Fast and Furious Feet

"A man with nothing to lose is a zero or a nuclear bomb. Untethered to anything, weighted by nothing, and unhinged from everything, there is no telling of the future. The right man in the wrong place can make all the difference."

The capital was nestled against a tall and long mountain range that had kept the empire protected from the competitive empire. For centuries, a risky nation bet had focused all resources on building up a powerful economy, leaving the country unprotected, save for a couple lone knights at both ends of the mountain range - an anachronism in the age of musketeers. Yet the long vulnerability to invasion had paid off to be the first nation to develop airplanes. Ground was broken on the first airstrip right at the mountain side. From there, planes would swarm across the mountains and deep into the enemy territory like angry bees to blitzkrieg a vast army without any air defenses. Boris was so close to victory.

"We are moving to Rwanda!" yelled Mikhail, Boris' father.

"What?!" yelled Boris back, pausing the game.

"Come for dinner! I'll tell you about it," yelled Mikhail back.

Boris put the laptop on the bed and dragged his feet out the door. He was eighteen years old and finishing up his last year of high school. A bag of falafel sandwiches from the Mister Shawarma food cart was on the table. Boris checked for French Fries in the bag. Mikhail got paper plates from the kitchen. In the all-male household, they had agreed not to use dishes because nobody was going to clean them.

"So, I got a job in Rwanda. They don't have a certified Cessna technician in all of Gitarama. It's only a dirt field landing strip. However, it's the only serious repair shop around. I'll be bringing in mad money. Aircraft parts go for twice as much as here. There is no competition to undercut the price. On the weekend, we can maybe take one of those puppies for a little sightseeing. I hear the mountain gorillas are all the rage over there," explained Mikhail.

"Okay," said Boris.

"That's it? You don't have anything to say? No protest?" asked Mikhail.

"Would it matter," retorted Boris.

"No," replied Mikhail with Russian stoicism. Whenever he felt emotional, his Russian upbringing came out of him.

They ate their sandwiches in silence. Mikhail's face with the deep furrows and blue eyes had worries running over it. He looked a little pained like he wanted to connect more with his son.

"How will I finish school," asked Boris.

"You'll distance learn. No problem!" retorted Mikhail with strength and certainty.

"No problem," replied Boris as if he was breathing it out like a ghost floating over the dinner table.

The pained look haunted Mikhail's face again. The squint in the corners of his eyes had deep craw feet like an old man, but the glow of his eyes was like that of a boy - the terrible juxtaposition of a fully grown man, who has become accustomed to be in charged unquestioned, yet emotionally was still a boy. Even though, he couldn't express himself, he knew that the workers in the headquarters obeyed him and praised him, but they didn't relate to him. His son was his only friend in the world. He couldn't admit to himself that he had made a big life decision on his own, he pushed that thought out of his mind by focusing on how everything would work out, but in his gut, he felt anxious tension about the reaction from his son Boris.

"It'll be good for you. You get to disconnect from all the social media and gaming. Only feature phones work over there. We should come up with a code of numbers to send secret messages. That'll be fun! Only we will know it. It'll be like in KGB times!" Mikhail had a smile on his face like he was going to start a birthday game in an effort to infect Boris with enthusiasm.

"It'll be fun getting away from games," sighed Boris with thinly veiled sarcasm. "One for samoubiystvo now!"

"I know you like your games. Maybe, we can start playing chess again," tried Mikhail to support. "I can think of another reason why Rwanda will be good for you. It'll help you forget that bitch. You've been sulking over her for years and have been wasting your youth. It'll set you free to fuck a woman that likes you. What's that bitch's name again?"

"Sandra?" asked Boris. "She's only the hottest gamer girl in school. She's only a level 30 league of legends wizard and never wears anything shorter than her mid thigh, even in the middle of winter. And she has those dreamy green eyes..."

"...and she has twenty other guys masturbating to her every night," finished Mikhail.

Boris had tears in his eyes. His facial muscles twitched as if he was emotionally going to crater any moment. He picked up his falafel sandwich and went back to his room. This is what their conversations were like each time. All he had to himself was that little room with a bed, desk, and clothes drawer. It felt familiar. It felt soothing. It felt safe. Mikhail never barged in. Mikhail was probably switching on a Star Trek re-run in the living room to resolve his emotions.

