The Moth - Choose Your Own Theme: The Moth Radio Hour

Episode Date: July 14, 2026

In this hour, a televised proposal, an unlikely tennis alliance, and a funeral in Cameroon. Is there a theme? You tell us! This episode is hosted by Moth Director Chloe Salmon. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by The Moth and Jay Allison of Atlantic Public Media. Storytellers: Harold Cox overshares during a work presentation. Di Cai takes her last chance at stardom on a reality competition show.  Mercedes Hesselroth comes face to face with her low self esteem while caring for her grandfather.  Tim Lopez and his frenemy team up for tennis doubles.  Akwi Nji returns to Cameroon to bury her father.  Podcast # 988

This is The Moth Radio Hour. I'm your host, Chloe Salmon. I love thinking up the themes for these episodes and finding stories that fit. But stories speak to us all differently, so why should I get to have all the fun of deciding what unites them? In this episode, you'll hear five wonderful tales. The theme? I'm staying out of it. You get to decide. What common threads do you hear? Maybe I'll tell you what my vote is at the end of the episode. and you'll have a chance to send yours into The Moth.

But until then, I'm all ears. Our first story comes to us from Boston, where we partner with public radio station WBUR. Here's Harold Cox, live at the Moth. It was a brilliant idea. At least I thought so. I was going to make a time-lapse photography video of me losing weight.

I knew this was the right thing to do. So every day after break, I made four photographs, one facing to the front and then turn to the right and then turn to the right and then turn to the right. So I now had four photographs and if you put a lot of them together, you would see me turning around kind of like a rotisserie chicken. So I was doing this because I had gained a lot of weight and it was necessary for me to lose some. So my plan was that I was going to start drinking those god-awful green smoothies. I don't know why people drink that stuff, but I was going to drink them. And then secondly, I was going to ride my exercise bicycle, which rankly I'd been using to collect all clothes and lots of dust.

And then thirdly, I was going to document this by making this photo exhibit, which would show me going around and around and around, like this rotisserie chicken. and I would then be able to see myself get thinner, and I would have an Academy Award presentation. Three weeks into this project, the bicycle was horrible because the problem is you go nowhere fast, and I wanted to get off of that thing. And then the green smoothies were really horrible, and I thought, well, maybe I could dress it up.

So what I did was, I need to do something that will make this actually all right. I started making the smoothie, and I put some kale and cucumber, and then I thought, you know, I really like grapefruit. So let's put some grapefruit in there, and then I put the peel in as well. All right, here's what I would say about that.

Don't do it. It's really bad. First, it looks like something you shouldn't eat, and then secondly, it was really nasty. But then I continued to make the photographs because I just wanted to, you know, I could see myself going around and around and around and around. And was really nice. So let's jump forward to a time when I had to go to Chicago for a presentation. This was a very important work presentation, and I'd made this PowerPoint that would accompany my presentation.

I went to Chicago, and I was in the auditorium, just me and the audiovisual guy. I gave him the PowerPoint flash drive. You know where it's going. He made a mistake, and instead of putting up my brilliant PowerPoint, I looked up and that was a picture of me. He had found one of those pictures, and my arms were stretched out, my legs were stretched out, naked. Because how else are you going to see the changes

that I wanted to see in my body? to see in my body. So I'm having a panic moment and I screamed to him and I said, take that down, take that down. He pressed a button and I started going around. So I'm going around in the circle and there was a woman who came into the room. She screamed and she went back out. I don't know who she was. I didn't go back and check because I need to make certain that we came, you know, we took this thing down and he wasn't moving quite fast enough. So I'm, I'm I went over and I just janked all of the plugs out of the thing because I needed to stop this rotisserie of shame. He and I could not make eye contact the whole time.

I went ahead and I had my presentation. I couldn't make eye contact with anybody in the audience. And then I got out of Chicago and I have actually never been back again. So what I have learned about freedom is that freedom is really when you let go of of blunders. And when you learn about your last blunders, so I'm now at a place in my life where I need to lose some weight again.

