All my friends have gone overseas.
The people I’ve created a home around have embarked in search of warmer walls and cheaper power bills: Melbourne. London. Perth. Dubai. I sit, landlocked and cross-legged, watching their Instagram stories at three in the morning. My elders tell me this happens every decade, due to a change in political ideologies or greener economic pastures being marketed to the ‘young & free’. It just hurts a lot more in your 20s.
I’m sure they mean well, but their reasonable and academic response doesn’t aid my pain. I often find myself believing the devils advocate in the room, preaching that Instagram is the highlights reel in a tragedy. My optimism—that each and every one of them will return home with stories that will slot right back into our everyday routine—doesn’t provide me with the sedative I need to sleep soundly. My pessimism believes that every airport they arrive at from here on out will have no one waiting for them at arrivals.
My pain is selfish because I left too.
Two years ago, I left to further my career by seeking an international opportunity which allowed to pitch my ideas without fear of throwing the ball out. Taking advantage of grants, scholarships and my savings, I left the city I called home with little intention of returning.
I attended a panel concerning mental health with a notable American professor who became fond of me over time. You ever meet someone and try to read them in the first five seconds of interaction? This man had an emotionless face and a laugh that was either forced or non-existent. Hands constantly trembled during stories, as if the climax was itching to pour through his fingertips. His constant oversharing told me he hadn’t had an honest conversation in months—maybe years.
You could do this for the rest of your life. Just speak and do panels, country to country. But you’ll miss your son’s birthday, no matter how hard you try to make it.
It took me far too long to realise that he wasn’t assuming I had a son because I was a travelling young black man; but because he was the main character in all his advice.
I took his advice out of fear—fear of turning 40 and being halfway across the world from your family. I’d rather do it at 25 and treat it like it’s conscription. Leave and refuse to give into nostalgia, whether I had to endure pure discomfort or sensational debauchery. Leave with a purpose of career instead of personal indulgence. See the world through university campuses and research institutes. Stay in Airbnbs with jet powered hot tubs but no kitchen. Choose your mode of public transport by crowd instead of destination.
What would I learn?
There is nothing lonelier than arriving at an airport where no one is waiting for you. Letting the eager and impatient cut the line in front of you, in order to see their family on the other side of the immigration counter. The coldest arrival in any country is making your way past romantic reunions and children throwing themselves into the arms of family members. Step by step, following instructions to connect to your complimentary 50MB of Wi-Fi. To the taxi rank. Waiting.
I would rather stay at home for the rest of my life than arrive at another airport with no one to greet me.
I often exit the arrivals terminal and look into the crowd of people with confusion and irritation. We exchange looks. Wide-eyed grins and giddy hands holding signs turn into faces full of disappointment once they realise I am not their loved one. My look, avaraciously hopeful that maybe I recognise a face or I’m being surprised by a loved one, sinks in seconds.
”Why the fuck would someone wait for me in a country I’ve never visited before?” my heart asks my delirius optimism.
The loneliness I have endured in the last two years has been immeasurable. I promised myself that if I ever completed this project, dispatch, I would take myself out for a celebratory bottle of orange wine; with hopes it would be unable to depress me further. Every window seat came with an empty middle seat and double the snacks as a consolation from an air hostess.
Whether it’s at baggage claim or in a line for chewing gum and a sudoku book; everyone at the airport is waiting. After arriving at my fourth airport in four weeks, I began to keep these notes with the intention of publishing it for you. It made the tears in my eyes dissipate and filled the empty middle seat that haunted me. In between publishing my OWN highlights reel of my mysterious travel itinerary, my tragedy was the solitude being the only thing waiting for me at arrivals.
So I waited in lounges. At pubs. At the gate. Ready to disembark.
I spoke to people while they waited, without the fear of them being racist or unable to speak English. Most of whom were on their way towards reunions with families. Only, with one intention: I needed an answer to
if you were 25 again, what’s the advice you would give to yourself?
enjoy.
dotcom x
