The Selfless Act of Breathing

Trigger Warning: suicide.

JJ Bola’s second novel ‘The Selfless Act of Breathing’ is out in the UK with Dialogue Books.

It will launch in the US in Feb 2022, with French, German, Italian and Brazilian Portuguese translations also coming soon.

Part I: Memento Mori

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 some how 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, followed  by two lovers with matching stonewash jeans delicately in  each other’s arms.

He rushes over to the queue. 9.15 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. ‘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?’ he says, with palpable frustration. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the other colleague says, her heavily  made-up face  – contoured nose, lips painted a burgundy  wine – distracting him, ‘we can’t seem to find your booking.’ ‘That’s wrong! I booked the flight myself. My name is defi nitely there. Michael Kabongo. 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 outburst, then at each other.

‘I do apologise, 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. 9.20  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.  9.22 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 judgemental 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 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  brown hair behind the check-in counter takes his passport  and types into the computer.

‘Any luggage to check in?’

He places his backpack on the scale.

‘Travelling 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 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, ‘my flight is at ten o’clock. I have to  go through now!’ She looks at his boarding pass and quickly  lets him through. 9.35 a.m. The 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, fumbles trying to pick them up. He rapidly  takes off his jacket and scarf, belt, satchel, everything out of  his pockets and throws them on to a tray. 9.39 a.m. Michael goes through the metal detector and  the alarm bleeps. The security officer approaches 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. 9.43.

9.44. Michael is running through duty free, each step a  stomp heavy enough to leave its footprint through the floor. 

9.45. He sees Gate 13 up ahead in the distance. 9.46. He  arrives at the gate. There is no one there. He falls on to his  knees, panting. What a fucking waste. 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,’ he replies repeatedly, 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-class flyers, who  don’t look up at him, and 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 on to the seat, and feels  a calmness settle within him, the sun hanging on a distant  horizon.

This is the beginning of the end.

JJ Bola is an established writer, poet and UNHCR Ambassador. His three poetry collections – Elevate (2012), Daughter of the Sun (2014), and WORD (2015) – were all published in one definitive collection called Refuge (2018), which was read out in the British House of Commons during Refugee week in 2018. He was one of Spread the Word’s Flight Associates 2017 and a Kit de Waal Scholar for the Birkbeck University MA in Creative Writing. As a former refugee, JJ Bola was invited to the Davos Economic Forum 2018 and held a discussion with Cate Blanchett. His debut novel, No Place to Call Home, was first published in the UK in 2017, and in 2018 in North America. His non-fiction book Mask Off: Masculinity Redefined, which exposes masculinity as a socially conditioned performance, was published in the UK in 2019 and sold into five more languages worldwide. JJ speaks and performs both internationally and within the UK.

Bio and images by Pontas agency.