I am going to drink the smoothies. I am going to ride the bicycle. I am not going to take pictures. That was Harold Cox. Originally from Texas, he currently lives in Massachusetts and is a university professor. He loves to tell stories about the simple and goofy things have happened in his life. Luckily, he says, his life is full of simple and goofy things,

as we just heard. I asked Harold if he has attempted a similar kind of fitness chronicle since then. His answer, L-O-L. I will never, ever do this again. Which, fair. To see a photo of Harold, fully clothed, head over to the moth.org. Our next story was told by Dee Sai in New York City, where WNYC is a media partner of the Moth. Here's D. You grew up in China when the college at a coastal city called Tianjin. Never heard of it? It's okay.

Small town, 14 million population. I majored in pharmacy, minored in English. And when I was a senior, I was on track to come to United States. United States follow biochemistry PhD. A few weeks before graduation, I saw posters all over campus about an English talent competition hosted by local TV station. Now, Tianjin TV network is the fourth largest network in China. And being on TV has been my dream since I was a little kid.

My first stage was my crib at daycare. Storytelling during that time, captive audience. Ever since I was five, every night during National Weather Channel, I would be standing by the TV and I would do the weather report to my entire family. I could recite all the cities. My grandpa was very proud. And this was May 2005. I was 21 years old.

I knew in about three months, about three months, I was going to leave my home country, join an intense research program at America's most exciting city, Dallas, Texas. And I've heard the misery of a PhD scientist lifestyle. You spend days and nights working the lab, you're lonely, you're dedicated, and your life is fueled with failures and frustrations until that one breakthrough, if ever. So I'm staring at these posters thinking, this is my last chance becoming a TV star.

So I applied. See, this English talent competition is just like America's got talent. Down it down a few notches. And it's to showcase the talent of speaking English. There were a few hundred contestants. Preliminary quarterfinals were held in classrooms and movie theaters. and we had to jump through hoops like reading Shakespeare, reading poetry, group debate, sketch comedy.

I was lucky. I got through the first few rounds, and there were 12 of us in the final. And the final took place at the TV station in the studio. There were room full of audience, and the competition will be broadcasted to the network, meaning whoever is watching this channel at the home, they're going to see me on their TV.

I was doing fine in the final. Middle of the pack, closer to the bottom. But the final program, the last section of the final, it was on improvised speech. Improvice speech, random topics on raffle tickets. I saw the other contestant got things like narrating a basketball game or giving a welcome. remarked Australian ambassador.

And then it was my turn, and my topic was to pick a random audience member and make a marriage proposal. I was 21 years old. My real majors are romance and boys. I learned English by binge watching friends. Making a marriage proposal, that's the only thing I can't So I picked a cute boy from the audience. I went down one knee and words started to come out of my mouth.

And they sounded good. And somehow in that moment I became Monica in Friends from the night where she was in that candlelight room, she was proposing to Chandler. So here I was on stage, one knee on the ground, I looked into the eyes of my future husband. All my life. life. I never thought I would be so lucky to fall in love with someone like you. With one glance, I see you and only you in the crowd. I was so into it, I started crying. And that cute boy, bless his heart, he teared up too. And he said, yes. Crazy. They stood up and gave us a standing

ovation. And I won the final. What came with an award was the job offer. The producers say, hey, you want to work with us? We're actually starting a new show called East Meets West. It's about English culture, about Chinese culture, it's bilingual, it's for kids like you, it's for ex-tax working China. You want to be with us for the summer? I was beyond I'm excited. Before I realized it, I was already out on the field with a crew conducting interviews. And I noticed there were no makeup artist, no teleprompters, and absolutely no assistance. And yes, it was a 9-to-5 job, 5 a.m. to 9 p.m.

And on most days, I ate breakfast, lunch and dinner. the van, just stuffing food in my mouth while going through scripts with a producer, because we're a small show, our budget was very tight, we got to pack everything in. It was not glamorous. It was actually stressful. The word was stressful, but it was very eye-opening. And the people were very good people, kind and wholesome. I was this 21-year-old kid, but everybody took good care of me.

