A/N: Uneditied, so if you notice something... Tell me!
Over the next three years I had local assignments. Photographing the local fair, events at the museums, even the Super Bowl. It had been fun, but I was getting bored with it. I wanted to travel and see the world! A few days after this revelation, I had been called into the head honchos office. I was offered an official photographer position. I accepted of course and for the next two years I travelled around the US and Canada. No farther. I was very upset about that. I wanted to go to unique places like Morocco or India, but instead I was photographing the German Festival. I was the youngest of a team of 5 photographers, at 21. I was getting very bored of it.
I was called into my bosses office one day and was very surprised when he offered me an assignment. In Africa.
I was going to Africa.
And now, as I write this, I am on the eleven hour flight from the World International headquarters to Kibera, Africa. My assignment is to photograph the locals and capture their lifestyle. I don’t know where I am going to be residing yet, but I figure it will be someplace unique and wonderful.
“Passengers, please put up all seat trays and return all seats to the upright position. Please turn off and secure all electronics and welcome to Africa,” said the flight attendant.
Yes. Welcome to Africa indeed. I closed my journal and put it into my bag, settling into my seat for the more than likely bumpy landing. I could feel the small plane start to drop beneath the clouds and turned to look out my window.
Hmm, Africa looks very brown and smokey. I couldn’t make out the fine details from the sky, but it almost looked like the ground was made of trash.
I turned my head and looked forward toward the front of the plane, my body being filled with a feeling of dread. I was being sent to an African slum. Not famous palaces or beautiful museums, a slum. A pile of rotting trash on a hill.
The plane finally touched down and the doors opened. There was no airport, no barrier between me and the poverty that lay just beyond the plane’s doors. As I neared the exit the smell hit. The smell of years and years worth of rotting trash lying in the hot sun hit me like a brick. There is no way to describe the scent beyond disgust. I felt dirty just from smelling it, yet I was still on the plane in my $200 suit.
I passed through the plane doors and the hot sun began beating down on me. I looked around, seeing small fires and small African children running about. I was ushered down the staircase. I had been promised an escort from the plane to where I would be residing.
I was ushered towards a tall, muscular man. He smiled at me, raising his rather dirty hand for me to shake. I stared at his hand in mild disgust until he dropped it back by his side. Yet, he continued to smile. There was not one sign he was offended.
In broken English, he began to speak, “Hello. My name is Abebe. I am twenty years old. Forgive me for my English, I do not know it very well.”
I studied his face, deciding to speak, “Hello, Abebe, my name is Brandon Halley. I am twenty-three years old. Where is your car?”
He continued to smile at me, “I have no car. We must walk to the community home.”
“Community home? No, no, no! Surly my boss wouldn’t place me in a community home! Those are for the homeless,” I exclaimed. My boss wouldn’t put me in a homeless shelter, would he?
Abebe looked at me sadly, “Everyone is homeless here, Sir Halley. Come, we must go before it gets dark.”
Abebe began walking away from me. I ran to catch up to him, sweat beginning to pool in my hair and run down my arms and legs. I dragged my suitcase behind me, “What happens when it gets dark?”
