Previously: 0.3 Walking On The Moon—Because love never ends. But is subject to gravity
Secrets of the Continent
I arrived in Nairobi at the end of September to find it exactly as advertised, a town covering itself in dust and glory. Money was indeed pouring from the sky, but only into the laps of the well connected, highly skilled, and good looking.
Any one of those indicators on your CV and you were a shoo-in; two and you were living la vida loca; the trifecta put you in the penthouse.
I tried shaking down the local alumni network, but learned I lacked the hard skills that were in demand--engineering, construction, aviation, medicine, computers. Not even internships for recent grads. Besides, those people were not hired locally. They were sent on expat visas from the home office on three-to-twelve month stints. Anything else, I learned, required a work permit with a Kenyan-domiciled sponsor, paying what the locals could afford.
My blonde classmate, I would find out years later, had financed her final year of college— plus shopping sprees— by playing piano in the nude at a high-end men’s club. Guess that was one way of using a Western education to name your price.
It took about a month, but I eventually found a job teaching at a girls’ junior college, run by missionaries who were suspicious of my motives. I started out subbing for a teacher who’d returned to the States on a family emergency, but as soon as they saw an original of my degree, a picture of Semmy, and my return airfare, they signed me on and sponsored my work visa for the rest of the academic year. That did not prevent their charges from hitting on me in class and out. But that was what they were going to have to settle for if knowledge transfer was to take place.
The pay wasn't great but it covered rent, food, and phone bills to a dormitory in Oregon. Of course she still loved me. How could she not? But she had a lot of work now, and the calls became shorter, particularly when she had to go to her study group. She was the only female in most of her classes, I learned. Everyone was very friendly, and they all looked out for her.
I tried to avoid visualizing that, but knew exactly what it looked like up close. And even though Semmy said she knew how to handle these things, it still got the better of me— more than she wanted to hear. I became depressed and lonely. Finally, I caved and had a fling with a couple of students who were hot, down to fuck for an easy A, and not shy about it. I became even more miserable.
The only thing that kept me going was January, when she would come and spend winter break with me. We were going to take month and go on safari, then head back to the America, formally engaged.
Never Read the Fine Print
A month turned into two weeks. Then I couldn't get the time off. And she couldn't get the flights. Hindsight I should have just quit, as my predecessor had. But her husband was with Boeing, and I didn’t feel it was the right thing to do by missionaries trying to keep the place running for the glory of God. So I went to the headmaster, a martinet hired by the board to maintain high moral and ethical standards, told him I wanted to resign and why.
That will not be possible Mister Harvey, he cheerfully explained. Your situation is different from Mrs. Gratzer’s. You have signed a contract agreeing to work at the college through the first week of next August. He pulled the document from the drawer in front of him and slid it across the desk. It did say August. How had I missed that?
The college has provided guarantees to the government for your visa, Mister Harvey, including a substantial security deposit, which we will forfeit in the event you break your contract. This would be very disappointing. For not only have we placed a great deal of trust in you, we have also invested our students’ tuition moneys in you. We will be forced to find an instructor on an emergency basis at a premium, with funds we do not have. Giving us no option but to bill you for the burden this creates. And refer you to the authorities to make sure your obligations are paid in full before you leave the country.
Or, he spidered his fingers together and smiled graciously, you can fulfill your obligation to the college, and then you will be free to go, with no hard feelings and our warmest wishes for many happy years together with your beautiful bride!
I cleared my throat. Let me think about that, I said.
Absolutely, he smiled generously. No hurry.
Shades of Kilamanjaro
Semmy and I barely had time together the first week. I had to put her up in the crappy hostel-style hotel I’d stayed at when I first arrived, then bus or taxi to see her between classes. She said it was fine, and she was studying. But there nothing to see around the hotel, and she had to be bored out of her skull.
Finally we flew down to Tanzania, and spent a wondrous week watching the herds on the Serengeti by day, blending our voices and bodies with the animal sounds and rhythms about us by night.
And in the shadow of Kilimanjaro, at the appointed signal, the guides stepped out of sight, but not out of camera range, as I popped the ring.
That photo, long gone, still haunts me.