They taught me so much, not just about TV production, but also about work ethics and sacrifices. End of that summer, the TV station offered me to stay for full time. That was a bittersweet moment. TV hosting was really fun and loved people, but I've got a lot. other plans. I'm putting so much effort preparing for the PhD. I just can't let it go wasted. Yes, I wanted to have it all in life,

but sometimes you have to make hard decisions. So, no, I did not become the Oprah of China. But I did get people to call me doctor Dee for the rest of my life. Thank you. Dee Sy is an investment professional by day, a stand-up comedian by night, and a sailboat skipper if the wind

on the Hudson is good. Whether it's for stand-up or storytelling, Dee brings her unique perspectives as an immigrant, a woman, and a badass. Besides the epic proposal that clinched her the win, Dee's favorite part of the competition was group sketch comedy. Her character died in the sketch,

but ever the performer, she insisted. on being given a set of angel wings so that she could still take center stage. All right, now that we're two stories in, do you have an idea for a theme that unites them? Well, you've got time, because we've got more to go. In a moment, a granddaughter and grandfather learned to love themselves and a tennis doubles match heats up. When the Moth Radio Hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods, This is The Moth Radio Hour.

I'm Chloe Salmon. The theme of this episode is up to you. Two stories down, three to go. Do you have a top contender for a common thread? Let's see if it holds up. I'm rooting for you. Our next story is told by Mercedes Hessel Roth, who shared it at a showcase in New York City

for our community engagement program, which works with community organizations to help their members workshop and tell stories. Here's Mercedes, live at the mall. My Tata had a reputation as a jokester. When I think of him, the first thing I remember is the twinkle in his eye. He regularly pulled pranks at his office and had a gregarious personality that couldn't be more different than mine. When he was growing up, the people in Kusko called him the boy who laughs.

whereas I was chronically shy as a child, quiet, reserved. When I was seven years old, my mother gifted me a bookmark with 10 ways to develop self-esteem because I had never developed the confidence that I sensed in my peers. I treated myself unkindly and didn't believe that I held any inherent value. So I chased gold stars and titles and achievements in order to search for external validation. But I never had to do anything to prove my value to my Tata.

He would lift me in the air and tell me I could be president of the United States if I wanted to. In 2019, my abuela, who we call La Mama, unexpectedly passed away, and my whole family was all hands. hands on deck in Peru to be with her when she died and to manage logistics and to take care of my Tata. They had been together for 72 years and his whole world changed overnight. He didn't want to come back with us to the U.S. He was very patriotic and wanted to stay in Peru. He would rather be in

charge of his own household than feel like a burden in somebody else's. We of course told him that loving him was not a burden, but he didn't believe us. After lots of disagreement, he reluctantly agreed to come back with us to America and stay with my aunt and uncle, even though he didn't speak English and didn't know anybody in the country except for our family. If their places had been reversed, my mom says that la Mama would have had her bags packed before we could even ask her. I remember her as independent and courageous, always going on adventures. In many ways, she was also the opposite of me. To this day, I wonder how I can come from people so strong and feel so small.

But I could tell that in this situation, my Tata needed more love and support than La Mama would have in order to keep going. On March 12th, 2020, I boarded a plane to Texas, and while I was getting on the flight, New York City shut down. What was supposed to be a week-long visit for my Tata's 98th birthday turned into a surprise six weeks as air travel stopped and the world shifted under the pandemic. All the gold stars that I had,

had been chasing, like academics and internships and job opportunities disappeared overnight. My aunt was an essential worker, and my uncle was trapped in Peru, unable to get a flight back home during the lockdown. So I became my Thata's primary caregiver and companion during this time. I would administer his medicine, remind him to wash his hands and translate the news from the outside world. I was laser focused on him. I would hug him and whisper these affirmations in his ear that he never believed. I would say, Tata, eres precious.

