The Chase & Other Misadventures
A flash fiction imaginative narrative stringing together disparate snapshots from a holiday experience
“As this relaxing wave spread through my tissues, I experienced a strong feeling of fear. I had the feeling that some horrible image was just beyond the field of vision, moving as I turned my head, so that I never quite saw it. I felt nauseous; I lay down and closed my eyes. A series of pictures passed, like watching a movie”
(William S Burroughs, Junky)
If a car could saunter like a person, it would be us in the slow lumbering dust-covered sedan sinking onto the remote gravel road, weighed down by the firmly stacked pieces of luggage at the back, yet still managing to casually perambulate through one of those security checkpoints to the airport. I caught myself turning to wave at the seemingly lackadaisical blue-clothed officers and their mean-looking assault rifles lounging by the wayside.
“Are you sure…?” the passenger in front, my friend voiced her concern also noticing the oddness of the situation whereby we were meant to have stopped. Our driver gestured nonchalantly as if he had made a nonsensical remark.
Not quite 30 seconds later, a car roared up behind us, overtook the snail-paced vehicle we were in, and swerved to pull up in front of us, forcing the car to a sudden stop. A blue uniform and beret square chin officer stepped out in his ginormous black boots with an FN SCAR tucked under his arm pointing in the direction of our car.
A week ago, the fish market situated conveniently right next to the lake in remote Naivasha had quietened with the distant rumbling of thunder. Makeshift stalls sat looking bored as only some of the local fish caught from the lake that morning were being showcased. By then, the crowd had thinned. A silvery tilapia caught my eye, and I knew I’d got to have it. “How much?” I asked.
After minutes of wild gesticulation, the lady fishmonger and I agreed on a suitable price. We sat around waiting, watching minutes to hours idle away and it was easy to observe the unhurried manner of the locals going about their businesses with little urgency, unlike the hustle and bustle of Nairobi city life.
The tilapia did not arrive that evening.
By nightfall, it seemed apparent that the chef had gone home for the day. My friend became quite upset by the delay. So the lady who sold me the fish was quick to return my money, unapologetically she shoved a stack of dollars into my hand. By this time, the rain was pelting across the metallic rooftops like a cacophonous marching band over the roof of our heads. My hands began to tremble and I watched helplessly as raindrops began melting down the walls of the hut like a torrential waterfall. A deep fear swelled from within my chest at the thought of drowning in the hut with my vision increasingly softening on the edges. Meanwhile, long menacing tusks were now emerging from this blue wall of water I have vividly painted with my upturned eyes.
“What did she have before lunch?” A melodious faraway voice was floating across. I could not make more out beyond the vague and ambiguous noises heard at the same time fading into the background.
I think I was in a blue room.
But where am I, if not in one? I was gradually and painfully coming to. My head hurt. Can I call my husband? But, I could not stand up. A tune is faintly playing on a cackling tv in the background.
Malaria. The doctors told me that I had to stay in the hospital for at least a week. I closed my eyes. Colours swirled in darkness: unseeing yet seeing, asleep yet not sleeping; tunnelling into the tiny vision — a familiar scene is unfolding in the abyss of my mind’s eye. Caught between the darker hallucinatory realms of imaginary narratives and fictional reality blurring, lurid details of the police chase came racing to mind along with misplaced thoughts of fried fish.
The uniformed officer is stepping out of the car. My heart is racing. My friend slips her hand over mine steadying my shaky wrists still gripping the sides of the car seat tightly with white glossy knuckles. The foremost thought on my mind goes, oh no — how much will this cost us? Time is a luxury we do not have. If we miss the plane, the whole week will be wasted! Worries of delay were filling in, my anxiety levels were skyrocketing through the roof of the car as I stared at the muzzle of his hideous machine.
What did he say? The police officer promptly hopped into the car. He turned to me and smiled grudgingly. He indicated for the driver to head back to the checkpoint (probably) to open our trunks so everything including our papers ( and he means finances ) can be ‘properly’ validated.
“Where is this from?” He asked brusquely, jabbing at the blue reflective Ray-Ban sunglasses casually lounging unobtrusively on the dashboard.
“Australia!” my nervous friend quipped, but the begrudging officer gave no indication he heard her.
“Stop here!” He barked curtly. The car suddenly halted as if jolted by a flash of lightning.
The next thing I remember after stepping out of the car is that I am no longer where I thought I had been — outside a random security stop with stern police officers waving rifles at us. Instead, I am standing on the tarmac on the runway. My girlfriends in the distance shouting and waving their arms beckoning me to join them. I smile and start waving, too. As I climbed to join my friends, the sailor-blue journal I had been carrying this holiday must have been tucked carelessly in the rucksack, suddenly fell out and flapped away, flying straight into the jaws of the plane’s spinning propellers. Gobsmacked. Perhaps the holiday pieces are finally beginning to make sense. This could be the kind of vacation — a home away from home — though, what is a getaway without some misadventures? As I threw my arms open to reunite with my friends, a thought crept into my head: I must remember to tell them about the chase. We must avoid the road at all costs.
I find myself drenched from standing in the rain, I am back at the fish market now busier than ever, I am still waiting for the fish to arrive. I look around, the wet marketplace is buzzing with people gesturing wildly about their wares and others covering up their goods seeking shelter. The chickens, dogs and seagulls and other minor birds seem nonplussed.
Just then, my husband emerges from behind the makeshift wall with a plate of deep-fried tilapia smelling of present warmth and comfort.
“Let’s dig in!”, he quipped.
Happily and hungrily, I sink into the plastic chair with relief, “Finally! Where are the others?”
He looks at me bewildered. “What others?”
