You know when you are just trying to make it to the airport in time, and you look a mess because well, it is a 7 hour flight, and who really cares if my eyebrows match-yeah? Well, I was just trying to make it to the airport in time, and I looked every bit of it. No wig, eyebrows barely match, sweats because-long flight. There I was passing through security when I spotted him in the next line. He looked like he stepped out of every single one of my modern African romance dreams. Tall. Dark and hands that looked like they could harvest cassava. Even though he was dressed in sweats and sneakers, he was still ridiculously smart. He definitely works out, cause those pecks were trying to escape his shirt. Clean shaven, manicured nails and I’m guessing a baritone deep enough to rival Mufasas’. He has a necklace on that looks like a ring. I chuckle to myself, imagine if he is Frodo in 2017? Haha. Where would one go to find a fire big enough to burn such a dangerous ring? Russia? North Korea?
“Excuse me ma’am, could you step ahead?”
Oops. I had stopped and was staring. I looked away and tried to avoid the disapproving looks. Well, sorry if you see good looking men with hands that can harvest cassava all the time, I certainly do not. My mis-matched socks stared back at me in disdain as I stepped through the scanner.
I gathered my things, and rushed off through the terminal trying not to lose Mr.Cassava. I don’t really have any game plan here, maybe I just want to stare and appreciate the good work of our Lord and maybe gather inspiration to write more stories like this? It matters not. I followed Mr. Cassava into Starbucks trying to stay a few paces behind, because whatever shall one say if one bumps into him? He orders an espresso and proceeds to sit in a corner of the coffee shop by him self. I order my cafe mocha and sit facing him but two tables away. Why does Mr. Cassava look like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders? Those shoulders can definitely carry the world, and me anytime though. He is writing furiously in a notebook, and as he bends down the ring on a necklace keeps falling out from under his shirt and as he tucks it back in, he looks around wondering if anyone sees him.
What is making Mr. Cassava so nervous? I almost want to go over and give him a hug, when he grabs his notebook and bags and rushes out of the coffee shop. In rushing off he forgets his scarf. This is a chance to get Mr. Cassava’s real name. As I approach the table, I see four other women have the same idea as me. Uhm…?
I stop immediately, and watch as the women all grab the scarf at the same time. A moment passes, and then they start to fight for the scarf. For a moment I am stunned into silence. Then I burst into laughter and turn away. Of course all the women in the airport noticed Mr. Cassava, why ever not? Fine man like that just walking around is bound to be accosted by a woman or two.
Just then I notice something. All the women noticed Mr. Cassava because he is the only man here. Not a man in sight. Is this airport some sort of feminist agenda? How did I miss it? I proceed cautiously in the direction of my gate, and what I see stuns me.
Mr. Cassava is in the center of the terminal, elevated. He is draped in what looks like Grecian robes and his arms outstretched. His eyes are an icy blue, piercing against his dark skin. The ring on the necklace around his neck is glowing. Around him the women and the airport chairs have formed a circle. The women are on their knees, faces upward toward Mr. Cassava in reverence.
I turn around looking for an exit, because surely I have stepped into the twilight zone.