The Stacks

The sun bit into the edge of the African plain, trying to burn a hole through the dust with the fury of its glow. The very effort seemed to make the sun grow larger before finally disappearing into the ground in rage.

All nature paused to consider the outcome of the nightly contest. Somewhere in the distance a hyena laughed when the last orange rays disappeared into the darkness.

Gonga shifted in the creaky metal chair and reached forward to adjust the sound coming out of his lap-top. The glow from the screen lit up his face in the semi-darkness of the library stacks. His chair squeaked again as he settled back.

Something hit the ground across the room from him. Someone swore, and the plastic shower curtain fluttered as the prisoner bent down to retrieve his book. The door of his metal cage clanked softly.

Only the most desperate of graduate students rented out these chain link shielded prisons. Things the librarians euphemistically called “carrels.”

Carols? Wasn’t that something happy you sang at Christmas time? How in the world did these rooms of torture, these chambers of brain masochism become mixed up with jolly songs of “ho-ho-ho”, presents and hot cocoa? Perhaps the idea of the ruler of the world coming to join the rank of humanity as a tiny baby in one of the lowliest families on earth had something to do with it. Surely those who imposed the strict isolation of the carol on their studies had similar ideas of long term benefit.

At any rate, Gonga was here as well; but without the benefit of a chain link gate or shower curtain to shut out the sight of his fellow isolationists. Instead, he used this quiet chamber on campus to allow him to travel. To revisit his child-hood’s favorite vacation spots and hear the sounds of home.

Even the laugh of the hyena that night had been comforting. It was true that Missouri had coyotes, which were similar in size to their African cousins. But they lacked any ounce of jollity in their howling. It usually degenerated into a crazed mass of yipping which had no comparison to the hilarity of Africa.

Gonga sighed, peering deeply into the screen of his lap top, willing himself to be home for once, surrounded by the crazy mass of family, relatives and friends-who-deemed-themselves-related. It had been months since he had experienced the joy of close companionship. And even the mission had begun to lose its appeal.

What was the mission anyway? Why was he here?