I am on bended knee. Semmy looks down at the ring on her hand, covers her mouth with the other. Beyond us stretch endless herds of zebras, elephants, wildebeest, and giraffe.
Everything was so perfect. That night I tried a new position on her. Where did you learn that? she wanted to know. We're in Africa, I said. And when in Africa? she laughed knowingly. I never finished that sentence.
For Everything There Is A Season
I took off the day before Semmy left. We splurged and stayed in town at the Fairmont. That’s where I popped the second question. I wanted to be with her, I said. We'd been apart for three months, and it was killing me. Help me get out of here. I need you to write a letter to the school. Tell them you’re pregnant. Anything. Please!
She looked upon me in pity, took my face between her hands and said Harv, I can write a letter. I’ll write anything you want. But you cannot be with me now. There is a time for embracing. This is a time to refrain from embracing. This is a time for both of us to utilize the things we’ve gained in school---knowledge, tools, mentors, friendships, internships, activities--- and apply them to the paths we have chosen.
That felt like a bullet right through the chest.
Easy for you to say, growing up beautiful and talented on the Upper East Side, I hit back. But see how that works growing up in a literalist sect in an isolated community with no tools, no mentors, no internships, no activities, and a single source of truth that tells you it’s all about Jesus who, by the way, is coming back any day now.
Semmy, they had to invent a major so I could graduate. And when I did, I couldn’t find a job. I was too busy catching up on shit I should’ve already known. I couldn’t afford to work for nothing but the skills I needed to be learning. That’s why I had to go hide in grad school. That’s why I had to be a deckhand on a ferry. That’s why I had to sleep on porches. I can barely pay interest on my loans. Semmy, I’m less than a suit. I’m the label that fell off it!
Harvey, she said, we're all flawed. Know why my mother never remarried? Because I kept stealing her boyfriends! She wanted me to become the model-actress she could never be. But all she brought home was doctors. Know what that told me? Don’t be an actress— be a doctor. She had nice shoes, but she could never figure out how to get me a pair of doctor's shoes. Not like her latest surgeon feeling me up in the back of his Beemer could. Know why I was really out on Island that summer? Because she caught me sleeping with one of her boyfriends. That's how I lived before you came along. It was horrible. Now can you see how happy I was to find you? Harvey, it’s not too late. Go make something of yourself. And if all you can do is work for an hourly wage, then become the best goddamned lawyer out there and charge a thousand dollars an hour!
I stared at her in disbelief. Semmy, I'm treading water. I've been treading water my whole fucking life!
I couldn't see it. She was standing right in front of me and I still couldn't see it. I was drowning, and she was yelling at me to swim for it. But I was too far under to hear what she was saying.
That final night together we did not fuck. We just wanted to hold each other face to face, and say nothing. Because it would begin soon enough after I kissed her goodbye, and stood atop the steps watching her disappear down an endless corridor in a brown sheepskin coat and blue knapsack toward the boarding gate.
Midway, she turned one final time and waved. A weird panic seized me. It was all I could do to not to yell after her to come back.
The Hijacking
I was at my place that evening when I heard the news on Voice of America. A plane from Seattle to Portland had been hijacked by someone with a bomb. My field of vision shrank to two small pinpoints as I groped about for the yellow piece of paper on which she had written her itinerary. I stared wildly at the connecting flight number, roared in horror, and crumpled to my knees, as if run through by an enormous pike.
I tried to pray, but nothing would come. I began making calls to anyone who would pick up, asking them to pray. I called the headmaster. I called my star students. They came over and knelt down beside me, raising their hands and crying out to God for Semoira by name.
After they left, I started dialing through every airline in the phonebook. No one was picking up, except for the reservations people, who knew nothing. I called the Portland International Airport. A woman there said you had better check the news. I swore at her, and slammed down the phone.
By now it was 6:00 a.m. The radio was on, and there was an update on the hostage situation. The plane had been stormed, the hijacker was dead, and all passengers and crew had been rescued, safe and unharmed.