Grazie, for your eyes that me ven, I see. Thank you for your eyes that view me this way. He felt like it was just my opinion. Tata, you're my person a favorite in all the world. You too, too. Tata, you're lindo,

you're beautiful, he'd say, Bonito is a pescadito. And it's true. Bonito is the word for pretty and for a type of fish. But I just wanted him to accept my love and accept the compliment.

So one day I fired back, well, if you're a fish, than I'm a cow. And it wasn't the first time that I had called myself that. It was just one of many names and insults that I played on the tape in my head over and over in this swirl of negative self-talk. But it was the first time that I had said that out loud. And of course my thought those hearing aids weren't working as usual. So he said, what did you say? Say it again. I'm a little. a cow. He still couldn't hear me. Again, I leaned in closer. I'm a cow. I'm a cow. I had to say it louder and louder each time and feel it sink in deeper and deeper each time. And it didn't feel good to breathe life into those kinds of words.

When Tata finally heard what I said, he replied, oh, of course that's not true. But that bad feeling stayed with me. and Tata had lots of bad feelings of his own. His hearing aids constantly broke. His eye medicine wouldn't always help his vision correctly. His legs were swollen and he was in lots of pain and had lots of memories and one day he was far from the smiling man I knew. And he said,

Los Yehitos no valen nada. Rapidito they went to the tomb. And he was saying that, it wasn't worth it to be alive at his age, and he wished that he would just hurry up and die. And so I call my mom crying about what my Tata has said, and instead of commiserating with me or comforting me, she goes, well, now you know how I feel.

Because my whole life, she has heard me call myself things like ugly, stupid, and this moment was like a mirror. where I could see that I just wanted my Tata to feel loved. I wanted him to know that his life had value, and I wanted my love to keep him alive. And it was hard to believe it, but other people like my mom also wanted the same thing for me. In April, when flights came back,

I hugged my Tata goodbye for what I didn't know would be the last time. I held his hand and told him, every affirmation I could think of at once. Tata, you're precious, you're my persona favorite, you're created of God, I'm a lot. He's my heroe.

And he squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head like he couldn't carry all that love inside him. And so in this process of caring for my Tata toward the end of his life, I learned that you have to be able to accept love from others, but along with that

you also have to accept love from yourself. This process is still ongoing for me. It's a work in progress and some days are better than others. But I hope that Tata is dancing with La Mama again and that he finally now knows how much we all love him. That was Mercedes Heselaw. She is a Peruvian American writer based in New York. Like I mentioned, Mercedes-Kameau,

came to the moth through a workshop with our community engagement program. This one was with All Go First, a nonprofit that uses the power of storytelling and advocacy to foster resilience and promote healing for people affected by trauma around the world. Looking back, Mercedes is grateful for the time she got to spend with her Tata at the end of his life. In the uncertainty of COVID, she was thankful to be able to just be present with him, to sit with him and to hug him. To see a photo of Mercedes and Her Tata, head over to the moth.org. Have you come up with a theme or themes for you overachievers for this hour yet? Let's see if it applies to our next story, which was told by Tim Lopez at a story slam, also in New York City, where WNYC is a media partner of the Moth.

Here's Tim. All right, so it was my freshman year of college, and I was standing on center court at UCLA's fable Arthur Ashe Tennis Center where every year the top pros would come and play in the Mercedes-Benz Invitational in front of thousands of fans. But in that moment, the stadium was empty, except for me and my friends Lance, Paul, and Evan. And that night, we took part in what has to be the most amazing, greatest two-on-two doubles amateur tennis game of all time. Now, the teams were chosen at random.

