Questions of Home

Christine feared the plane was just about to land in Lake Victoria, but had just missed it by one quick swoop to the left. Looking down at Uganda's international airport, she could tell the lake was down below because there were no lights at all, just a blank indigo mass. Entebbe International Airport shone dimly in one tiny area. The town's lights were scattered and weak; Entebbe was asleep. How different it was from the spread of strong lights that was Washington, where the night was never dark, but rather a hazy yellow. Bright orbs illuminated the memorials and monuments, giving passengers a film version of the city as the plane circled up and away. Christine was glad to leave Washington, to keep only a few choice images of it in her mind. She was back home for good.

Back on Earth, the passengers clapped, many of them glad to be back home. Christine clapped with them. There was a feeling of camaraderie after sitting so close together for fifteen hours, through all the take-offs and landings of the Ethiopian Airlines plane in New York, Rome, Addis Ababa, Nairobi, and finally Entebbe. The passengers had shared the cramped worn seats, the safety instructions repeated each time in English, French and Amharic, the tiny toilets and scary blue water, the cramps, indigestion, cold dry stale air and dull Muzak. Even the pretty Ethiopian air hostesses became as familiar as sisters or maids. The fifteen hours merged into one endless drone of a moment. Arriving was such a relief, whatever the destination. For Christine, it was home again after eight years.

On the ground, the passengers were asked to stay put for a while. No explanation was given, while the crew, looking flustered, talked to each other in Amharic. Why had the plane stopped so far from the main airport building, and why weren't they let out? It wasn't like there was an air traffic jam here. After about half an hour it was explained: the plane was stuck in the mud. It was the rainy season, and even after repeated clearings the runway was still awash with mud. Christine couldn't stop herself smiling at the news, her amusement compounded by the groans of frustration around her. How perfectly third world, she thought. It was almost too good to be true. This was the kind of thing she vehemently denied happening when talking to her non-African friends. The typical stereotypes of "Africa" filled her with self-righteous anger. Well, here she was then, about to wrangle with reality itself.

The crew finally opened the plane doors, letting in the dark warm lake breeze. At last, the cabin was no longer a cramped prison. The fish smell and heat hit Christine as she stepped off the plane into a bus that was to drive them to the airport building. They would have to wait some more, they were told. She had better get used to this, Christine thought. She would be waiting a lot here, after all.

A surprise awaited Christine: the airport, which in her memory was a huge modern building of glass and square columns of imposing cement, now looked more like an abandoned barn than anything else. Was she going to experience only expatriate cliches? This was home; she wasn't here to make comparisons at every turn. All she wanted was for her memories to become solid again, to become real physical things.

As Christine waited for her family, her body tightened with excitement, or was it anxiety? Eight years away. Eight whole years. Christine's mother and sister, Patti, who still lived in Entebbe, were at the airport to meet her. Her mother seemed to have shrunk. Her aunts had always said she looked like her mother. For the first time, Christine saw that they were right. She and Maama had the same full dark lips, gap in the front teeth and long forehead. Maama was short, plump and motherly. Christine was short too but...