Mamou: When goodbyes hurt

CONTINUED FROM LAST WEEK...

Just as we began moving the trolley, a large woman appeared, her face already smiling before she reached us. She covered Fathe’s outstretched hand with both of hers in greeting. Short-haired, round-faced, in a reflective jacket with a lanyard badge dangling, she looked like she had been smiling all her life.

After apologising for keeping Mathe waiting, she fussed briefly over me and asked if I remembered her. I had, of course, forgotten her name again, but I knew exactly who she was, the kind of person you called when customs became complicated at the airport.

She was like Fathe’s distant village cousin, the sort of relation that existed somewhere at grandfather level, yet she spoke of it like a quiz on our family tree.

People watched us as she led us past the long queue to the head. I avoided eye contact. A younger official in a reflector jacket pushed the trolley ahead. Mathe walked upright behind her, I followed, and Fathe trailed.

I hoped everyone assumed we were Business Class passengers with priority boarding. Mathe certainly looked it.

 Fast-track exit

 My suitcases rolled through the scanner and we were asked to go through the metal detectors as a family.

I had seen passengers ahead being searched, but not us. By the time we had put our shoes back on, Fathe’s “distant cousin” had already secured us a front spot at the Kenya Airways counter and an empty desk with an eager attendant in a bright red blazer.

The suitcases hit the weighing scale, and of course, they were overweight. Everything had been fine until Mathe casually mentioned she was packing “a few more things”.

Those “few things” turned out to be two bulky winter jackets, a stack of chapatis, two packs of frozen Farmer’s Choice sausages wrapped in foil, and a bag of roasted groundnuts. Enough to open a pop-up restaurant in Amsterdam.

Fathe’s cousin tried persuading the attendant to waive the excess, but she refused, blaming “bosses around today”.

Madhe’s position was clear: she was not returning home without chapatis. We would pay.

 Heavy baggage

 Fadhe stepped forward reluctantly to ask the cost. As the bags disappeared onto the belt, we were escorted to immigration. At the gate, we were stopped.

Fadhe’s cousin announced firmly that she would not go beyond this point.

I admired her authority, she moved like a boss, cutting through queues, smiling as barriers opened. Frustrated travellers watched as we passed freely.

Then, suddenly, she turned serious. Looking at me, she said I must study hard and not get lost.

“Your parents have sacrificed a lot for you to study in Europe,” she said, before disappearing back into the crowd as quickly as she had appeared.

Quiet reflection

A staff member ushered me through the VIP lane used by pilots and diplomats.

There was barely a queue. What should have taken an hour passed in the length of a Franco song.

We sat on a blue padded bench, me between my parents. Fathe held my backpack between his feet, Madhe covered her knees with my jacket.

We said little, just watched travellers move across the terminal like Sunday at Uhuru Park after church.

Mathe commented on Chinese tourists. Fathe asked me to move my boarding pass from my back pocket.

Mostly, we just sat.

 Silent goodbye

 Mathe reached for my hand first. Then Fathe took the other. I had never been held like that in public by both of them at once.

The boarding announcement came, but we ignored it. Fadhe checked the screen and said we still had time. Neither of them let go.

Ten minutes later, the VIP lane filled with airline crew. Fathe released my hand as I lifted his backpack.

Mathe did not let go.

I turned to her. Her eyes were wet.

“Mathe, don’t start,” I warned.

She tried to wipe her face, but the tears came anyway. I wrapped my arm around her as she broke down, pulling me tightly into her.

 Final wave

 People watched. I did not care.

Fathe sat upright, staring ahead, pretending we were strangers complicating his evening, until I noticed his hand still holding mine.

We leaned on to each other, I urged her not to cry because I would be triggered. People were looking at us. But she couldn’t hold it back so I wrapped my hand around her waist and I felt her pull me tightly into her bosom.

Fathe sat upright, his eyes focused ahead as if we were just two strangers complicating his night. I thought he was unmoved before I noticed that he was holding my hand again and that his grip was firm.

After immigration stamping, I turned back. They were still there.

Mtdhe waved with both hands, blowing kisses. Fathe’s wave was brief, lips pressed together.

I texted them as the plane began to taxi.

Fathe responded with clapping and celebration emojis. Mathe followed with hearts, then sent a checklist already emailed to me: contacts, emergency numbers, everything for Amsterdam.

She had even upgraded me to Economy Comfort. There was so much legroom I could almost forget I was leaving.

 In flight

 As I browsed the inflight entertainment, I noticed Franco under African music. I remembered Mamou.

Curious, I asked my AI:

What is Mamou by Franco about?

The answer appeared:

“Mamou remains one of Franco’s most discussed songs. It reflects the pressures of urban life in Kinshasa and the social masks people wear within families.”

I thought of Fathe. Then Mathe. What held them together now after all the sacrifice?

“Oh Mamou.”