Not On The Cape Anymore
It was not until the following day that I was able to reach Semoira. She told me how she had been standing right there when they shot him with a single bullet, right through the chest. They had all been rushed off the plane, trampling the hijacker's prostrate body lying in a growing puddle of blood. She had been the first down the emergency chute. They had to wait until the crime scene was recorded, investigated, and cleaned up. Then they had to go back on board and retrieve their belongings. It was horrible. She hadn’t been able to do it.
Then they had to debrief with FBI investigators. There were only three field officers in the Portland office. By the time they had finished taking statements from all passengers and crew it was past midnight, and there were no taxis. A friend from school had heard the news and driven over to wait with her. He had gone back on board to retrieve her belongings, and then had given her a ride back to her dorm. She was in her room now. She had not been hurt, but it had been very terrible. I love you so much, Harv. I just want you to come hold me until this all goes away. I have to go to my biochem lab now. Let's talk later.
The next day I told her I was leaving for Portland I expected her to be overjoyed. Instead, she became agitated. It's not going to work, she told me. I don't have a car. You don't have a job. All you'll be able to do is hang around my room and wait for me to come back, and then I won't have any time for you. Even on the weekends. I'll have lab or clinic or study group. Besides, dorm guests are not allowed for more than two nights. We're not out on the Cape, Harv. You're going to have to have to fend for yourself.
I caught that one on the first bounce. Okay, I'll come see you over the spring break, I said. She told me that that would be better. It would help her get all this off her mind. I love you so much. I'll be all right, sweetie. I miss you, too.
But as March approached, she grew tentative. She needed to line up an internship for the summer, had not had any time to work on it, and the application deadlines were upon her. She would be traveling and preparing for interviews. We would have maybe a night together at best. Could we wait until that's over? she asked. As soon as I get something, we’ll take a trip somewhere. Grand Canyon, Hawaii, Vegas. How about that, sweetie?
But all the programs were full, and she was wait-listed everywhere. She would not know where she was going until the week before. It was nerve-wracking, and she could see herself washing test tubes and petri dishes that summer while the rest of her classmates were locking down their future residencies.
Finally something came through with a neurosurgery clinic up in Seattle. It was her dream job, she told me excitedly, but she would have to pack that night to get up there in time. I love you so much! I'll write as soon as I get settled.
I spoke with her one more time after that, for just a few minutes. She had given me a PO Box to write to, but she never answered any of my letters. I found the address of the clinic, called the operator, and had her paged.
Are you getting my letters? I wanted to know.
I am getting your letters, she replied. Harv, they just pulled me out of a surgery to take your call. They said it was an emergency. Can you not call me at work unless it is a real emergency?
Can you just let me know you are getting my letters? I demanded. I don't ask much. I just want to know you're safe and that everything's all right.
Everything is all right, she said. I'll write you this weekend. I have to go now, sweetie. I love you.
A week later a thick envelope arrived. She apologized for causing me so much worry with everything since the hijacking. It had been very hard for her, and she could see it was taking a toll on me as well. She began naming all the ways she was making me suffer. She was hurting the most wonderful man she had ever known. She was working sixteen-hour days now, and she could no longer be the woman I needed and deserved. So she was asking me for this chapter of our lives if we could just be friends. She had been thinking and praying about this for a long time. She could understand I was going to feel, that it wasn't going to be easy, but she was asking me with all her heart. She wanted me to understand that she would do anything I needed. And, she promised, she would be there any time for me, every step of the way. Always, Semmy.
Sweet Dreams and Flying Machines
That began my other endless summer. I stayed in Nairobi, writing longing letters every day. I sent her letter after letter, until I lost count, and no longer had anything breathtaking or heart-stopping to say, except that my love for her would just not end, whether I wanted it to or not. All I want now is to live one day over—the day I met you, or the day I lost you— so we will never be apart again. Semmy, I am on both knees as I write this. If there is even the smallest place in your heart left for us to start over, I will treasure that more dearly than life itself. For without you, I have nothing left to treasure. Just say the word.
