In one hand, he holds his passport positioned at an angle that ensures all and sundry take note of the much coveted United States of America visa stamped on one of its pages. On the other hand, peeping from under his counterfeit Giorgio Armani coat, is an unusually large gold wrist watch.
His proud relatives gather around him. They congregate in various states of anxiety, envy and of proud adoration. The Traveller, however, barely acknowledges that he is aware of their presence. He can scarcely open his mouth to respond to last minute well wishes and pleas imploring him to return home after his sojourn "them-sides". He maintains a distant gaze. His mind is on more important matters. Matters that he will tackle in the First World. Matters that simple minds cannot comprehend.
Check-in and immigration routines proceed without a hitch. He boards the metallic bird that will ferry him across the seas.
Finally, he arrives in the "Promised Land". The land of "Plenty". The land where dreams are realised. Dreams both economic and social. He follows the crowd to the Immigration Counter.
"NEXT!" the immigration official hollers. He moves forward. She hollers again "IS THIS YOUR FIRST VISIT TO THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA?", "WHAT WAS YOUR ORIGINAL PORT OF DEPARTURE?" "WHAT IS THE PURPOSE OF YOUR VISIT TO AMERICA TODAY"? "HOW LONG DO YOU PLAN ON BEING IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA?". The questions are ejected in rapid and apparent aggressive succession. The Traveller cannot make out a single word she utters. He keeps smiling sheepishly. He mutters the word "Sorry?" "Sorry?" "Sorry?" over and over. The more he says the word, the more exasperated the official gets. He decides it's probably safer to respond with the word "yes" to everything. The lady rolls her eyes in despair. She looks across at a colleague who looks on with seeming disgust. The Traveller feels deeply humiliated. His mortification is felt by those in the queue behind him. Many of whom had travelled with him across the seas.
After much toing and froing, The Traveller is granted entry to Paradise. His dream has been attained. He has arrived.
Fast forward five years.
Arrival back at the port of departure. The International Airport from whence he departed. The same party of relatives, albeit slightly battered by the passage of time, has gathered to receive their husband and son. He has done them proud,The Traveller has. He has returned to the motherland. He is not one of those who go never to return.
After much craning of their necks in the direction of the arrival gate, their hero emerges. This time round, he is donned in a brown leather jacket, basketball t-shirt, black jeans that hang on his body just low enough for everyone to appreciate he now wears brown and red boxer shorts. The new look is crowned with sunglasses (never mind it's ten o'clock in the night and there are no long summer days in the motherland). Finally, are a fake Nike cap and sneakers. His emergence elicits spontaneous ululations, cheer and dance from the welcoming party. There is a rush to embrace him. To converse with him. He looks slightly bemused. A bit embarrassed even. He asks his brother who stands close "war them folk saying meh? I gonna forget all ma African speak meh. Darn it meh. This ain't good".
Is the above narrative humorous or is it troubling? ? Who is The Traveller? Is someone at fault for feeding him a false version of what it means to be a "civilised, modern,with it man"? Does he have a poor perception of self, of identity? Does the blame lie in the "proud" legacy of colonialism? Or maybe it's the effect of globalisation alias neo-colonialism? Has there been a creation of a loathing for self that runs so deep, that The Traveller is forced to make a spectacle of himself? Pray, tell me, where does the fault lie?
