Thirteen Thousand Three Hundred and Forty Kilometers

 

By Mercy Taban

 

 

“Mercy, check if you packed everything,” my mother reminded me. My younger sister, Grace, exchanged this comical look and I bursted out laughing. Whenever we travel, my mother is the physical alarm. I usually console myself that she does it out of love. This time it was different, she reminded me excessively, almost as if it was her way of coming to terms with my departure to Westminster College the following day. I couldn’t quite name the feeling but a cloud hang over our house.

As a South Sudanese who has lived in different countries and environments all my life, my immediate family was the only constant. I had already left home two years before to attend the Mahindra United World College of India in Maharashtra, India. I thought this would make going away to Westminster easier on everyone. Surprisingly, the emotions were different. I had escorted cousins and even my elder sister to the airport before and the sadness that always looms around the house is burdening.  Most of the times we drive this away using jokes, long night chats and casual dry laughters here and there. Everyone was masking their sadness, lest they be the source of all jokes. This time, the jokes were more cynical, the laughters lasted longer, the joke was on anyone who even dared to breathe.

I stayed up for a larger part of that night receiving advice from my parents on how to handle my new college life in the US. My mother verbally outlined the map of the Jomo Kenyatta International Airport  (this happens every time I travel). There were also casual reminders to call often and threats of what would happen if I didn’t.

After the surprisingly long family meeting my sisters and I proceeded to our bedroom. Grace, my younger sister was now my height, and Kong’a was catching up fast irrespective of being nine years younger than me. I made a mental note of how fast everyone is growing. Now in our cozy, tiny bedroom partly filled with two bunk beds, they pestered me to tell them stories of India and my previous roommates. I had shared these stories passionately the first week I came home, and weeks later repeated anecdotes here and there. They listened earnestly savoring the stories, bit by bit, portion by portion that night. I stopped when they drifted off to sleep. At that moment, in the silence of the night I made sense of the past week or so. Everything had been a whirlwind, the farewells, the shopping, consuming as much home food as possible, the heartfelt messages, and the jokes about my accent possibly changing and becoming “American,” etc.

I would miss this, the silence when the whole neighborhood fell asleep which was occasionally disrupted by my youngest sister annoying snore. The violent shaking caused by my youngest sister tossing and turning that shook our bunk beds as they were so close to each other. The annoying grunt whenever light seeped into the room, especially if we had spent the whole night whispering stories till the wee hours of the morning. The loud alarms, the shouting that ensued, and the failed attempts at getting back to sleep afterwards. Maybe I should be relieved that I would get more sleep in school but, to date, I wish I could relive some of those moments.

Morning came too quickly, I was woken up at five a.m. and asked to check if my passport was in my hand luggage. An awkward staring session followed and moments later the whole house came alive. I am not an early riser, but today I would compromise; or maybe I really didn’t have a choice. My attention shifted to their final attempts of stuffing me with mandazis, sausages, fruit salad and remnants of the freshly made fruit juice from last night. Our conversations were more animated, and the silences were deafening and worrying.

Several days before, I was always complaining of my decreased presence in the house since going to India and  the reality of my journey to Westminster solidified it even further. I wasn’t ready to lose my spot in the memories they would make. I wasn’t ready to congratulate their achievements via Whatsapp or Skype. Real excitement is when your sister is screaming so loud you’re scared you’ll lose your hearing. When you hug them too close you can almost physically touch the love.  I wasn’t ready for the numerous tears several hours later. I wasn’t ready, and I have never felt quite anyway.

The time had come for me to head to the airport. A trip to the airport usually features my family crammed in the cab owned by George who has now become family. As if to add fuel to my already mixed emotions, he came one hour late. My parents scared out of their minds, pelted me with snide comments about responsibility. At this point, I was nursing my heartache and convincing myself that I would laugh this off when I arrive at school. This journey was colored by heated political arguments and occasional jokes here and there. I realized for the first time, Nairobi is beautiful in the night time. The cars fleeting past, the new superhighway and the lighting around the road created this illusion of motion. Everything was in motion, we were in motion towards uncertainty.

On arrival at the airport, my younger sister, Grace started crying hysterically. When we were young, we had our fair share of fights but we became closer as we got older. She rarely cries and I was taken aback. My insides crumbled slowly, the motion was dizzying. I couldn’t cry, I wouldn’t cry, I hated myself for making her cry. I hated that I couldn’t stay or at least take her with me. I stood there dazed and holding back tears, in case it prompted me to change my mind. I knew that my choices were limited at this point. College awaited me but the dynamic of this old one would change in a new scary way: scary enough to make me want my old life back.

And as I walked into the airport, passed immigration and walked towards my gate, I felt numb. I mindlessly scrolled through my facebook feed in attempts to reset my tipped emotions, now, at the brink of spilling over. In a horrible attempt to learn a fun fact I googled the distance between Nairobi and Fulton. The figure thirteen thousand three hundred and forty kilometers glared back at me. At this point, reality set in and to date I can’t quite figure what came first; the torrent of tears soaking my braids and shirt or the hollow pit which suddenly settled in my stomach.