You wake up at 6:30 to the out of tune crowning of some obnoxious neighborhood rooster and the pure laughter of two happy little kids on their way to the nearby public school. Although your old single bed now feels too small and too soft for comfort, you decide to stay in bed for a little while to reminice. To reminice, yes, but most importantly to ponder. You need to ponder. You look around the room, which used to be yours ages ago. Although your mother took over and converted it into her home office shortly after you left home, she had left most of the furnitures in place. The room still feels familiar.
You can hear Nesy and your mother chatting quietly in the kitchen. Your mother tells the middle age maid that they would need to polish the living room’s mahogany floor and to dust the furnitures as soon as possible.
“We are going to have a lot of visitors over the next few days.”
“Oh! Is it already that time? It feels like he just arrived.” You detect a degree of nostalgic melancholy in Nesy’s provincial allocution.
Your flight back to San Francisco is still three days away, but you can already sense the emergence of those familiar emotions: a strong sense of sadness for having to say goodbye to your loved ones combined witn a guilty feeling of anticipation for the material comfort waiting for you at the end of the long 10 thousand mile journey.
You are quickly approaching the four week threshold that you have rigourously established and accepted to be the maximum amount of time you can stand to be in your tanindrazana. You are now almost giddy with excitement at the thought of being able once again to sleep on the extra firm matress of your kingsize bed and to use your own bathroom with decent water pressure and predictable water temperature. Beyond four weeks, the laws of diminishing returns kicks in witn a vengeance.
You try to remain calm and, to the extent possible, carry on. Nevertheless. You can handle the goodbyes, you tell yourself as you consider getting up from your old bed that witnessed as many victories as defeats, but never complained nor boasted, except for the occasional polite creaks. The farewells you can stand, It is the packing that makes you nervous.
You hear your mom instructing Nesy to start making an omelette aux jambons and some coffee so that they are ready when you come down to the dinning room. You hear Nesy telling your mother that she will wait because she is not sure that you wanted amelette. “Just give me some money, I will go quickly buy him some menakely and ramanonaka.” Your mom tells Nesy to listen to her and start beating some eggs. Nesy says no, and asks you mother to give her some more money to buy some peanut and caca pigeon and some fanta and coca cola for the guests. You hear your mom caving in and give Nesy some ariary. You smile. That Nesy. She knows you so well.
Nesy’s mention of the guests reminds you of the issue at hand. A subject matter closely related to the dilema you are facing. It used to a simple problem but over time it has grown into a pickle, before morphing into a full fledged conundrum, and eventually transorming itself into a untractable puzzle. No use procrastinating, sooner or later, you will need to seriously strategize about the most efficient way to deal with the packing dillema. You need to ponder. And to deliberate.
You need to come up with something before friends and relatives start showing up to bid you “soava dia” and to entrust you with a “little letter” for their friends or relations beyond the ocean. Your first reflex is to tell your parents to tell them that you are not there, that you are out of town, and that you will not be back until the day of your depature. You can already hear the your mother scolding you that this is no way to treat your “havanas,” that these people have much for us, that they have never refused when asked to carry a little something for you and that the least you could do it is to return the favour. You also can hear your father suggesting that to be candid abour your feelings and “just say no” to your relatives. You know that your father would be willing to go along with that option, but he would not stick out his neck to help you out.
In fact, the process has beganon that very same day you arrived, when your favorite uncle Dadatoa Justin who picked you up from the airport asked you to pass by his store in Ampasamadinika to pick up a “small letter” for hs daughter Annie who is married to a swiss but lives in Detroit Michigan with her senegalese boyfriend. You knew that this was not going to be a small letter. Instead it would a care package, with caca pigeon snacks, some cans of three horses beer, and foie gras. Annie’s favorites. Of course you could not refuse. Dadatoa Justin came to pick you up at the airport at 3 in the morning.
The struggle had just begun. The revolution had barely commenced. The outcome is still uncertain. Is victory within reach? Only time will tell. It is not up to you …
