A Thousand Sisters_ My Journey Into the Worst Place on Earth to Be a Woman - Lisa Shannon [18]
“I’m James.”
“Hello, James,” I say, keeping my hands to myself.
“What’s wrong? You won’t shake my hand?” he says in an unsettling, sharp voice. “What’s your name? Why won’t you shake my hand?”
Alarm bells start to blare in my head. Isolated road, no clear path forward or back. Truckers whizzing by, oblivious.
I hold up my hands and gesture towards the path as if to say, “Back off.”
This does not fly.
“What? You’re too good to shake my hand?” He thrusts out his hand again in confrontation. “Just shake my hand and I’ll leave you alone. Hi. I’m James.”
I shake his hand.
“I’m Lisa. Nice to meet you.”
He doesn’t let go of my hand and barks, “What’s my name?”
“James.”
“What’s my name again?”
“James.”
“See? Was that so hard?”
He lets go of my hand, turns his bike around and begins to walk away. I take a few steps toward the trail. He stops, turns back and spits, “I hate people like you.”
A dead calm comes over me. This is not the nonsensical raving of a mad-man, but cool, palpable rage. Staring at me, he says, “I hate women.”
I remain detached, as if watching a child throw a temper tantrum. In an effort to soothe him, I start to say, “I’m sorry you are in so much pain.” But all I can get out is “I’m sorry” before he interrupts, shouting, “Sorry? No. No. You better get out of here!”
I’m calculating. He’s blocking my path to the car. If I start to run up the trail even a hundred yards, I will not be visible to traffic. I will be completely isolated. He could easily follow me on his bike and attack. With no way forward and no way back, I stand still.
“I said you better get out of here—I’ll hurt you,” he threatens.
I stare at him with icy reserve. He is testing me, playing at controlling me, and he’s clearly aggravated that I refuse to obey. If I turn my back to run, it will be an invitation to chase.
I back away, moving steadily toward the trail with my eyes on him, as he shouts louder and louder. “You better run! Don’t walk. Run! You better run! Now!”
Then he spews like a drill sergeant. “Run now! Run now! Run now!”
I peel around toward the road and walk directly onto the two-lane highway, holding up my hands like a prisoner surrendering. A yellow semitruck slows and stops in front of me. I’m safe, blocking traffic, watching James slink away on his bike and disappear down the road.
Driving home, I think about all the brides who shape-shift into Bridezilla on their big day. It rains, or the orange-peach on the cake clashes with the pink-peach on the flower girls’ sashes, and they declare, “Crisis!” I want to tell them it could be worse, much worse. I wonder if today qualifies as the Worst Wedding Day Ever. Wedding called off. Sitting here in Portland instead of Italy. Groom left for Berlin. Bride accosted by a sociopath.
I’ll joke with friends about it in the weeks that follow, until one of them will point out, “That’s not the worst wedding day ever. The worst is to have the day go perfectly, but you’ve married the wrong guy.” Well put, though we are both wrong. It won’t be until I get to Congo that I will hear about the worst wedding day ever.
Today, walking into the kitchen door of our little Victorian bungalow, I’m not amused. I try to call my mom, Lana, even Ted in Berlin. No one is home. I sit on the prop couch in my empty house. It doesn’t feel like home. It feels more like a disease.
Meanwhile, Congo has become magnetic. I don’t care what I might lose. Numbness has made room for craving. I want to tear my life to shreds and see what’s left.
CHAPTER SIX
I’d Like to Buy the World a Coke
BRITISH AIRWAYS FLIGHT 0065, London to Nairobi. I wake up on one of the empty four-seat “couches” in coach (lucky for me, it’s not a big week for African pleasure holidays), untangle myself from the synthetic blankets, and check out the seatback flight map. We’re in African airspace. I study the territory: Mogadishu, Darfur Mountains, Kigali, Lake Kivu.
We land in Nairobi at