BOARDING SOLO – Janice Anne Wheeler
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SPARRING WITH MOTHER NATURE brings you aboard as we joust our way back onto the water. We’ve come a long way with a ways to go… Your support is essential. Thank you. J
If you’ve just joined our engaging little community, please read SPARS & SPARRING, my introductory piece.…. ~J Please find this interconnectedness story a pleasant diversion from boatwork. For all of us. I recounted this story at a friend’s dinner party and we could not stop raising our eyebrows. I’m not a big believer in coincidence; there are higher powers at work. This tale is not fiction. Let’s consider it the power of the universe, if you believe in such things. Or even if you don’t. A handful of years ago, I booked a window ticket on one of those bulky, world-covering Boeings from Washington, DC southeast across a large portion of the planet; a trip through both time and space to Johannesburg, South Africa. My receipt indicated no stops, seventeen hours in the air. I settled in, gazing out and about. I can never stop myself from wondering how so many people can be going to the same place from the same place at the very same time as I am. The passenger assigned next to me arrived as late as possible with an eclectic assortment of carry-ons. She settled in as well, clearly a seasoned traveler in colorful garb that emphasized her shiny, exotic, elephant-wrinkled ebony skin and regal air. A brilliantly aged African character in a tall head wrap straight out of National Geographic Magazine was sitting in 29B. I was awed, and, for once, quietly considered protocol. She leaned her cane between us, greeting me politely but not openly, socks pulled high. The standard take-off rigamarole ensued with the pilot announcing that our arrival in Ghana was estimated to be slightly ahead of schedule. Ghana? Seriously? I scanned the cabin. “You are leaving me there,” she told me in a stunning mix of accents, and then, a completely different topic, “Where’s your husband?” she asked gently while somehow also eyeing me suspiciously. I explained my rendezvous plan to no avail or approval and we settled in, she watching a movie and me reading, dozing, gazing. With barely a glance in my direction, as sunrise arrived with croissants and tea, she began to speak, the same low, lyrical tone and clear command of English I had been treated to the evening prior.
“In my country you pick your husband by his foofoo soup,” was her opening line. I raised my eyebrows, universal for that was unexpected….among other things…she continued, unphased. “Now, you remember dis,” it was a softly commanded request that I pay attention to her story, and her culture, and the importance of both.” In order to be a good husband you have to make foofoo soup. And just right. If he can’t make foofoo soup, he’s no good.” She nodded her elegant, wisened visage seriously, “I taught my son, and he married happy. I just saw him, two months, with a grandbebe.,” She went through the recipe and that, I admittedly, have lost to time, but I recall Cassava, which even as a Caterer I didn’t utilize on my traditional American menu. As she spoke the animation grew; she told of a boy who failed the test and was heartbroken, and one who excelled and was chosen, assumably to live happily ever after. I was enthralled far more by the telling, even, than by the tale. As the day brightened we landed on the beach-outlined coastline of Ghana, West Africa, a place I had never expected to be. I stood and she solemnly shook my hand upon departure; ensuring with a single finger in front of my nose that I would always remember what she had shared. Her straight, retreating back is the last thing I recall of her, shrugging off all offers of assistance. I settled back into 29A and allowed my phone to find a cell tower, regardless of the fees. Those of us continuing on were not allowed to touch the ground here, and we had a tropical two-hour wait. I went through my peeps, especially those I had lost track of and sent them a text that simply said, “The only text message you will ever receive from Ghana.” Those random messages, my favorite kind, elicited interesting responses, amusing me for days. One was something about being shanghaied on a pirate ship; and now I wonder, how’s that for foreshadowing? Upon my return to DC two weeks later I requested a long UBER ride and found myself behind the driver of a spotlessly clean older model Mercedes, remarkably reminiscent of Thailand and the gentleman I had hired there for pennies on the dollar. He peered at me in his rear-view mirror with a beautiful smile that split his strong coffee-colored face, and was careful to annunciate his words as he read the address of our destination. “Yes, thank you,” I told him, as he focused on his (I assume) lonely customer service job, the one where people aren’t interested, don’t inquire, don’t converse, preferring the comfort zone of their phone. My eyes were tired, my phone tucked away. I let him navigate Dulles International Airport traffic and hesitated for a moment or two, wondering selfishly if a conversation would be complicated as he was clearly from far elsewhere, and a bit uncomfortable, perhaps, trying to make a living in a foreign land. I had a feeling, call it intuition, six sense, whatever, that I should delve in. “Where are you from?” I inquired, an ordinary go-to, given the circumstances. “Ah. West Africa, Miss. I am from Ghana,” he glanced again in the small rear-view, to gauge my reaction, my knowledge of geography, my inclusion, my acceptance. “Ah,” I said in return. “You make good fufu soup?” The dark eyes widened. “You know fufu soup?” he was comically incredulous and expressive to hear of something from his homeland, I’m sure of it. I’m no hero, and not trying to be, but let me tell you that the connection I made with that man in that car will never be forgotten. I told him that I had just been there, and it was beautiful, and about the seemingly powerful, impressive woman on the plane. “When did you fly?” he asked, and I considered, finally producing the date. “That is my mother,” he told me, his voice mimicking hers now, “I miss her very much.” I have never forgotten. ~J Tell the world about your otherworldly connection, please.
See you next week back aboard STEADFAST. Elizabeth Beggins aren’t you pleased I talked to all those strangers?!
I so appreciate your support of my work. Have a wonderful week!
© 2025 Janice Anne Wheeler
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