Selfless Act of Breathing

by JJ Bola

Genres: Coming of Age; Friendship; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

A heartbreaking, lyrical story for all of those who have fantasized about escaping their daily lives and starting over. Michael Kabongo is a British-Congolese teacher living in London on the cusp of two identities. On paper, he seems to have it all: He’s beloved by his students, popular with his coworkers, and the pride and joy of a mother who emigrated from the Congo to the UK in search of a better life. But behind closed doors, he’s been struggling with the overwhelming sense that he can’t address the injustices he sees raging before him - from his relentless efforts to change the lives of his students for the better to his attempts to transcend the violence and brutality that marginalizes young Black men around the world. Then one day he suffers a devastating loss, and his life is thrown into a tailspin. As he struggles to find a way forward, memories of his fathers’ violent death, the weight of refugeehood, and an increasing sense of dread threaten everything he’s worked so hard to achieve. Longing to escape the shadows in his mind and start anew, Michael decides to spontaneously pack up and go to America, the mythical “land of the free”, where he imagines everything will be better, easier - a place where he can become someone new, someone without a past filled with pain. On this transformative journey, Michael travels everywhere from New York City to San Francisco, partying with new friends, sparking fleeting romances, and splurging on big adventures, with the intention of living the life of his dreams until the money in his bank account runs out. Written in spellbinding prose, with Bola’s trademark magnetic storytelling, The Selfless Act of Breathing takes us on a wild ride to odd but exciting places as Michael makes surprising new connections and faces old prejudices in new settings.

Publisher: Atria Books

Print pages: 224

Sample

Chapter 1: London Heathrow Airport Terminal 2, 9 a.m.

Chapter 1 London Heathrow Airport Terminal 2, 9 a.m.

I quit my job; I am taking my life savings, $9,021, and when it runs out, I am going to kill myself. The flight is in one hour. He left with more than enough time to get there, yet somehow it was lost; hesitation, fear, anxiety. Bodies pass him in every direction. He stands still, looks up to the board, to find the check-in. He sees a young, blonde-haired mother carrying her child. Behind them is a tall man, eyes closed, earphones in, hair tied in locs, carrying a backpack and a guitar, wearing harem pants, looking as though he is going on an adventure to find himself. Two pilots and a quartet of flight attendants glide through in coordinated steps, emanating a glow as if the path beneath them is lit up, and two lovers with matching stonewashed jeans delicately in each other’s arms.

He rushes over to the queue. Nine-fifteen a.m. He reaches the front and passes his burgundy-red passport to the lady at the counter. This passport, a thing hoped for, a blessing, a prayer, can save a life, can make a life; can take a life too. This passport, split between red and blue, between land and sea, between hope and despair. This passport, without it I have no place to call…

“Good morning, sir,” she says, and flashes her per-hour smile. He mumbles a greeting, tapping his fingers on the desk.

“Michael Kabongo.”

“What is your destination, sir?”

“San Francisco.”

She types into the keyboard with a blank expression. She calls her colleague, who has already checked in three customers in this time. They both stare at the screen diligently.

“What’s going on?” Michael says, with palpable frustration.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the other colleague says, her heavily made-up face—contoured nose, lips painted a red wine—distracting him, “we can’t seem to find your booking.”

“That’s wrong! I booked this flight myself. My name is definitely there. I can’t miss this flight. Look again,” he calls out, raising his voice and flailing his arms, pointing; drawing attention. They look up at him, ignoring his light outburst, then at each other.

“I do apologize, sir, you’re at the wrong check-in. You need to go to…”

His heart thuds as her voice fades out. He watches the direction she points in. He snatches his passport back. Nine-twenty a.m. His lungs tighten and breath shortens as he runs through the crowd. He feels too hot for this brisk autumn morning. His skin boils under his coat; his scarf suffocates him. He starts to sweat. He is at the back of a long S-shaped queue. Nine-twenty-two a.m. He bobs up and down on his toes with the same kind of urgency as a child bursting to pee. He mumbles under his breath, prompting others to look at him with suspicion. Someone at the front of the queue is loud, meandering, making conversation, being friendly, wasting time.

“Hurry up please, old man!” Michael shouts out. The others do that judgmental thing where they pretend not to have seen you. I can’t go back. I can’t miss this flight.

“Is there anyone in this queue for the AO1K23 flight to San Francisco International Airport?” A man’s voice floats through the air.

Michael quickly lunges forward, and so does a woman waiting a few places behind him in the queue, her face the same picture of relief as his. They are brought to the front. The man with brunette hair behind the check-in counter takes his passport and types into the computer.

“Any luggage to check in?”

He places his traveler’s backpack onto the scale.

“Traveling light?” the man says, smiling, which Michael does not respond to.

“You’re all checked in, sir. But you have to be fast. The plane will be boarding very soon. Please make your way across to airport security as fast as you can.”

Michael is running once again. He arrives at security and sees a swarm of people waiting as if queuing to enter a football stadium. He paces up and down, trying to find a way to the front. He sees a customer assistant letting people through, two at a time.

“Please,” he implores her, “my flight is at ten o’clock. I have to go through now!” She looks at his boarding pass and quickly lets him through. Nine-thirty-five a.m. The boarding gate closes fifteen minutes before the flight. I have ten minutes left. His legs tighten, shaking, hands cramping up. He drops his passport and boarding pass on the floor, and fumbles trying to pick them up. He rapidly takes off his jacket and scarf, belt, satchel, everything out of his pockets and throws them onto a tray.

Nine-thirty-nine a.m. Michael goes through the metal detector and the alarm bleeps. The security officer rushes toward him, looks down at his feet, and tells him to take off his boots and go back. He returns and tries to untangle the laces of his boots, which are strapped up to the ankle, twisted and curled like vines around a tree. He undoes them and rushes through the metal detectors. The security officer waves him on. He grabs his possessions and runs once again, running, always running. Gate 13. Nine-forty-three.

Nine-forty-four. Michael is running through duty-free, each step a stomp heavy enough to leave its footprint through the floor. Nine-forty-five. He sees Gate 13 up ahead in the distance. Nine-forty-six. He arrives at the gate. There is no one there. He falls onto his knees, panting. What a fucking waste. Maybe taking a loan out for this money and doing this wasn’t a good idea after all. Maybe none of this was meant to be.

In between a mouthful of expletives, a woman appears from behind the desk like a guardian angel and quiets his ranting.

“Boarding pass, sir?”

Michael hands her his boarding pass and clutches his chest.

“Just in time, sir. Please take a breath and make your way through.”

“Thank you, thank you…,” he replies repetitively, overflowing with gratitude.

Michael walks through the plane door and is met with the smiling faces of the flight attendants. He smiles back at them. It is meant to be. He walks past the business- and first-class fliers, who don’t look up at him, into the economy area, to his seat by the window. He sits beside a man whose belly is struggling against the seatbelt and a woman who has already medicated herself halfway to sleep. He collapses onto the seat, and feels a calmness settle within him, the sun hanging on a distant horizon. This is the beginning of the end.