For two weeks there was silence. Then this:
Harvey, I am finishing up my internship at the clinic and want you to know that I received and read all of your letters. This is the last time I will write to you about this, and I wanted to respond in a way that makes clear how I feel about you, about us, and about myself as I start my second year of medical school. I’ve learned so much from you. There is nothing I would change, or a day I would want to live differently, not even that horrible day in January. And I would do everything again as the person I was, a woman with a dream she didn't believe possible, in love with a man who did impossible things. You showed me things about myself I never knew, and I can never thank you enough. Please do not blame yourself that there must be something you did to change my feelings toward you. I have only good memories of us and the love we shared. What has changed is that I have at last found the courage to open the gift you gave me, which is to accept myself as the person I have always wanted to be and am now becoming— a medical professional. A big part of that is becoming a person who everyone around you can depend on: patients, staff, colleagues. You belong to everybody, not just family, friends, lover, or spouse. Everybody suddenly has an equal right to your time when you have a healing skill. And because of that, what you can give and what you can accept changes in ways you cannot possibly anticipate... You reach for a person I no longer am, or can go back to. Nor can I ask you to become someone you shouldn't be. Pretending would give us a few years and a rocky marriage leaving both of us permanently damaged, and I don't want to remember you that way... You asked if I could find even the smallest place in my heart to start over. Harvey, I am weeping as I write this answer, because it is the hardest thing I will ever say. It's not that there is no room in my heart, or anything but the deepest feeling for all we had together. It's that I don't love you anymore. We have to move on. Please let me know how to return your beautiful ring...
That was August, the last day of my contract, and it sent me into a tailspin. I called the clinic in Seattle; she was not there. I called Ginni, who seemed surprised to hear from me. Semmy was traveling with friends, she said. I called her dorm to see if anyone knew where she was. Is this her… friend from Kenya? She is no longer here, someone finally told me. She’s sharing an apartment out in Multnomah. Do you want me to find out the address? I paused. No, I said, that will be fine.
I dropped off my letter of resignation, grabbed all the cash, memorabilia, and blank notebooks I could find, and caught the train for Mombasa. I found a freighter going anywhere, and for three days I stood on the deck and stared at an endless hazy seascape. On the morning of the fourth day, I began reading every letter, staring at every picture until there was nothing left to know, mourn, or remember. Then I tore everything slowly into strips from top to bottom, and tossed them overboard. I did this for seven days. Then on the eighth day, I sat down in the galley, and began to write, starting from the hour and minute I first saw her, recording each detail, thought, word, and deed. I was going to get it out of myself and into an airtight container, where I could look back on it all, because I wanted to know.
I wanted to know what question too deep for words she had answered in me. I wanted to know how the most beautiful thing I could imagine had turned into something that would haunt me the rest of my life. I wanted to know how someone who could not possibly have a cruel thought in her not hear my cries for mercy.
By the time we hit Mozambique, I had finished an entire notebook, and I wasn't even through our first week. This was going to take more time than I thought, probably as long as it would take to circumnavigate Africa. For the next several months, I sat in empty galleys at sea, and onshore canteens in port, filling up notebook after notebook. It was very hot. I sweat constantly. I crossed the Equator twice. Every place looked the same.
In my sleep, I constantly dream of planes. I see all kinds of them, fixed and rotary wing, turboprops, jet-propelled, aerobatic and amphibious, long and medium range, wide-body and two-seater, combat and corporate. But the one I see most is a Northwest Orient 727. It is pulling up on a tarmac in a frightfully hot desert. The rear exit door lowers. A woman descends. She wears a brown sheepskin coat and carries a blue knapsack. Her face is transparent, like perfectly clear glass. Her eyes are merciless pearls. She speaks in a tongue that is musical, and without words, about things which were, are not, and will never be again. At the sound of her voice, I bow my head over a body slain by a single bullet, at close range. She turns, and vanishes forever down an endless white corridor. I run in frantic pursuit of her ever-receding figure, when suddenly before me stands a strong angel, sword drawn and proclaiming in a loud voice, “Back to your grave, Ghost! Bearing wounds you can neither close nor disclose!”