The next morning, Boris was sitting in class. His lanky body slouched in the school chair with a built-in wood board as a sort of desk. He had short dirty blond hair that stood up. He was wearing a white t-shirt, a size too large, and jeans. He tried to prepare his nerves to tell Frank and Joey about his move, but each time, he pictured it, his heart started beating faster in a panic. It felt like once he said the words, things would be different forever. There would be no going back. Right now, Africa still felt unreal because it was so far away and he knew little more than lions and child soldiers being there. However, once he told them, everybody would know it. But the end of the day was nearing. If he never said anything, he'd have simply left in silence like a coward. He felt very anxious about that as well.

After the session was over, Boris turned to the side in his chair - the movement felt very heavy. He felt panic that they might get up before he could get the frog out of his throat to talk. There it was anxiety again. Everything felt so fragile. "Guys, I'm moving to Africa."

"Do you even know where that is?" asked Joey, thinking it was a joke.

"Yeah, it's a little right and down on the globe. The plane is leaving tomorrow. My dad got a new assignment over there," explained Boris.

"I guess that is it," added Frank.

"Best wishes over there," added Joey.

They sat in silence for a while. They seemed to all agree that this was an important moment. And they had a vague feeling as if their friendship mattered somewhere. But nobody quite knew what to say about the topic without sounding gay or weird. Each of them felt awkward for getting up and leaving without saying anything. Yet each one also discarded one idea after the next of what to say. You don't want to sound like a Hallmark greeting card. And what if the other person didn't feel as chummy about their friendship, then it would be embarrassing to say something too heartfelt.

Joey, stung by the genius bee, turned around and yelled at Sandra: "Sandra! Boris is moving to Africa!" Sandra was dressed in a plaid skirt, barely covering her butt cheeks. Even though it was warm, she was wearing knee high, brown leather boots and blue socks that went over her knees. All of that left a titillating band of succulent, smooth skin on her thigh to salivate over. That's where Boris' eyes had been stealing to during the whole lecture.

"Good for him!" replied Sandra and went back to her conversation with a girlfriend.

"This is the closest that you have come to a conversation with Sandra," said Joey to Boris.

"When you torture a microbe under a microscope, it pulls back into itself in pain. Culture shock is like the pH of the environment suddenly changed to acidic. It's not terrible from a distance, but up close everything has changed, turned foreign, and has exhausted the reserves to cope. The organism pulls back into itself in pain."

The next day, Boris watched out of the window the whole plane ride. Africa, as much as he saw, was very green. The green had a shade of teal to it that was different from back home. It suggested more water loving plants. The giant Lake Kivu with the Idjwi Island was the sign that they were about to cross over into Rwanda. Down south was the Nyungwe Forest National Park, tall but entirely forest covered mountains. They call Rwanda land of a thousand hills, which became quite clear from this perspective.

The stewardess announced over the intercom, "Please fasten your seatbelts! We are about to touch down. As a reminder, plastic bags are strictly illegal in Rwanda. If you have any, please leave them on the plane to avoid problems with the police."

Touchdown was ordinary, a slight, soft bump and then the re-assuring high intensity whine of the engines reversing thrust followed by that comforting drag of the bones in the body forward like a ragdoll stretch. Then the slow taxi roll towards a gate. Boris looked at the vegetation outside. It felt skinny and airy out there. There was no density, heaviness, or worry in the vegetation. There was no crowding either. Harlequin green grass next to the runway and light, lanky trees past the fence was the world here.

When they walked off the jetway into the entrance hall, the hall was sparse - no advertising, only a couple stores, no crowds. The customs check was a simple desk. The person stamping the passport had a lackadaisical attitude. He didn't even check the image. He was talking to his colleague at the next desk with full attention and a wide open mouth. With that, they were outside the airport with a line of taxis. The air felt soft and easy, pleasantly warm and easily moved. The Kinyarwanda was an impenetrable wall of sound.

