Oliver Benjamin
who actually had real things to worry about. Roy noticed that African
air travelers complained far less than their American counterparts.
For one thing, no one made a peep about the wretched coffee, which
Roy found a genuine liquid felony. Nor did anyone sigh with
inconsolable grief when the movie crapped out in mid-stream. They
simply took off their headphones and took a nap or read the in-flight
magazine or talked with their neighbor. Their hopes had been so
often dashed their life stories read like rivers of uninterrupted
hyphens.
Roy, in contrast with the conservatively-attired Africans, was
dressed like a clown. He had shown up at the airport in a bathrobe
and slippers, and was forced to outfit himself in preposterous tourist
apparel before they’d sell him a ticket. An older man sitting next to
him asked him if he enjoyed his vacation.
“I’m American,” Roy said by way of explanation, “These aren’t
my clothes.”
This seemed terribly funny to the Ethiopian, who burst out
laughing. “Whose clothes are they, then?” he exclaimed, “Are you a
professional clothes burglar?”
People began to turn towards them, drawn by the old man’s
blaring ululations. Roy tried to hush him. He went on, “I did not
know such people existed. Perhaps I should…I should lock my
drawers!”
He exploded into a series of deafening chortles and hoots. Others
around them began to laugh along even though they did not know
what they were laughing at.
“What is this that is so funny?” asked a blue-robed man, exposing
a few golden teeth. “Please tell me the joke.”
“There’s no joke,” Roy said, “Or at least, I don’t know what it is.”
“Well then, I know a joke,” he said, trying to make conversation,
“What is the difference between Africa and America?”
“What is the difference?” the old man asked gamely.
“America has democracy,” the other explained, “But Africa
doesn’t need democracy. We’ve got de Nile.”
“Ha!” screamed the old man. “Denial!” He laughed, then
suddenly serious, said, “Wait. No we don’t,” and burst out once again.
Roy laughed along and felt at home in the company of these men
who were black but not American, similar to each other, and him,
only in hue. They reminded him of the Africans that used to visit his
father’s shop: noble, exotic and mysterious, with strange accents and
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