Back from Africa.
You know, my African trip was certainly nothing compared to the migration of the wildebeest in Kenya. But I was not there to witness the spectacle of nature, the struggle for survival, the circle of life. I was there to find myself, to escape from my mundane routine, to experience something different.Photo: Adjiringanor, Accra Ghana[LEES MEER]
You know, my African trip was certainly nothing compared to the migration of the wildebeest in Kenya. But I was not there to witness the spectacle of nature, the struggle for survival, the circle of life. I was there to find myself, to escape from my mundane routine, to experience something different.
Photo: Adjiringanor, Accra Ghana
And I did. I met her.
Party room on Labadi Beach, Accra Ghana
She was a fellow traveler, a free spirit, a rebel. She had a wild streak that I found irresistible. We had hit it off right away, and spent the last few days together, roaming the streets of Marrakech, riding camels in the desert, dancing under the stars.
She had a surprise for me on our last night. She took me to a barber shop, and asked me to shave her head. She said she wanted to do something crazy, something liberating, something unforgettable. I was hesitant at first, but she convinced me with her charming smile and her adventurous eyes. She said it was just hair, it would grow back. She said it was a symbol of her freedom, her independence, her identity.
I agreed to do it. I took the clippers and ran them over her scalp, watching her long brown locks fall to the floor. She laughed and cheered as I shaved her head, revealing her smooth skin and her beautiful features. She looked stunning, even more than before. She kissed me passionately, and thanked me for being part of her journey.
Rotula deciesdigitatus – Labadi Beach, Accra Ghana
I waited for her to come back, curious about what she was up to. She came back a few minutes later, her shaved head still glistening from the drops of water she had splashed on it to stay awake and not miss her flight. She said she had washed her head under the tap, to feel the cold water on her skin, to feel alive.
She smiled at me and said goodbye. She walked towards the gate, turning around once to wave at me. I waved back, feeling a pang of sadness mixed with admiration. She was one of a kind, a rare gem, a shooting star.
I sat down on my chair and felt the African heat for the second time that evening. It didn’t bother me when I was moving around, but when I stopped, it hit me hard. I was afraid I would fall asleep and miss my flight too. I checked my watch and saw that I still had an hour left. I decided to write this blog post, to share my story with you, to remember her.
But then something terrible happened. As I was typing on my laptop, a power surge caused it to shut down abruptly. I tried to turn it back on, but it was dead. All my files were gone, including this one. This blog post that I had poured my heart into was erased in an instant.
I felt a surge of anger and frustration. How could this happen? Why now? Why me? I had lost not only her, but also my first chapter of my memoir. The chapter that I had worked so hard on, that I had hoped would capture our brief but intense romance.
I wanted to scream, to cry, to smash something. But I couldn’t do any of that in public. So I just sat there, staring at my blank screen, feeling empty and hopeless.
Written by Bing based upon just some impressions at the equatorial and in Africa in general, not facts. I’ve never been in Marrakech and even didn’t mention it.
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