It was Lance and Paul versus me and Evan. And this was problematic for a couple of reasons. One was that Evan and I hated each other. We were frenemies before the term even existed. And this was because we were kind of cut from the same cloth, as it were. We were both garrulous, borderline, emotionally unstable people who love being the center of attention. And when we all got together, we both thought we were the smartest, funniest person in the room, and we would get into these fights about seemingly innocuous shit

that would blow up into these terrible arguments that would never end because neither one of us would ever back down. So, the second reason was kind of more of a tactical one. Even though none of the four of us had played any serious or even semi-serious tennis, Lance and Paul were kind of naturally athletic guys. You know, the kind of guys that just could jump into any sport or any game at any time and make a positive contribution right away. Evan was played baseball in high school, varsity baseball,

where he developed a reputation as a talented player, but also a complete and total headcase. He was known for beating as many players as he would strike out, which in fairness was kind of a lot. So he was kind of like, you know, a lot of power but no control. And then there was me.

You know, you might not think it now, but I was actually kind of a bookish kid. Divided my time fairly evenly between the library and various board game tournaments. In junior high, when everybody started playing, basketball, I wanted to play basketball too. I started to feel left out. So I went to the library, and I checked out a book entitled How to Play Basketball. So I was that kid. And so, yeah,

I wasn't exactly very athletically inclined. So it was a bit of a mismatch on paper. And as we started to play, the game unfolded, it kind of went that direction. They dispatched us handily in the first set, six games to two, and even easier in the second set, six games to one. And kind of to the point where they were like, hey, are you sure you guys don't want to, like, switch teams and make it more fair? And we were like, no. And they promptly went out in the third set to a five games to zero lead. Now, at that point, Evan and I were in total meltdown mode.

We were screaming at each other. We were hurling obscenities, often while the ball was in play. After missed points or, you know, unforced errors, we would berate each other on our shortcomings as both tenets partners and as human beings. And the whole thing was just kind of unraveling very rapidly. And I think that they felt bad for us because they kind of took their feet off the gas a little bit and it allowed us to kind of claw back into the game. So, you know, we won one game and then two and then three.

And before you knew it, it was five to five. And at that point, I know they weren't taking their foot off the gas anymore because I saw Lance look over to Paul. He will deny this to this day. But he said, it's time to get down to business. And they touched rackets, kind of like, yeah, let's do this. But Evan and I were kind of dialed in and we kind of figured something out, even though we weren't really conscious of it.

And at this point, you know, the thing that had driven us apart, which was our respective refusal to back down, was actually pointed in the same direction. So we ended up winning that set and staving off elimination seven to five. Now, in the pivotal fourth set, something magical started to happen. Evan and I started to cooperate.

And so, you know, he was playing in the front and I was playing in the back, which is, of course, the way you're supposed to play doubles tennis. But what was even more astonishing was what was happening between us personally. We stopped communicating verbally. We actually stopped talking. And what we did was we started communicating more kinesthetically, more with gestures and facial expressions and body language.

And to this day, Lance and Paul's day is the longest time they've ever seen either one of us not say a word. And so we ended up winning the fourth set again by the score of seven games to five. Now the fifth set was, and I do not use this term lightly, amaze balls. We... And after a long, intense battle, we found ourselves a game, we had match point, and it was their serve. And Lance, Southpaw, served, screaming rocket right to my side of the court. I returned it.

Paul, Wiley, as he was, went over and got it, hit another shot right at Evan, who was waiting at the net, sliced the volley down over, forcing Lance out to his right. He was able to pop it up, terrible lob. Evan Camped under it and was waiting for it and just smoked this shot right down the center of the court. But Paul, again, Wiley, was waiting for it and returned it to my side of the court. but I was waiting for that. I waited, held back on it, hit a screaming liner right down the sideline, winner.

Game set, match. It was like a damn of emotion of burst. We immediately started screaming, yelling, we ran to each other, we hugged, we did this dance. It was totally spontaneous, but seemed choreographed, but so wasn't. And basically carried each other off the court into glory. And looking back on it now, you know,

I can see this is a turning port in our friendship, in our relationship, because after that point, shortly after that game, within a matter of months, we became inseparable. And, you know, we end up, to this day, is one of my best friends of all time. And I know that it was because of that day when we realized that the only thing we hated more than each other was losing. So, thank you very much. Tim Lopez is a storyteller, national park ranger, and jeopardy champion based in Southern California.

