hollowed. And then the barista handed me a tall cup. They must’ve put both orders in a single container I thought. And then she said, “two oat milks for E.K.”
Oat Milk?!
Defeated, I returned to our gate, unzipped my duffle bag, pulled out a bag of wasabi flavored almonds I had purchased in Atlanta, and poured them in the palm of my right hand. Before I crunched on my first one, my stomach grumbled, “why don’t you just eat a pastry? Work out an extra 30-minutes if you think you’ll feel so guilty.” I responded to my stomach, “It isn’t guilt. It’s discipline. Now shut up and enjoy these almonds.”
