How a Zimbabwean with a little knowledge of history became the happiest camper on an Ethiopian Air flight en route to Cameroon

I have never felt happier being a Zimbabwean among foreign nationals in foreign land.

So the other day I got on an Ethiopian Air flight at Harare International Airport, kicking and screaming, and for good reason too, it was 2 am in the morning. These are by any standard witching hours, no one should ever pass this period with their eyes wide open, infact is it even legal to fly people anywhere at that hour? Anyway I digress, this is not even where my story is, and besides my story is much more positive.

My share in this piece begins when I then get onto my connecting flight at Addis Ababa's Bole International Airport in Ethiopia, enroute to Yaounde, Cameroon. As if I had not been abused enough travelling from Harare in the wee witching hours, I am cursed to be on the dreaded middle seat. Cameroon being part of francophone Africa, Frenchmen on such flights are hardly a rarity. So on the one side sat a heavily bearded Caucasian Frenchman clad in a white Al Capone hat, while on the other sat a well kempt, rather sophisticated looking native Cameroonian. Of course being Zimbabwean, we are quick to pick up on accents and definitely not shy to double check against fact by asking, so this is how I know incase you were wondering.

I hated being in the middle. So anyway off went the courtesy conversation: So, you sound french, are you?, what takes you to Cameroon blah blah?. So once these laboured rituals are out of the way, I take a silent sigh of relief and order a glass of red wine, first to break the awkward in the nothing-more-to-say moment that had suddenly crept in and second, to serenade myself with the sight of the ravishing Ethiopian Air flight attendants; they never fail to impress.

So as the wine sinks in and settles in the cockpit of my sanity, conversation now more naturally starts to flow, less forced and more carefree. So it turns out the Frenchman is actually a professor of anthropology and is quite well read as well in French history. And what a chance it was for me to shift to a higher gear and show-off what I once thought was useless history class in high school. Such is the Zimbabwe education system, it takes you through the history of not only Africa but of Europe in detail, but you can only respect the value of such when you speak to nationals of these countries.

So as the flight was long we ran through French History from Kings, Louis the XIV of the 14 century, right through to present day France. And of course the Cameroonian couldn’t resist, in-between catnaps smuggling in his views in a very captivating discussion that I had become de facto moderator. Five hours flew faster than the plane, as we argued about the French colonial policy of assimilation, contemporary French politics punctuated with more and more bottles of red wine courtesy of the scintillating air-hostess, who always seemed to magically appear. Occasionally she also returned to turn down the volume on the discussion as the back row to our seat joined in. The professor relentless in his pursuit to graduate us in his opinion became the loudest. Of course having studied not only the French history of monarchies but also their colonial empire I found myself very resourceful in balancing the discussion.

Of course until I had to answer to the call of nature, when I then retreated to the back of the cabin where the a whole bevy of the hostesses were chatting away the rest of the flight after serving passengers. I had not the slightest intention of having conversation with them until one of them sort of rudely asks me why we are making so much noise for the rest of the passengers.

Coming after one drink too many, my response is dismissive shot from the hip, unmeasured and blunt, without any expectation of further engagement; “We are discussing the French Monarchies Empire you know, like you guys had Emperor Haile Selassie, Tewodros and the likes of Menelik” To my surprise the blue-eyed hostess morphs into an enthusiast and excitedly asks me how I could possibly know about have interest in Ethiopian history. Of course there could have been an obvious and straightforward answer to this, but why pass up such an extraordinary chance to barter-trade all those years of seemingly useless history lessons with some discretionary sweet red wine.

Chances are ofcourse the hostesses couldn’t care less about history, but of course the allure was that a foreigner knew more than they did about their own country, and this made me somewhat of an enigmatic interest.

And so I launched into the history of the Solomonic Abyssinian empire and what do you know subconsciously the little bottles of wine roll effortlessly off the cabin shelf and spill into my mouth like a water waterfall. Naturally I lost count and by the time I arrive in Yaoundé am clearly the happiest camper on the flight, courtesy of the cabin crew.