POV Tafadzwa Samuel Mwala
After Mom kissed me so many times I thought my cheeks would need a tissue, she knelt down, held my shoulders, and whispered, "Famba zvakanaka mwanangu. (Travel well ,my child)Aunt Fée is waiting for you in Japan. She'll take care of you."
I nodded, my eyes stinging. "You'll call, right?"
"Of course. Every day if I can. Be brave, Tafadzwa. Don't embarrass us in front of the Japanese," she said with a smirk, wiping her tears and mine at the same time like a multitasking superhero.
Then came the moment. I walked to the plane gate alone—backpack heavy, legs shaky, heart racing.
I swear the plane door looked like the mouth of a giant whale. I nearly turned around and asked Mom if we could try again next year. However, pride said no. I had already waved. No going back.
Inside, the air felt like cool rich people air. The flight attendant smiled like she had just won a pageant.
"Welcome aboard, young man," she beamed.
I blinked. "Uhhh... thank you?"
(In my head: Did she just call me 'man'? Am I a man now?!)
She led me to my seat—Economy Class, but to me it felt like royalty. The seats had tiny TVs. There were buttons on the armrest. There was a folded blanket and even a pillow. A pillow!
I sat down and looked around like a tourist in a spaceship.
That's when it started.
Turbulence.
Well, not actual turbulence, but the turbulence in my stomach.
As the plane began to move, I felt my insides do the ZCC dance. My head spun. My mouth dried up. I turned pale like I'd seen a ghost... or worse, eaten uncooked matemba.
The airhostess came quickly. "Are you okay, sweetheart?"
I nodded like a robot. Lies.
She handed me a brown paper bag. "Breathe into this."
"Ehh?" I stared. "You want me to eat it?"
She chuckled. "No, darling. Just breathe. In. Out. Slowly."
I did as told. My seat neighbor, a grumpy boy in a dinosaur hoodie, rolled his eyes. "Ugh. This is the worst. I wish my parents weren't so broke. We should've flown first class!"
I nearly choked on my own air.
I wanted to shake him. "First class?! Bro, I just sat on a real toilet for the first time at the airport. This seat right here is first class to me!"
But I didn't say it out loud. l wasn't very comfortable with my English , and I didn't want to end up saying something like "Your nose is full of maggots" by accident. So I stayed quiet and hugged my backpack.
My parents couldn't even afford bus fare for all of us at once. Sometimes we'd travel in shifts—Mom and Tapiwa first, then me and Tariro later. So being on a plane, even if I had to breathe into a paper bag, felt like winning the lottery.
I peeked at the screen in front of me. It said:
Flight Duration: 8 hours
I whispered to myself, "Eight hours? Haibo!(Oh my days!)"
There was no sungura. No gospel music. Not even a sniff of Shona. Just Korean dramas, American cartoons, and something about sushi.
I sighed, leaned against the cold window, and clutched my bag tighter. Inside it, I had Mom's picture, two packets of maputi, and a tiny carved giraffe Dad made.
As the plane soared above the clouds, I thought of Maka, the dusty Mbare roads, Tariro's teasing, and Mom's voice praying softly before we left.
The world below disappeared into a sea of clouds.
And just like that... I drifted off, floating into dreams where I was a Zimbabwean ninja, eating sadza with chopsticks and defending Tokyo with a wooden giraffe.