Sangla and the river

“I shall take all the troubles of the past, all the disappointments,
all the headaches, and I shall pack them in a bag and throw them
in the East River.”
Trygye Lie

My name is Sangla. It is currently 1:00pm by the riverside where I am seated staring at the calm mass of the Mississippi flowing by. From far and wide this body has traveled; violently winding its way around rocks and hills like a wounded snake. It has forcefully journeyed through this difficult path, and at some point, it even flooded cities for which we wept. But lo, here it is by the coast of La Crosse, as serene as the lonely clouds in the sky; a figure of one of the most tranquil scenes in the world from which we seek peace of mind.

Something has always intrigued me about rivers. My habit of daydreaming around the waters of rivers dates back to my childhood days by the coast of my native Cameroon. As a kid, barely seven years old, there were afternoons when I used to stand barefoot in the sand by the beach just to feel the waves of the Wouri river rush up to wash my feet. I would then close my eyes, stretch out my arms open to the blowing wind and wish it would carry me along on a flying tour over the roaring waters. I would often awake to realize how late it already was because then the sun would have gone home for the night. This to me was one of the most passionate feelings in the world.

Today, flowing masses of water still hypnotize me. When I sit by moving waters, I feel a dual personality within. The first person (probably my physical body) is often captivated by the sights and the murmuring sounds from the subtle movements of water as I intently gaze. The second is my psyche that takes a deep dive into my mind, bringing back thoughts from those hidden corners where the hook of my imagination would not have otherwise reached. That is why I like sitting by the riverside with a pen and my journal in hand, ready to pin down my capricious thoughts before they escape.

In the past, however, I did not always have much luck capturing my thoughts by the La Crosse River. In fact, the Mississippi did not always appeal to me. I would rather be by the rivers of my homeland. Not that long ago, whenever I sat by the coast of La Crosse, the immediate sight of land on the other side of the water was a view that I didn’t appreciate, as it seemed to block the path of my imagination.

When gazing at moving waters, I always want to see a river running to the sea, or breaking up in foams as it hits the rocks before pouring its contents into the ocean. I always want to see the ocean linking hands with the horizon, and the horizon extending itself to infinity. It is then that my mind opens up, letting loose my imagination and urging it to fly into the distance. That is why I have always loved staring at the majestic mass of the outstretched Atlantic Ocean by the coast of my homeland.

Whenever I am by the La Crosse river, I have a feeling of being hemmed in, of not being able to let my imagination fly off. To get that feeling of liberty, I usually seek in its waters the river of my homeland. I would usually narrow my view to zoom on a little portion of the river, ignoring the people and things around me and imagining myself on the beach back home.

It always seems so real that I would actually hear the multitude of languages of my homeland and the laughter behind me in the familiar African accents. I would hear the giggling of young couples as they walk hand in hand along the beach. Over there, young boys play beach soccer joyfully on the sandy terrains, while their younger sisters skip the rope nearby.

Thoughts of soccer haven’t been too pleasant to me recently, though. This is because I am still to recover from a recent accident at the intramurals that almost wiped away every fond memories of that sport from my mind. At the peak of the excitement in one of the games, I fell on my right elbow dislocating my right shoulder. Since then, I have been surviving the storms of the semester working with my left arm, the right arm lodged in a sling.

I remember my second follow-up visit to the hospital a week after the accident. I had read so much about shoulder dislocations that I stubbornly didn’t give heed to the sermon the Doctor was preaching to me about how to care for my injured shoulder. While he talked, my eyes kept roaming about the images on his wall like those of a detective searching for some clue. At some point however, he succeeded to capture my attention with a catch phrase:

Doctor: “You may have to take a surgery for full recovery”.
What! Surgery! Forget it, man! NO WAY!! I thought to myself as I turned to look at him as if to blame him for the injury. At least, not in this country; I am not ready to go through a phase of financial paralysis.
Me: “I thought surgeries were not recommended for first time shoulder dislocations. Isn’t it usually cases of repeated dislocations that need surgery?”
Doctor: “True, but a surgery guarantees complete recovery, especially for an arm like yours that would obviously fall out of its socket again if I were to take off that sling. You will first have to wear a sling for the next six weeks, and we would see how well the shoulder heals”.
Me: “What!”
Doctor: “Yes, the blow to your shoulder was that bad, and it will take a while for your torn ligaments to heal. You may experience repeated dislocations afterwards, and the more dislocations you get, the less painful they would feel as your tissues would be wearing out. If that should happen, lengthy immobilization on a sling would be worthless, and you would have to resolve to surgery”.
‘There he goes again; Surgery!’ I thought to myself.
‘In fact, it would be cheaper for me to pay a flight back home, get my surgery alongside a good vacation by the river, pay my flight back to school, and still get about a thousand dollars balance. The quality of the surgery may not be the best, but I know of some doctors back home who could do a job that is good enough on my shoulder.

(... )

My mind was a little at peace after talking to Bana and Kunta. I realized so much about myself; That I have hurt many people in many ways that I didn’t know, and I don’t have the guts like Bana didn’t, to call them and apologize. Some of these prejudices I am only beginning to see that I have. I really don’t know how to say I am sorry for those things, but I am happy I have learnt of my complexes, and I hope to eliminate them from my judgements.

My head ached with all these thoughts, as I went for my last visit to the doctor about my shoulder. I was so happy and relieved it had been six weeks... time to take off my sling and put my arm into action. When I got to the doctor, he told me “you will not be able to throw a ball with your right arm for a long time.
If the shoulder persistently hurts, then you may _”
I cut in there saying “I know, I may have to go through surgery, right?”.
“Right!” he answered, a smile at the corner of his lips.
'Great, just great!'

I have immobilized my arm on a sling for a long time now. Typing my papers, working, or living in general without my right arm has not been easy. I am pale, consumed by my struggle. I am weak, ready to take off my sling and come back to life. Lent is over.

With my sling off, the first place I think of carrying the headache of my recovery is by the riverside in La Crosse. That is why I am standing there right now ashamed of all the insulting thoughts I had about the water, while seeking peace of mind. I have decided to clear off my stereotype about every river. I realize the La Crosse river can be inspirational in its own way, much different from the Wouri river in my hometown.

There is no reason to excessively adorn the Wouri simply because it is of my homeland. That is what I did in the past and became blinded to the beauty of the Mississippi. With the eye glasses of prejudice against this river taken off my eyes, I now realize what a beautiful river the Mississippi truly is; just as beautiful a river as the Wouri of my childhood. Despite all the bad thoughts I might have harboured about you, dear Mississippi, please bear me no grudges. Your silent insinuous movements are still a great source of inspiration for me. The reflection of the setting sun on your glittering waters gives the gentle ripples of your waters quite a sight to behold. Wise men and poets have sung endless songs of love by your banks. I too join them in scribbling a few words of love, peace, and harmony by your waters. As I watch you flow gently by, Mississippi, I recall the immortal words of Trygye Lie: “I shall take all the troubles of the past, all the disappointments, all the headaches, and I shall pack them in a bag and throw them in the East River.”