Though I have been feeling more in sync with the spirit of Congo these last few weeks, there remains a memory that lingers. It has merged with the special effects of a movie scene, in the way that memories often do, hazing the line between the reality of what was and what appeared to be.
As it lingers in my memory, it carries with it the soft scent of Guinea, country of my heart. I was wandering a grocery store in search of nothing really, except to pass the time while others shopped. The way I see it in my mind is like this, though the reality has long escaped me.
An area of the store opened up to showcase the dairy items and a small deli. There was a man talking to one of the deli workers and I felt his eyes on me as I passed to examine the yogurt and exotic cheeses. I felt the eyes of this stranger and sensed the conversation coming to a lull, a break as the man moved towards me floating softly with a hand reaching out. "That fabric," he said. "That fabric is from my country." His words seemed filled with pause and remembrance in the way of one who has been too long seperated from his homeland. I was wearing the traditional indigo of Guinea, the beautiful deep blue patterned with white cowery shell designs. It is one of my favorite, soothing and gentle against my skin. It always leaves me with the warmth and spirit of guinee filling my soul. I felt beautiful this day, wrapped up as I was in the richness of my homeland. "That fabric is from my country?" he repeated, this time more of a question, as though doubting himself, doubting my self standing before him.
"Yes," I replied, my heart quickening. "From Guinea." And in that moment, my eyes were searching this man for some sign of kindredness. I felt anxious and nervous as though I were meeting an old friend after a long absence, searching for something to say that would cement the bond between us, compatriots. And of course, in my haste, I spewed out a brief description of my times in guinea and spilled out my family connections, saying nothing yet somehow saying too much. Because, while I was filled with this eager desire to cross a bridge, he seemed stuck in awe, a state of perpetual pause.
I rambled on, nonsense that did not seem to move the conversation forward. He just stood with his far off gaze. It is such a complicated affair for me, proclaiming my love for a country that is not my own. Could he see inside me? Could he tell that I was a guinean despite my white skin and American affect? We smiled...or maybe just I smiled. In my memory, this man remains in a state of confusion. I shared names and regions but he never got past the fabric and whatever memories of his country it evoked. I admit, I didn't see much of Guinea in him. He was older, larger, light skinned, business like. Not the artist type or soldier type I am most likely to come across in my travels in Guinea. So there we stood, in the middle of some modern grocery store in Kinshasa, searching each other for signs of a far away home as if reaching out for life lines.
I see other cultures connect. The Belgians are especially good at forming alliances. You need only be from Belgium to be invited to a dinner or an afternoon on the river. It doesn't seem to matter much if you like each other, have things in common or get along. It is the country tie that forms an immediate "us" in this place of "other." Eventual we separated, this man and I. I left with a small feeling of regret, knowing I hadn't expressed myself the way I'd wished and feeling like I couldn't really let him get away- this chance for a connection. Part of me was keen to ignore all the thoughts pointing out our obvious differences. But instead, I drifted off with my doubts, keeping my eyes open for where he would go and wondering if I would work up the nerve to follow and arrange some future meeting during which we would surely have even less to say and share.
I saw him outside in the parking lot, getting into a UN vehicle. There was one last moment of considering a mad dash to his truck with...what? An invitation? A request? A plea? I felt a bit like a drowning victim watching a plane soar overhead that could not see me, would not save me. I was left simply with the memory of his hazy question and confused stare. How could this piece of Guinea be so close and yet so far? Oh, how I miss my country. It seemed to be what we were both thinking, though lost in our separate images of the same place.
In the end, I took refuge in my fabric, wearing it like a treasured shield, a badge of honor and allegiance.
I heard his question for the rest of the day and despite our odd encounter, it gave me hope and courage.