A Season Beyond All Seasons
By the time I finally made it back to Mombasa, I was dragging a pile of notebooks, containing what I thought was a working understanding of what had happened, and how I was going to fix it. That all went up in flames when I returned to my apartment to find a bundle of mail, mostly bills, bank statements, and construction notices. In the middle of all that was a single thin, white envelope with a lump in its throat, addressed in a hand I instantly recognized. It had been postmarked a week earlier. She hoped I was well, and that my friends were doing well, too. She wanted me to know that she was engaged to be married, and they would be having a small ceremony in the fall. She had known Ethan for over a year. They were both following his parents into the medical profession, very much in love, and the best of friends. She wished me every happiness in life, and hoped we would someday meet again in heaven. Sincerely, Semoira. Carefully wrapped in a piece of cloth was the ring.
I put the the letter back in its envelope, and the ring in my pocket. There was only one thing I needed to know now, and she would not have the answer. I looked around. Last year's calendar was still on my desk. I began rummaging around and found some girlie calendars from previous tenants. I took the two I was looking for, sat down, and began to count the days. I finished, and counted again. Then I called my straight A students over to check my work. Same result. They were dying to see me, and wanted to know what had happened. They now had a cranky old missionary wife for Western Civ. Mister Harvey, you are the best teacher we ever had! We miss you! I missed them, too. Those girls were fun, and they were the best. That night was the last decent sex I would have. Believe it or not, those girls are now grandmothers, and we still stay in touch. Funny the people who end up meaning the most to you in life.
I booked my return flight through to New York, connected to Seattle, then to Portland on the same plane she had been hijacked on. The flight was pretty empty. I sat in the same seat as Semmy and tried to enter into her terror. I stood at the approximate spot where she'd been standing when the cockpit door had burst open and commandos poured through yelling FBI! Freeze! I saw where they had replaced the bloodstained carpet. I stepped through the exit she had been yanked through when the emergency chutes deployed. And I went back on board and opened the bin where Ethan had gone and retrieved her luggage for her.
She'd had a very hard day.
I wondered if he had laid the bags at her feet, then carefully put his arms around her. As I had, on the opposite side of the continent, 555 days earlier.
Because she was unable to imagine life without him.
History turns on a dime.
Sometimes very fast.
Sometimes very slow.
But it turns. Again. And again.
Something was telling me to get back on a plane and get out of there, but I didn't. I had her address. I had something to say. And I had come this far.
My credit card was declined at the Avis counter so I had to pay cash at Alamo for a Ford with a steady front end vibe.
Just south of Portland, I hit a crater opened up by recent rains. The vibe went steady to violent, snapped off the front right wheel, and flipped me into oncoming traffic.
Last thing I remember is blinding lights, then a terrific smashing, crushing, banging, dragging, with sparks everywhere.
Next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital bed, burns all over, paralyzed from the waist down.
It’s a miracle you’re alive, the doctor consoled. Most people don’t survive what you went through.
Blessed are the dead, I said, which die in the Lord. Yes, replied the doctor, For their works do follow them. He paused. The police contacted your parents who have been acting as power of attorney while you were in a coma. We also found a letter from a Semoira King in Multnomah. And this. He placed the ring on the bed next to me. We were going to contact her in case you didn't make it. Ms King, it turns out, is a med school student on assignment here at the neo-natal ward in the next wing. She is coming in on shift this evening. We were going to airlift you out to Seattle as soon as you regained consciousness, but we can wait if you wish to have some time with her.
I thought about that for a bit.
No, Doc, said Harv finally. She's getting married. I can't have her see me like this. Call the chopper. Don’t even let her know I was here.
And to this day, she has no idea what happened.
Next: 0.5 Why Is This Day Different From All Other Days?—Because history keeps turning on a dime.
You’re reading Five Stages of Unf*ck, Red Pill Journey to January 2.0, by Harvey Oxenhorn. Subscribe here to join the journey, and get subsequent posts mailed to your inbox and on your mobile app. And feel free to comment below with any feedback, questions, or requests.
Harvey Oxenhorn, is a cybersecurity consultant, author of The Five Stages of Unf*ck, Red Pill Journey to January 2.0. for the millions of men mangled by years of unchecked and unquestioned feminism, globalism, and Woke. He is also founder of Malwords Weekly, and author of the upcoming book, The Atrocity Algorithm, How The Media Became The Enemy of The People. Follow him on Gettr, Gab, and MeWe @HarveyOxenhorn