Shadows Unveiled

Borabora vacation in Mombasa

I had endured a week of anxious waiting for my inaugural flight, battling nervous runs throughout. On the plane, seated with my children, we struggled with aching ears, putting our heads between our legs to alleviate the discomfort during the landing's jerky moments. Despite the dreadful 45-minute flight experience, Mombasa turned out to be a lot of fun. Every morning, the kids and I made our way to the Indian Ocean for an early swim. Afterward, we'd head back home for a lavish lunch, followed by an outing with Brother Jake to the Borabora Club for a spectacular performance. Jake was the star attraction in the casino's entertainment lineup.

It made me curious about where my dear brother had picked up such skills. It was my first time seeing so many Caucasians gathered in one place. Their dancing was quite a sight; they hardly moved rhythmically and instead hopped around the dance floor, inadvertently swatting other dancers with their long hair. That December 1992 vacation was unforgettable. However, our journey back turned problematic. Despite diligently giving the children aspirin each morning, I overlooked taking any myself. As a result, I fell ill and was forced to catch the earliest flight back to Nairobi. Due to the airline's inability to accommodate six seats directly, they rerouted a flight from Rome to collect us. Aboard the plane, my primary request was for numerous sick bags, along with some blankets for comfort. Arriving in style, I was swiftly set on a wheelchair with Papa playing chauffeur to the doctor.

My friends were perturbed, suspecting I had a wealthy benefactor underwriting my lavish vacation. Surprisingly, this supposed leisure trip became a stumbling block for would-be suitors, who struggled to accept that I could afford such an escapade on my own. They were completely unaware of the perks that came with my job at the airline. It proved advantageous in establishing norm. Those days, the concept of an independent woman appeared to be a perplexing and challenging notion for many men to grasp. Rather than uplifting my spirits, this experience led to a downward spiral, and instead I got caught in the clutches of what seemed like a cloud of depression.

Robert, my then manager, reached out with a thoughtful invitation, expressing genuine concern about my battles. In an era where hospitals weren't quick to address mental health, he asked to be a supportive presence during my challenging times. Silently, we cruised to an upscale restaurant in South B, ordered some potent drinks as I opened my can of struggles. As we delved deeper into my history, teardrops escalated into uncontrollable floods, prompting waiters to provide extra tissue boxes and a trash can. Naturally, they cleared nearby tables to give me room to let go. Three hours later, still overwhelmed with emotions, Robert escorted me to his car. He drove me to his house where, in an awkward yet comforting manner, he stayed by my side until I found solace in sleep.

It was a night of unexpected support and understanding during a vulnerable moment. On Wednesday, Jo'Ann invited me to a colleague's farewell party during Ladies' Night. Stepping into the room filled with a diverse crowd, I hoped to blend in, but finding my place proved challenging. Undeterred, I faced the curious stares with a touch of self-doubt, unbuttoning my midsection and crossing my legs with a sense of poise. As I lifted my head to meet the scrutiny, people quickly averted their eyes in feigned disinterest. With nothing to prove, I chose not to appear overly competitive.

My Diana Ross-inspired looks drew attention and created moments. A group of clean-shaven individuals signaled an invitation to their table, but I decided to dismiss their overtures. In a corner, a lively group, a mix of the young and the young at heart, caught my eye. The ladies seemed ready to mingle, but their hesitation opened the door for Jack, an older, slightly wobbly gent, to make his move with a hesitant "How are you doing?" It felt more like a plea for mercy than a greeting. When he asked for a moment of my time, smelling a potential plot twist, I gracefully dodged the situation and glided over to the bar, ordering a party mixer for a solo adventure.