They had to load only two carry-ons and two roller bags into the taxi trunk. Mikhail had insisted on moving lightly to leave their possessions that were wearing them down behind. The Heaven Hotel in Kigali was a decent spot with two clean queen beds. The receptionist, a tall man in a casually unbuttoned uniform, reminded them not to litter and that the police were very strict about littering. Should we get in jail, he offered us his business card so that he could have his brother help us get back out. "It's a very clean, friendly, and safe country," he assured them.

Mikhail felt grand and took Boris for a stroll down KN6 Ave to a restaurant that offered a pizza buffet. "If that isn't a way to celebrate our new life!" Mikhail had said. After the long flight, pizza sounded agreeable. The chairs were simple and wooden. There was a big tablecloth, nothing else much in the way of decoration. A woman walked up to the table while talking on her phone. She waited for a while staring at us. She never said anything. "Are you the waitress?" asked Mikhail. The woman rolled her eyes and walked away.

About ten minutes had passed since anybody had walked in the restaurant or there was any sign of staff. There was only an elder gentleman sitting by himself against the window. Mikhail shook his head, "I think this place is closed. Let's try something else." They got up and walked to the door. Then a man came running out of the kitchen after them. He yelled something in Kinyarwanda. Mikhail yelled something back in English.

The man calmed down and said, "You forgot to pay!"

Mikhail explained that they hadn't ordered anything. The man explained that this was a buffet and that they owed him two buffet tickets. Mikhail complained that nobody had come to take their order. The man explained that the waitress had come but upon realizing that they spoke English had gone to the kitchen to ask for the man's help to talk to them. Mikhail complained that the man hadn't come. The man said that he was going to come. Trying to be friendly, he offered that they could sit back down and eat: "You might as well eat if you have to pay for it."

So they went back to their table. Boris saw the buffet table. They walked there. Warming lamps were throwing their orange glow onto three empty pizza pans. Next to it was a bowl of salad. Mikhail waved the man and asked where the pizza was. The man simply said that they were out. Mikhail asked when the next batch was coming. The man said that maybe in five to seven days, they'd get the next flour delivery. But the salad was very tasty.

"Could I get you something to drink?" asked the man.

Mikhail noticed the orange-blue Fanta logo with the green leaf in the window. "I'll have a Fanta! I haven't seen that in ages!"

The man looked pensive at Mikhail and then at Michael. When the man looked back at Mikhail, his eyes narrowed, and he scratched his temple with the waiter pen. With a shrug like a shake, he dispelled whatever notioned he had been brewing. "I thought he was your son." And the man turned to ask Boris for a drink order.

"Wait! He is my son! What are you saying!" burst Mikhail out.

"Well, he can't be your son because you are a virgin!" explained the blustered man.

"Hell you saying to my face! Do you want to take this outside?" demanded the red faced Mikhail.

"Maybe, I misheard your order. Fanta is only for virgins. My English isn't very good," said the man coming the closest that he had come to an apology during the whole visit.

"You listen to me! I'm not a virgin. And I like Fanta! Now get it to me!" ordered Mikhail.

"Not my fault when you order Fanta. Crazy American!" the man walked away without asking for Boris' order. The waitress had poked her head outside the kitchen after hearing the commotion. She was still on the phone. She rolled her eyes and went back into the kitchen.

The two tried to settle into their lunch. Mikhail felt like an idiot being angry and munching a mouthful of salad leaves. It didn't seem like the thing you were supposed to do to reclaim your manliness after a fight. They were watching the people walk by in the street. The men had modest clothing, usually Khaki pants with a polo shirt or proper shirt. They were sized a bit chunky from dad fat but used to milling around on foot. The women had colorful clothes with eye-catching geometric patterns. Usually the draping was full length to cover the legs completely and ambiguous shapes that hid their bosoms and behinds.

A goofy guy walked past the window. His shoes were long and skinny. His blue polo shirt was untucked. His hair was all combed to one side and slicked up to give a vague impression of an Elvis Presley who had become a Seven Eleven attendant. He was happily munching on a foot long sandwich - some nice brown bread with green leafs hanging out. He paused to look up to see the flashing blue lights. Two guys in blue jumpsuits came running. They took the sandwich out of his hand, put it into a brown paper bag and then handcuffed his hands behind his back with black zip ties. The jumpsuits looked a lot like uniforms, police uniforms. The waitress peeked out of the kitchen, attracted by the flashing lights. She rolled her eyes and went back into the kitchen as the man was walked away.

