Truth is a Flightless Bird

1

NICE TRAVELED LIGHT. No carry-on, other than her wig of chestnut ringlets and her battered purse.

And the quarter kilo of bespoke narcotics.

This short flight to Nairobi had left her dry-mouthed. Biting her lower lip, she thought about the dozen drug packets, each as big as a thumbnail and painstakingly coated in red candle wax, in her belly. She could still taste the acidic tinge of the orange juice she had washed them down with. She stifled a gag.

Her scalp tingled under the wig as the humid air poured into the aircraft cabin. It had been a spontaneous thing, the wig, but now she was glad for it—it made her feel jaunty, in control. And it was one more layer of camouflage.

The seatbelt signs pinged off and passengers began opening the overhead compartments. With the sound, Nice felt she had met another milestone in her trip, and she lapsed into an expressionless good humor, even allowing herself a languorous rub of her tummy, without self-consciousness or hurry. As pregnant women are wont to do.

A bearded man in the aisle seat on her left stood up, knocking Nice’s reading glasses with his elbow. “Sorry.”

Nice straightened the glasses and gave her neighbor a half-smile. She was getting useful insights from her debilitating morning sickness—for one, it focused the mind on important things, which, for her now, was to not vomit into this man’s lap, and to get off the plane into the cool Nairobi evening.

Nice stood to look down the aisle to the exit. She took a pained breath, watching the harried parents, the mewling infant, the cowled and bird-boned Somali women, and the pinstriped businessmen exhaling self-importance in the cloistered cabin.

The bearded man gestured shyly at Nice with his hands, cupping what seemed to be an invisible offering.

This perplexed Nice, until she thought to fumble at her nose. Her nostril bled onto her upper lip, unseen and unfelt. Ruffled, Nice turned away to her shuttered window. She fumbled for a sharp-smelling moist towelette in the front pouch of her seat. The skin around her nostril burned as she dabbed at it. Nice opened the shutter of her window and watched the bearded man in the plastic reflection, only turning to exit the plane when his wavy ghost had entered the aisle, turning to look at her one last time.

Under the harsh lighting of the arrivals hall, Nice caught sight of herself in a mirrored wall. A wispy yet feminine frame, under a fashionable head of hair.

Aid worker. Smuggler. Time bomb.

The gaunt face tightened, and she leaned forward, resting her hands on denimed knees. She seemed, to herself, unworthy of terms such as ‘Mother’ or even ‘pregnant’. Those were for other people, pushing strollers in sun-dappled suburbs.

The dizziness passed. Nice turned to enter the immigration line, bumping as she did so into an unseen person behind her. “Sorry.”

The tall policeman looked bemused and smiled, but only with his mouth. His teeth were small and gleamed under the fluorescence. “Hakuna shida. Are you okay?” He seemed to be studying her face closely, as if trying to recall her, or match her to a profile.

Nice took in his neat potbelly, his shiny belt buckle bearing a trident and the unreadable eyes. She nodded and apologized again, longing to meld into the queue. She turned to leave.

“Excuse me,” came the policeman’s firm voice. More insistent now, as Nice risked another step away from him.

End of sample. From Truth is a Flightless Bird.