From Riches to Rags: An African Odyssey, Part VIII / Taildraggers, Tantrums, and the Final Nail in Sanity’s Coffin

“What do you mean by, ‘Honey, I just bought an airplane’?” Nicole stared at me like I had just sprouted a third eye and offered to fly us both to Hell in a homemade hot air balloon. Her expression landed somewhere between cardiac arrest and righteous homicide. If I’d told her I was Elvis reincarnated with a side gig in necromancy, it might have gone over easier. Up until that moment, she had been clinging—desperately, delusionally—to the idea that this whole “Africa situation” was just a passing phase. A midlife tantrum. A chaotic mirage that would vanish like a suspicious wire transfer in a Nigerian inbox. But now? Now she realised, with the chilling finality of a guillotine blade, that this wasn’t a phase.

This was real.

This was happening.

This was me, wielding a Super Cub-shaped battering ram against the crumbling walls of logic, marital peace, and financial prudence. And in her eyes, I had officially announced—loud and proud—that not only was the Titanic sinking, but I had just purchased an artisanal iceberg and installed a minibar on deck for the occasion.

“Well,” I chirped—cheerfully, like a psychopath holding a lit match in a fireworks factory—“for the fun of it and as a spur-of-the-moment decision, I had sent that grumpy bastard of an owner a little proposal. Just to mess around. Just to feel something. Just to see what happens.”

I had typed with the cocky swagger of a man who had clearly lost his grip on fiscal responsibility:
“Listen Mister. I give you 70,000 euros. Tomorrow. Not a penny more. In two days, I fly to the USA. Your choice if I buy a real airplane over there—or just the spare parts to patch up your airborne coffin.”

And then, because I apparently thought I was starring in some cheap spaghetti western of aviation bravado, I ended it with:

“One man, one word. The ball’s in your court.”

Which would’ve been fine, if I hadn’t accidentally lobbed the ball into the hands of a man who returned it like a Red Bull–fuelled Ivan Lendl on a meth bender, armed with divine wrath and a data plan. His reply hit my inbox with the delicacy of a nuclear detonation:

“OK. The plane is yours. I expect the money tomorrow. One man, one word.”

“Shit,” I thought.

Not the elegant, philosophical kind of shit, mind you. More the staring-down-at-your-own-life-exploding-in-slow-motionkind.

That was it. No more negotiations. No turning back. Just a one-line confirmation that I had—without adult supervision, fiscal planning, or a functioning brain—just bought an airplane. An actual airplane. Yellow. Mostly fabric. Powered by prayer and bad decisions.

Nicole stared at me like I had just told her I joined a cult that worshipped lawnmowers. She blinked. Twice. Then checked the cupboards for wine and blunt objects, probably fantasising about bludgeoning me with the nearest kitchen appliance.

And me? I stood there, the proud new owner of a bright yellow disaster with wings, trying to act like this was all part of some grand strategy instead of what it truly was:
The Everest of idiocy.

The Super Bowl of self-sabotage.

The aeronautical equivalent of drunk-texting your ex and waking up married to a goat.

And thus began the glorious descent into aviation madness, tailwheel terror, and the final countdown to Africa.

An opening excerpt from this chapter remains available here.
The full manuscript is currently reserved for submission and publication.

Marcel Romdane

—aviation’s village idiot-in-training, not broke yet, but well on his way to earning a PhD in catastrophic optimism