by Showneaz Smith
PureTravel Writing Competition 2024
There was a strange tension in the office that morning. An unspoken ripple that crackled through the air, shifting from one desk to the next. She could feel their eyes on her, the whispers barely concealed behind cupped hands. Her cheeks burned, that familiar heat creeping up her neck like a flame. The words weren’t audible, but she heard them anyway.
“Why her, of all people on the team?”
She wasn’t sure what it was about, but she knew it had everything to do with her.
Her heart was already beating faster when her manager signalled for her to come over, a clipped wave that lacked its usual force. That, too, was strange. The manager usually revelled in calling her out, any chance to emphasize how little she was worth to the company. Today, though, something was different.
There was no glee in her eyes. No disdain in her voice as she said, “Take a seat.”
Reluctantly, she sat, her hands twisting in her lap. “Is something wrong?”
Her manager cleared her throat. “You… won.”
She blinked, the words not quite landing. “Won?”
The manager, clearly uncomfortable, turned her screen toward her. “The staff competition. You won the island vacation to Zanzibar.”
For a moment, the world seemed to tilt, and she felt as though she were watching the scene unfold from somewhere outside her body. “I… what?” she whispered, staring at the email in disbelief.
The head office had confirmed it. She was the winner. The unwanted one, the person no one noticed except to criticize, had won the prize of a lifetime.
Her manager tapped her fingers impatiently on the desk. “Yes, it’s real,” she sighed, annoyed now that her moment of superiority was gone. “Congratulations, I guess.”
Her voice trembled. “I won? Really?”
A forced smile curled at the manager’s lips. “Enjoy your trip.”
The weeks leading up to the vacation flew by in a blur of excitement and preparation. She wasn’t used to having anything to look forward to. Not in her mid-forties. Not after years of being overlooked. And yet, now she was meticulously planning for a trip she never imagined possible.
Her passport was renewed, the yellow fever vaccination taken with surprising ease, and the Tanzanian visa acquired after what felt like a lifetime of paperwork. Each step made the trip more real, each task accomplished sent a flutter of anticipation racing through her.
As the day approached, she packed her bags carefully, touching the folds of each item as though they were precious talismans. The white sands, the azure waters, the vibrancy of Zanzibar’s culture—she could hardly believe it. She was going to a place where she would be someone.
The plane touched down on the island, and as she stepped out, the heat of the tropical air kissed her cheeks. Zanzibar sprawled before her like a dream, the sky a dazzling blue above the palm trees, and the beaches stretching endlessly into the horizon.
Her breath caught as she took in the scene—the gentle waves, the friendly locals who greeted her with smiles as warm as the sun. The poverty on the island was undeniable, yet it was not something that weighed on her. There was a richness here, in the people’s resilience, in the vibrancy of their culture.
Her days passed in a blissful haze. She wandered through the bustling markets of Stone Town, each stall bursting with colour and life. She tasted exotic spices, tangy tamarind, and fresh seafood grilled on the spot. The nights were quieter, with the sound of the waves lulling her to sleep in her small beachside hotel, the stars spilling across the dark sky above.
One evening, sitting on the shore with her feet buried in the soft sand, she pulled out her journal. She had written every day of the trip, trying to capture the magic of it all—the sights, the smells, the feeling of being alive for the first time in what felt like forever.
“This place,” she wrote, “it feels like it’s waking me up from a long, long sleep. I don’t want it to end. I wish I could bottle this feeling, take it with me forever.”
But as all good things must, her time in Zanzibar came to an end. She flew back home, her heart full yet heavy, knowing she might never experience something like it again.
Back in the routine of her mundane life, the island felt like a dream. She returned to the office, where the whispers had faded, replaced by the same indifference as before. But now, there was a light in her—a quiet strength. She had been to Zanzibar. She had been somewhere no one else could touch.
Three weeks later, it happened.
She had been walking home from work, lost in thoughts of the island. The scent of spices still lingered in her memory, the sound of the waves still echoed in her ears. She never saw the car coming. The impact was sudden and brutal, a blur of motion, a flash of headlights, and then—nothing.
Her funeral was small, attended by family, a few coworkers, and neighbours. Her mother, a frail woman with hands that shook as she clutched the diary, spoke through her tears.
“She never had much in this world,” her mother began, her voice wavering. “But she had this trip. It was all she ever talked about, the one moment in her life where she felt truly free, truly happy. She wrote about it in here…”
The church fell into silence as her mother opened the journal, reading aloud the final entry.
“I don’t want it to end. I want to live this moment forever.”
Her mother paused, her voice breaking. “She… she wanted to go back. She was going to go back.”
The words hung in the air like a shadow, the weight of unfulfilled dreams pressing down on everyone in the room. The sobs echoed softly through the church, as they all realized—the woman who had won the greatest prize of her life had never had the chance to win again.
Photo by Szabolcs Varnai on Unsplash