He says he's an extremely amateur athlete, and he approaches competition with the same energy he brings to all of Lopening. life's pursuits. Enthusiastic, if not always graceful. Tim says he's cooled it with the competitiveness as he's gotten older. But he also wants to get into pickleball, so maybe we wait and see if that cutthroat spirit rears its head again. And since he and Evan are still very good friends over a decade later, it could be an opportunity for them to teen up once again and relive that tennis glory. All right, folks. One story. left, and then it's time to decide what's your theme for this episode. In a moment, a story that takes us from Iowa to Cameroon, when the Moth Radio Hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is produced

by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. This is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Chloe Salmon. In this episode, I'm challenging you to come up with your own theme that connects these stories. So far, we've heard about a humiliating tech malfunction, a Chinese reality TV competition, a grandfather, and a tennis match for the ages. They've taken us to very different places, but I bet you found something that they all have in common. Our final storyteller takes us across the globe to Cameroon. Aquit Inji told it at a main stage in New York City, where we partnered with Greenwood Cemetery. Here she is, live at the Maw. Dad died unexpectedly of cancer in the summer of 2021.

My seven siblings and I were living all over the world at the time, and we found ourselves scrambling in two fast-paced warp speed weeks to apply for emergency visas, book flights, hope the visas were approved in time, begin funeral planning from afar, and then prepare for takeoff to Cameroon, where we were all from. Everything happened so suddenly that I didn't really have a chance to process what had happened until I was packing my luggage for the trip. It was July, and I thought about mom and dad.

They met in 1978 when they were both going to school in Iowa. They got married, they had me, dad got his Ph.D., and then we high-tailed it to Cameroon where dad was from. And where he was actually quite powerful because of the political work that he did, he was a voice of authority that people not only in the country

but in different parts of the world respected and also adorned. and also adored. So I lived with Dad in Cameroon until I was about eight years old, and then my mom and I moved back here to the States. Dad stayed there. And as I was growing up, Dad and I worked together on trying to maintain a transatlantic relationship, but we disagreed on just about everything. And so by the time I was a sophomore in college, Dad wanted me to be an attorney, I wanted to be an artist. We couldn't see eye to eye. We had an argument about it. We stopped talking to each other, and then years of silence went by.

By the time he passed away, he and I hadn't spoken to each other in more than 20 years. And I was thinking about that with so much remorse and regret as I was packing. I stacked a set of t-shirts into the suitcase. I stuffed a set of tennis shoes there. I rolled up a pair of socks and stuffed those into a pair of hiking boots, and those hiking boots were brown Timberlands of the 1990s. I'd taken them with me on every solo hiking trip I'd been on throughout my entire adulthood. They'd taken me through Mexico, Sedona, Hawaii, all of the rocky patches in life, literally and figuratively.

And as I was packing them, my memory was jogged. I realized that I purchased those boots the exact year that Dad and I had stopped talking to each other. And I bought them because they reminded me of a pair of boots Dad had owned when I lived with him in Cameroon. His were the vintage, suede, brown hiking boots with the red shoelaces. I bought mine because even though he and I had stopped talking to each other, I wanted something that would be, make me feel close to him, remind me that he was still in my life. So I put those in the suitcase, I zipped it up, and then I flew Cedar Rapids, Chicago, D.C., Brussels, Yawnade, Duala. I arrived in the airport in Duala, and my oldest brother, Gert, was there to welcome me there. And we stacked my

suitcases into the back of a 1980s Toyota Highlander. Now, it seems like everybody in Cameroon has some sort of beat-up vintage SUV because the terrain in Cameroon is really rugged and it's even mountainous in some regions. Everybody in Cameroon also knows that at that time, it was really dangerous to travel throughout the country due to political unrest and rebel groups that had emerged throughout the country. But despite all of that, Gert and I had no problems, getting from the airport to the family home in Chang. It was a six-hour drive. When we arrived in Chang, I was ushered through the gates that were my fathers, through the kitchen that was my fathers and into the living room that was my father's. They'd set up an altar for him. There were

