By Arthur Mwenkanya | It has been a while since I graced my opinion on these pages. I have been hit by two calamitous events. The first one is that I have had to go back to school [university]. I will tell you all about it at a later stage but it is all along the lines of having to sit in lectures with students who were six years old when one was finishing high school (S6). Now, if anyone has been out of education for a long time like I have, the shock to the system is out of this world. That is why these days I have this almost unnatural feel of wanting to throttle anyone still at that age when they should be going to school and they are not. I was once there, just like them and did I listen to my old man begging me to go back and do some reading? No. The other calamity is that the old man passed away and the grief has almost been consuming.

So, it was to the above end that I recently had to travel back to my native Uganda due to the family bereavement. It was a difficult journey, one of those that we the immigrant population in the UK dread doing and anyone for that matter would dread doing. It is the horror of sitting on a flight all by oneself for the long flight hours. One is forced to reflect on ones loss whilst sat, in most cases, amongst people heading south to warmer climates. People were excited to be leaving these shores to go and explore the world, students on gap years all wide eyed waiting to see the world without Mum and Dad. And yet, amongst this milling crowd, here I was silent with my thoughts. The grief could have become over powering until my people observing pastime kicked in.

All of us who are lucky enough to periodically transit through an airport have grown used to the hustle of checking in and the departure lounge. There are those hideous long shopping malls that airport authorities want to pass off as an airport without character looming ahead. Dubai international! Please do not let me start. Whose idea was it in the first place to build Dubai International? The seats!!! Talk about mwassa jjute! I am also told that it is over a mile long of (pain) shops. As you can see, I have never gotten used to them. And since the atrocities of 9/11 in the USA, security has become a nightmare. I do not personally fret about it although I resent standing in a dusty Boston Logan airport. Anyone who has been through recently please tell me whether they have stopped building in the arrivals. But I am comforted by the fact that everyone on my flight is getting thoroughly checked. However, there is that small minority of people who think that these security changes do not refer to them.

On this fateful winter morning, as I waited in the queue, I was uniquely aware that the burly security man beyond that metallic door frame which goes beep beep beep should one go through with as much as a metallic filling in ones teeth, was in no mood. The man looked thoroughly peeved off and there was a silent understanding among all of us that this was not the day to play silly buggers. Then, out of the blue came what one would define as a spectacularly stupid man. He decided these lines were beneath him and demanded to jump them. The airport staff that he was dealing with were at first polite. They, to their credit, strenuously tried to explain to him the modus operandi. And was he having any of it? No. It really riles anyone who works on the transport industry when a passenger like this (who reckons that they who work in this industry do not know what they are doing) can come along and try to reorganise the way things are done. I could almost sense their (the staff) frustration as this man insisted on being let through without being checked. Then “Mr Peeved Off Burly man” trudged over and took over the situation. One look at the man mountain and Mr Intransigence capitulated! All that energy wasted, he had lost his position in the line by about 200 passengers.

But it was not only the truly mad people that were taking up my observations. I was dreading Mr Man Mountain myself. For some stupid reason, I had worn my most clumpy shoes with steel toe caps! My belt buckle was out of a Western film. It was humongous. I could not understand what had possessed me that morning to wear these two items. And I knew that when my turn came, I would have to remove my shoes. With that thought, my mind raced to whether my socks could actually be acceptable in the light of day, worst still in a crowded airport security area. Then my heart sank. A well groomed girl, the sort who speak as if they have a plum in their mouths took off her shoes. I am all but certain that she had not washed her feet. Honestly they could have had a colony of scientific culture being cultivated on her feet. They were fetid! She had on the kind of socks that hardly cover the ankles and even from where I was, I could see that a long time had passed before she had washed them ankles. Thankfully she seemed to be travelling alone.

Then a family whom I overheard were travelling to Melbourne, Australia stepped up to be checked. They were the typical family. Man and wife with two kids; a boy and a girl. I thought they looked sweet. One formulates preconceptions about other people pretty quick and in certain cases these are correct. The females were all clean and petite. Pink and girly, clutching novels and handbags. The men were pretty laid back. The Dad had that sort of greying look to the sides, a huge expensive watch, wearing slacks. His son was normal dressed nearly identical to his father. Then he, the lad took his shoes off as well. Half the hall could have passed out! The security lady turned scarlet as she desperately hung on to a lungful of air. Invariably I reckon, she had, as it so happens in such situations of bad air, gulped up foul smelling air. But she hang on to it. Rather one bad lungful of air than a succession of them. The girl commented wryly to the security lady. “Tom always has stinky feet!”. Suffice to say that no audible response came back. All she wanted was them to move on. I looked at the Dad and he had a face that only fathers would have in that situation. A smug look as if saying “that is my boy”. The mother threw him a withered look. I knew that when they were out of earshot, she was going to throw books at them.

A fat teenage girl ambled behind me. Emblazoned on her t shirt were the words “I Love Fudge”. I thought how inappropriate. I dragged myself slowly towards the Man Mountain, watching with growing fear as he patted down passenger after passenger. What if I had something on me that was not right? Why the hell had I decided to wear steel toe caps? How incredibly stupid was that decision on my behalf? The line behind me edged me on. I could not keep the tide of humanity surging on behind me propelling me to an uncertain rendezvous with The Man Mountain with his pestle like arms. I had to do it. And I stepped through the metallic door frame. Mr Man Mountain, his eyes almost boring through me seemed to say “You are mine”.

By Arthur Mwenkanya Katabalwa.

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