October 14 - Out of Africa

The kid was not happy, that much was clear. He thrashed and twisted and wailed, half on his mother’s lap, half standing, ensnared in her arms. He must have been three or so, Kenyan brown; his captor maybe forty, Dutch, chiseled features, classes, pretty maybe under different circumstances, but now suffering the pain of rising temper brought on by the little one. Control was her chosen tactic – hold tight and contain while trying to reason. “Geoff, Geoff, no – be still – calme-toi”, or whatever the Dutch equivalent.

The waiting room at Jomo Kenyatta Airport was filling and Geoff sustained. A European woman seated just in front of ringside turned and offered a distraction, quickly rebuffed. Mom decided to bring additional limbs into the battle (for that was what it had become) and now had Geoff in a modified figure-four, his arms wrapped and pinned by her human strait-jacket. But he was quick and wriggly and determined and she was not up to the task. No points were awarded.

It occurred to me that the kid must be boiling, as I had already peeled down to short sleeves, and he labored for freedom trapped not only by the woman but by a wool winter jacket. A half-hour passed. The room filled, the screams continued, the heads turned, patience on all sides was thin. Tension - you could feel it.

Suddenly, she lost it. Three, four, five good whacks aimed at the butt, falling on whatever part of Geoff’s writhing anatomy they happened to land, accompanied by a high pitched string of words whose meaning was clear without translation.
The reaction was instant, and loud: “Hey! Hey! Stop!!!” and a stunned silence…followed immediately by more bawling from Geoff. The woman blurted out “He’s my son – I know what I’m doing!”

“You should have done that thirty minutes ago!” “Too little, too late” – Interestingly all in English, but with Dutch accents. (the flight as to Amsterdam – KLM)

An elderly Kenyan moved towards the mother and child from a distance, and pointing a finger shaking in anger and remonstration, shouted “That’s abuse!! That’s abuse! You’re not fit…”

“I am his mother”! I… am… his… mother!!”

A Kenya Air ground staff, neat red jacket, black tie, crisp white shirt, stepped forward and in the wonderful measured English of his profession, molded by colonial tradition and tribal intonation invited calm, and for Geoff and his mom to board now, as part of pre-boarding courtesy activities. A nervous calm spread from his words, and mom attempted to gather all her truck and the still crying Geoff and his stroller to move to the plane. The woman seated just in front got up and offered help and this time it was gratefully accepted. The room breathed a sigh, but surely everyone inwardly was asking – where am I seated? Where are they seated? It was going to be a long flight.

Fifteen minutes later when I worked my way down the aisle towards the back section of the 767, I passed by Geoff and his mom, seated side by side now, settling in, rummaging through his mini-backpack looking perhaps for the latest wonder hero figure to while the hours. Mom and son, on their way, all smiles. He had taken off his jacket.