candles, there was a Bible, and above all of that, there was a framed portrait of dad, larger than life, just as he would have wanted. There were the twinkling eyes of my childhood. That compassionate and warm smile, this was the man that everyone loved. Word quickly spread that all of Ajaga NGi's children had arrived, and so guests streamed in from all over the country to offer their condolences in person,

and they brought with them huge thermoses of food. The home was filled with warmth and the aroma of fried plantains, ground nut soup, cocoa yams, foo-foo and chinchin, it was also filled with laughter. It was a strange combination of grief and joyful reunion. In the weeks that followed, I spent my days working with my siblings to plan for dad's many celebrations of life and the funeral and burial that would eventually take place in a little tiny village called Tugi.

And Tugi is where dad was born. For Cameroonians, it's important that you're buried where you're born. It's a matter of being connected to your ancestry, your lineage, the earth, and most importantly, it's a matter of eternal peace. It's your best chance at eternal peace. And during the nights, I spent my time bonding with my siblings over board games and movies and karaoke to, of all things, the sound of the sound of music. Yeah, yeah. There is video evidence of us dough adhering our way into the night.

And then some nights, I chose to just walk around through my dad's massive property alone, room to room, trying to better understand who this man was through the things that he had left behind. One night, I locked myself into his office. That's where he spent most of his time. And it was a huge office. On one of the walls, in the office, it was just nothing but photos. Family photos from when I was a kid, and one of the photos was of him and my mom on their wedding day, and she's in her light yellow dress, and he's in his Cameroonian attire, and they're smiling, and they're happy. And then all of the other photos were from our first family portrait session together. And above all of those photos,

he had titled this gallery, The Glorious Past. I just sat on the floor, and I sobbed. And I poured myself glass after glass after glass of wine. As I looked through all of these photos and photo albums and read the letters that he had left behind, there was evidence all around me that he had loved me. And I was experiencing such a moment of yearning and learning all at once. And then came the night that we were all scheduled to depart from Chang to that family village,

Tugie as a caravan to bury dad. And even though all of the extended family around us, they were hustling and bustling and already stacking suitcases in the backs of all of those SUVs, my siblings and I were sort of at a standstill in the kitchen. We were supposed to depart at 2 a.m. It was 11 p.m. But we had done nothing because we had not yet talked about the elephant in the room. And that was that this particular part of Cameroon that we would have to traverse was the most dangerous. And so my uncle, Rambo, nicknamed Rambo for reasons you can imagine. And my brother Gert, they called a sibling meeting. And we all huddled together around the kitchen table. And Uncle Rambo is also the

resident expert of the rebel groups. And he says, we need to understand the real danger. They don't just kidnap and hold for ransom. They rape. They murder. The danger is real. It is not myth, it is not hearsay, and we needed to be prepared for that. And then he also reminds us that because we are all siblings together and we are children of a very high-profile person, we are making a large and lucrative target. And we are making a target potentially of the entire caravan. And most importantly, we are potentially compromising the possibility of getting dad all the way to Tugi for his burial. This was a lot. I understood what Gert and Rambo were saying.

We each had a decision to make. So Gert looked at me, and he asked if I was willing to make that trek. And I thought about my dad. I'd hoped that I could be at least with him through this part, the very end, in ways that I had not been with him throughout his life. And I thought about the fact that this is exactly the part of the journey that I had packed my hiking boots for. but I also thought about my own kids and I wanted to make it

home safely to them and so I shook my head no I couldn't risk it and the rest of my siblings they followed suit and I felt both relief and guilt but then the next few minutes

were very hurried minutes of people who were now able to take the places that were supposed to have been ours and also what happened is those items that we at each packed for this part of the journey, we were suddenly handing off to the people who are now taking our places. And it's important for you to know that in Cameroon, when you loan somebody something like somebody says, hey, do you have a t-shirt I can borrow? And you say, yes, but you know

you're not getting that t-shirt back. It's just a culture of giving. And everyone's okay with that. So my sister gifted Uncle Rambo, the machetes that she'd packed in her checked luggage. My brother gifted a cousin a sweater. And then my auntie Helen, it was determined that she needed a more appropriate set of footwear than the flip-flops that she was wearing. And so she asked if she could use the tennis shoes that I had at the front door. And I said, absolutely.