"It's a clean country," said Mikhail. "In headquarters, they told me that Rwanda is the Singapore of Africa. In Singapore, you get a fine for eating chewing gum in public. The good thing is that you never step in chewing gum there. I guess eating in public is frowned upon here."

"It's a little extreme to arrest a guy for eating a sandwich," suggested Boris.

"You gotta look at the greater picture, son," explained Mikhail. "One reason why I took the assignment in Rwanda was because I was worried about you. The last couple years, you have had no interest in anything. It was very suspicious. You reminded me of your mother. She started like that as well. And next thing, I was carrying her to the ER with a heroin overdose. These things happen quickly. You gotta be proactive while you can. I love you a lot."

"We moved to Africa because you suspect I'm taking drugs?" asked Boris in disbelief.

"Look, I don't want to force you to lie to me. So I won't ask. You don't have to lie. I knew what a lying bitch your mother was when she was addicted. It's a bit of a police state here. But look, there are no drug dealers here within a 200 mile radius," reasoned Mikhail. "Or at least not outside of the prison," Mikahil added with chuckle that Boris didn't find amusing.

"I'm apathetic because there was nothing for me to do. Girls don't even look at me! Now I'm in this bum fuck place where I don't even know the language to speak to anyone. How is that going to make me anymore interested in nothing?" Boris whined with his face distorted pleading for reason and sympathy.

"Okay, okay. You make some good points. There are some rough spots in the plan, but it's still a genius plan," Mikhail brushed Boris off. Mikhail thought that he should be saying something encouraging rather than simply lay down the law. Mikhail thought that appealing to Boris' strength would surely get him to come around. "Now, don't be like your bitch drugged up mother!"

"Why is she always my mother and never your wife?" demanded Boris with tears in his eyes and quivering in his voice.

"Well, if it weren't for you, I would have thrown that cunt out years earlier. But you had a soft spot for her," Mikhail tried to speak softly to explain himself and lay out the reality of all as honestly as he could.

Boris stood up. His cheeks were quivering. The emotions were rushing over him so hard that he tried to get his jaw to move apart, but he felt that only trying to get that mouth to open, he'd start bawling. So he ran out of the restaurant. He banged on the door handle hard. The chimes were ringing like a tornado had blown through. He walked out into the street that was so peaceful in balmy weather with only a handful of cars in the street and a person here or there milling across the sidewalk. He walked with the fastest pace he could muster to stomp his emotions into the ground. He simply wanted to move on - move away from what was troubling him. That light blue sky that was everywhere seemed to have the promise of empty space - a space where none of his heaviness had been before.

The fresh air was calming. Being on his own, making his own decisions of which street to pick made him feel a little enterprising. The mood of the people, walking with a certain carefree laziness infected him as well. After stubbornly heading in the same direction, he got curious to see what's out there. There was a side street, KN 82nd St, that took him to a greener place. In the middle of the block were lots of large canopy trees suggesting that there was more than ordinary residential homes. There was a little dirt plaza about the size of a bus with windows in the ground. He stepped up to the windows and leaned over to look through them. About six feet deeper into the ground, there was a large collage of many small portraits. The still high afternoon sun shone its light down there. He looked at their faces.

That's when he got a glimpse of the variety of people here. They were unlike the black people back home. They were different. He felt like he couldn't carry his prejudices here. He had to build new expectations. Like what type of person in the gray faced old man with a hat that looks like a train coal shoveler? Is that a fashion statement? Is that a uniform? He saw a woman with chubby, glowing cheeks. Back home, he would have guessed that she is one of those fundamentalist Christians that were better left alone. But there was a slight difference, like she could be something completely different here. He realized that he didn't know how to read and categorize people here at all. He was foreign.

"Getting your genocide fetish on?" asked a female voice in English right behind him and very close.

Boris' neck hair stood up in shock. He quickly stepped to the side to create some distance. English with an American accent startled him. He didn't expect it. He felt the emotional challenge in the tone of those words. He didn't want a fight. He was too far away from knowing where the hotel was, let alone a reliable doctor. He looked around him for an escape path. He looked back at the direction of the voice.