From Sri Lanka… With Love

From Sri Lanka… With Love
Photo by Philip Asbury
Photo by Philip Asbury

I’d gone to bed in Hong Kong. A night full of regrets. And a do-not-disturb sign left swinging grimly from my hotel room door-knob like the newly hoisted frame of a young Southerner who had been seen cavorting with the wrong woman in the wrong era of American history. [private]

I awoke unceremoniously, and without room-service, in the boot of a trans-mobile in New Colombo, Sri Lanka. Teleportation usually induces its share of nausea, but given the deluge of Pre-Collapse whiskey I’d imbibed the night before, it was little surprise I hadn’t noticed my molecules being wrenched apart and begrudgingly re-assembled a few thousand miles away. After all, who doesn’t feel that way after a few pints too many?

Like an indigent pharaoh, I shared my sarcophagus with aged-produce and still-clucking wildlife that looked less impressed with the present company than I was. Outside, the horns of tuk-tuks screamed as the three-legged chariots contorted past each other in anorexic spaces. Above, enterprising drones turned their lenses downward, as their split-second facial recognition algorithms beamed curated-commercials to every pedestrian foolhardy enough to look upwards for a view that once included the sun. Higher still, crows screeched through the city spires, their cackles simultaneously heralding my arrival and announcing my impending demise.

I had been imprisoned just long enough to begin thinking of my newly acquired lodgings as a quaint Airbnb studio in a freshly-gentrified borough of New York City, when the ceiling receded above me. First, there was a searing white. Then, the sort of smog-tinged grey that seemed impossibly blue because I had come to accept that I’d never see the sky again. Finally, they came. I saw their hands first. Only three out of four of their palms appeared to be made of flesh. A point I’m sure no one was bold enough to inquire about during cocktail party introductions. The two of them plucked overgrown fruit and overwrought animals out of the trunk with the finesse of unsupervised baggage handlers at your favourite warp-space airline. I was an after-thought. Like the masks they hadn’t bothered to wear, for obvious reasons that related to my increasingly shortening life-span and inability to be a future witness.

While dragging me through a reasonably well-travelled alley in Pettah Market, they made small talk in Tamil…or Sinhalese…or something that I now regret not learning because I’d been promised my phone’s translation app would guide me through any shopping negotiations I might encounter. Unfortunately, it hadn’t occurred to the designers that the end-user might need to bargain to buy back his own life. Saris and sarongs milled around me undeterred. The occasional aroma of curry shouldered politely past like a penitent pick-pocket upon realizing how paltry the sums in his victim’s possession are. Everything was a stunning Polaroid of a place never to be revisited. With them upright, and me being pulled feet-first, we entered a maze of fabric shops, unlicensed street chefs and tea stalls that fondly reminded me of my last extended stay at Frommer’s most recommended opium den. Like my present excursion, it had come to an abrupt end.

The man they brought me to was an old friend. By “old” I mean world-weary and experienced from a lifetime luring naive Westerners to the sort of death that only comes after extensive exchanges with long-distance family members who have dutifully emptied their bank accounts. By “friend” I mean I should have probably found a better false-identity, and a more remote time-zone to hide-away in, after deciding to rob him of a shipment of exotic Indian fabrics while plying him with too much Arrack at his under-age daughter’s arranged wedding. They looked on with an amused expectancy. One of them with the God-sent grin of a politician, the other with the sort of face the most shameless street surgeon wouldn’t admit to salvaging. They waited for me to exhaust the same list of excuses, false promises and impotent threats that many had before me. It was a faithful audience awaiting a familiar punchline. So, I began with an old favourite.

The words shuffled forth, like desperate immigrants with distrustful documents in the border security queue between our civilization and the rabid vastness that had once been called “Europe”. Somewhere, circling high above the dizzying kaleidoscope of tightly-packed New Colombo rooftops, the crows began to cackle. [/private]

Walé Oyéjidé

About Walé Oyéjidé

Walé Oyéjidé is a designer, attorney, musician and author based in Philadelphia, USA. As a Nigerian-born American, his creative work touches on the experience of cultural aliens who meander through an ever-shrinking global society. Walé's design efforts and ethos can be seen at his menswear company, Ikiré Jones (www.ikirejones.com).

Walé Oyéjidé is a designer, attorney, musician and author based in Philadelphia, USA. As a Nigerian-born American, his creative work touches on the experience of cultural aliens who meander through an ever-shrinking global society. Walé's design efforts and ethos can be seen at his menswear company, Ikiré Jones (www.ikirejones.com).

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