And she tried the tennis shoes on, and they were too tight. And so she looked at me and she said, do you have anything else that I could try? I thought about those hiking boots. I had not been ready to give them up, certainly not permanently. but I looked at her and I said, absolutely, I have something else that you can try.

And I walked back to the back of the house, to the bedroom, and I fished the boots out of my luggage. And as I walked back to the kitchen, I crossed my fingers and I hoped that they didn't fit her. I handed the boots to Auntie Helen. She tried them on. She smiled. They fit.

These were good boots, y'all. She could feel it. We hugged. And she joined the caravan wearing my boots. boots. And then the next couple of minutes were hurried goodbyes that I was saying to family members that I hadn't seen in decades and would maybe never see again. Now those of us who stayed behind, we went to bed, but I couldn't fall asleep. I was thinking about those boots. How they'd gotten me through so much in life. All of those rocky patches, and I realized actually all of those rocky

patches in life were the kinds of experiences that other people who knew dad would have called on him for support through, and I hadn't done that. And that made me realize that actually those boots were precisely the thing that I was supposed to send to take Dad to Tugie. So in the following hours, we received updates about the caravan. They'd made it to the halfway point. And then a few hours later, we received another update. They did see the rebel groups along the way, so we had absolutely made the right decision, and I felt better about that. And then eventually, they actually hit their own rocky patch, which was a mudslide. And the SUVs got caught in the mud, and we received a photo of family members pushing the SUVs out of the mud.

And in that photo, there was my Auntie Helen, and on her feet were the boots. And then the following day, we received video footage. They'd made it successfully to Tugui. And in that video, there were hundreds of villagers dancing and singing, celebrating Dad's Return Home. And there were the colors of Cameroon, there was the reds and the greens and the yellows, and there was a grandmother that I'd never met. And there was Uncle Rambo. And there was Auntie Helen.

And on her feet were the boots that had made their way home to bury a father. Thank you. That was Aque Enjee. She's an artist who lives at the intersection. of communication and creativity. She most recently led communications for public school districts in Iowa before focusing on art full time

through AQUING Design Studio, where she creates abstract paintings inspired by nature. I asked Aquee what her favorite thing about her dad was. She said it was his unwavering desire to see others thrive. And his smile.

He had an amazing smile that truly made his eyes sparkle. If you'd like to see, that smile. You can head over to the moth.org to take a look at some photos of Aki and her father, Ajaga Inji. All right, everyone.

I am so curious to know what theme you settled on after hearing the stories. I bet it's just perfect. Just so you don't think that I'm shirking my responsibilities as a radio hour host, I did come up with a couple of contenders myself. Reckonings and self-image.

Did we match up? Let us know if so, and what you're own theme was, if not, by hitting us up on social media at Moth Stories. That's it for this episode. Thank you to our storytellers for sharing with us and to you for listening and theming. We hope you'll join us next time. This episode of The Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison, and Chloe Salmon, who also hosted and directed the stories in the show, along with Michelle Jolowski.

Co-producer is Vicki Merrick, Associate Producer Emily Couch. Additional Community Engagement Program coaching by Tishel Gabriel, Juan Rodriguez, and Devin Sandofford. The Moss leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Christina Norman, Sarah Austin Janice, Jennifer Hickson, Jordanale, Kate Tellers, Marina Clucay, Suzanne Russ, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Patricia Yorrainea. Most stories are true, as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by The Drift. Other music in this hour is from Epidemic Sound and Blue Dot Sessions. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. Special thanks to our friends at Odyssey, including executive producer Leah Reese Dennis.

For more about our podcast, for information on pitching as your own story, and to learn all about the moth, go to our website, the moth.org.