by David Kuhio Ahia II
Memory once again called me to the endless chase. She teased and heckled my want for the facts concerning my insurmountable achievements atop Mount Kilimanjaro. So I pursued her, hoping to catch her, hoping to reclaim clarity.
After a lengthy night pleading with Memory, my most capricious mistress, for a hint at the details of my journey, she left a dossier of the events upon my desk and, with the soft hues of a California sunrise expunging the foreboding darkness from my study, I started to peruse her account of my ascent. But, as always, she kept me in the shadows of forgetfulness.
Here tale began: “The glacial atmosphere of that dim African night, illuminated only by the twinkling dots of flashlights that revealed the hikers making their lonely summit, bit through your polyester jacket and numbed your lips. During your respite, which was mandatory for all who ascended Mount Kilimanjaro, your Nalgene bottle had frozen over; a thin icy sheet rested atop the chilled water beneath.”
My midnight journey, according to fickle Memory, had me “toiling atop the troposphere where the thin air chokes and strangles. The silence, for wheezing supplanted conversation, gave a disturbing tone to that night.”
The clarity of her file surprised me. It was so unlike her, much too straightforward. How could this be her handiwork? No sooner had I thought this than the account diverged from concision, revealing her intentions.
The dossier began to recount two tales, two conflicting tales. As the sun expelled the darkness and the frost I took my first peak at the snows of Kilimanjaro. My gasping breath resounded across the barren crater where the African glaciers lie. Gillman’s Point: the start of the final trek to the peak, the beginning of the crater rim, the launch of the narratives’ deviation.
The document plunged me back into confused dusk. The first tale: “You immediately made your way to the crater rim trail and, with the help of your Tanzanian guide, hiked towards Uhura Peak. But the trek to Gillman’s Point had sapped your vigor. Descent was the only option.” My guide asked me to yield and I complied.
The second tale: “You waited half an hour above the African cloud cover, staring at the enshrouded landmass. After your breather, you continued your ascent to Uhura only to find that the fastest of your group had begun their descent. Poor timing forced your descent.” My guide asked me to yield and I complied.
I left the dossier in my study and exited to the garden, hoping to meet with my mistress. She smirked at my confusion. Her cryptic document had vexed me, just as she had intended. There, both our bare feet resting on the dew-drizzled grass; she leaned forward and whispered into my ear.
The truth of the matter returned to me, as clear as my first sunrise above Africa. There I stood, wheezing atop the crater rim. My own ineptitude prompted me to ask my guide to guide my descent. I asked to yield. He complied.
How could she muddle these crucial facts? What right had Memory to immerse me in darkness?
But I had propagated those opposing tales. They were not of my mistress’s making. During my moment of fury, I experienced this revelation. When asked why I had not made my summit, I gave those explanations. I had lied. I had muddled Memory. I had offered those alternative tales to my family and to my friends. They accepted them, and so did I.
I had no need to quarrel with her, as I had always quarreled with her. I had never needed to struggle with my mistress, I needed to embrace her and forgiver her. I had facilitated my forgetfulness to live with my ineptitude. I had caught Memory, I had ended the endless chase, and I had found no achievements.
Originally published in Rind Literary Magazine — Issue 1 (August 2012).
Vox Inaudica 