Behold the Dreamers (32 page)

T
HE
B
AKWERI
PEOPLE
OF
L
IMBE
BELIEVE
A
UGUST
IS
A
CURSED
MONTH.
The rain falls too hard and for too long; rivers rise up too high and too fast. Dry days are few; chilly nights are many. The month is long, dreary, and hostile, and it is for this reason that many in the tribe do not marry, build houses, or start businesses in August. They wait for it to go away, along with its curses.

Jende Jonga, a Bakweri man, believed nothing in curses.

August or no August, it was time for him to go back home, and that was that. Walking through the streets of New York during his last days in America, he couldn't bring himself to feel sad about leaving or wish his experience were ending differently. Enough was enough. He wanted no more of life in a roach-filled apartment in a Harlem neighborhood of fried chicken joints, storefront churches, and funeral homes where young men in cornrows and saggy pants perpetually lingered outside, mourning one of their own and carelessly spitting in his direction. He wanted no more of smiling for appearances as he stacked dishes and polished silverware, and he certainly wanted no more of riding the subway from work late at night, arriving home cold and tired. He wanted no more of climbing five flights of stairs to share a bed with his daughter while his son slept in a cot inches away.

To him, living such a life for another year would have been the curse. Not recognizing when to go back home would have been a curse. Not realizing that he would be happier sleeping in a bedroom separate from his children, going to visit his mother and his brothers whenever he wanted, meeting his friends at a
boucarou
in Down Beach for roasted fish and beer by the ocean, riding around in his own car and sweating outside in January … that would have been the curse.

You're really sure you're not going to miss America? his friends at work asked repeatedly. Not even the football? He laughed every time they asked him. Maybe a bit of football, he would reply. And cheesecake.

Neni, for her part, could summon no joy as the date of their departure drew close. Her tears flowed without provocation on the subway, at Pathmark, in Central Park, in the apartment in the middle of mundane chores. She felt no excitement at the thought of being reunited with her family and old friends, only apprehension at the notion that she might never be happy in Limbe as she'd been in New York. She worried that she might have too little in common with her friends, being that she was now so different from them, being that she had tasted a different kind of life and been transformed positively and negatively in so many different ways, being that life had expanded and contracted her in ways they could never imagine.

Though she looked forward to seeing her mother and siblings, she dreaded seeing her father, whom she'd last spoken to in May, when he'd called to tell her that his illegitimate son who lived in Portor-Portor Quarters was in the hospital and money was needed for medicine. Neni had said they had no money to give and her father had yelled at her. How can you say you have no money when your brother is dying in the hospital? he'd said. But he's not my brother, Neni had yelled back. Her father had hung up when she said that and she hadn't bothered to call back to find out how the boy was faring. The boy wasn't her brother and he was never going to be her brother. She couldn't bring herself to care if he lived or died.

For her children, Neni wavered between joy and sorrow—joy for the beautiful things Cameroon would give them; sorrow for the things it wouldn't. They would grow up in a spacious house in Limbe, learn to speak French, master how to dance to
makossa
music. They would live near doting grandparents and too many uncles and aunts and cousins. They would dress up in their finest outfits on Christmas and New Year's and walk around town with their friends, laughing and eating
chin-chin
and cake. They'd never wonder why their mother preferred to shop at the dollar store or why their father seemed to always be working. Liomi would go to BHS Buea with the children of the elite; he could still become a lawyer like his uncle Winston. Timba would spend her girlhood dancing under the moonlight with her friends, singing
Gombe
gombe mukele mukele
on nights when clouds made way for the stars to shine. She would learn to chant,
Iyo cow oh, njama njama cow oh, your mami go for Ngaoundéré for saka belle cow oh, oh chei!
She would go to boarding school at the prestigious all-girls Saker Baptist College, where for eight months a year she would be locked behind iron gates, hidden from boys and made to study alongside girls destined to become doctors and engineers.

In Limbe, Liomi and Timba would have many things they would not have had in America, but they would lose far too many things.

They would lose the opportunity to grow up in a magnificent land of uninhibited dreamers. They would lose the chance to be awed and inspired by amazing things happening in the country, incredible inventions and accomplishments by men and women who look like them. They would be deprived of freedoms, rights, and privileges that Cameroon could not give its children. They would lose unquantifiable benefits by leaving New York City, because while there existed great towns and cities all over the world, there was a certain kind of pleasure, a certain type of adventurous and audacious childhood, that only New York City could offer a child.

B
ETTY
HOSTED
A
FAREWELL
PARTY
FOR
THEM
IN
THE
B
RONX.
M
OST
OF
their friends, who had been with them from their arrival in the city through Timba's birth and Pa Jonga's death, were there. Winston and Maami were there, as well as Olu and Tunde, the instructor—who stopped by with his equally fine Asian boyfriend on the way to another party, to hug Neni goodbye—and Fatou and Ousmane, whose broomstick legs Neni at once thought of the moment he walked through the door wearing faded mom jeans; imagining what they looked like forced her to smile her first real smile of the evening.

Everyone came with something to eat: fried ripe plantains, bitter leaf soup,
egusi
stew, cow feet and beans,
poulet
DG, grilled tilapia,
attiéké,
moi moi,
soya,
jollof
rice, curry chicken, pounded yams. Winston brought drinks, along with his laptop and speakers.

In Betty's sparsely furnished living room, they ate and they danced, to Petit-Pays and Koffi Olomidé, to Brenda Fassie and Papa Wemba. Then Meiway's “200% Zoblazo” came over the speakers. Trumpets and keyboards sounded, calling all celebrators to the dance floor. The rhythm—fierce, pulsating, resolute—demanded that everyone get on their feet. Those who were eating put down their food. Those who were drinking put down their bottles.
Ting, ting, ting, ding, ding
. Neni moved to the center of the room—her hips couldn't help swaying to music this good. Her feet couldn't stand still even if she wasn't having the happiest day of her life. Everyone was up, packed in the eight-by-twelve space at the center of the room. Arms raised in the air, the women rotated their buttocks, going harder and harder toward the floor, faster and faster as they rose up. Behind them, one arm around their waists, the men worked their crotches: up, down, left and right, forward, backward, side to side. All around, buttocks and crotches moved in one accord, pressed against each other as the music soared. Then, the chorus arrived. They jumped and skipped as they pumped their fists, shouting together as loud as they could,
Blazo, blazo, zoblazo, on a gagné! On a gagné!
When one of Jende's non-African friends from work asked him what the song meant, he shouted, without pausing to catch his breath, it means we have won, man. It means we have won!

Judson Memorial Church bade them farewell, too.

Natasha asked Neni if Jende could come with her to church on the second Sunday of August. Jende agreed—it seemed a good time to visit an American church and see if Americans interpreted the Bible the same way as Cameroonians.

The Scripture that morning was from Genesis 18, the story of the weary visitors who visited Abraham and Abraham, not knowing they were angels, treated them with kindness. Natasha preached about the treatment of weary strangers in America. She decried the contemporary American definition of weary stranger as illegal alien. Remember when we welcomed our visitors at Ellis Island with lunch boxes? she asked to loud applause. And a free doctor's checkup! someone in the back shouted. The church roared. Natasha smiled as she watched her congregants whispering among themselves. Sad, she said, shaking her head. Treating our friends in need of help the way we treat our enemies. Forgetting that we could find ourselves in search of a home someday, too. This bears no resemblance to the love the Bible speaks of, the love Jesus Christ preached about when he said we should love our neighbor as ourselves.

Before ending the sermon, Natasha called the Jongas to the front of the church. This is the Jonga family, she told the congregation. In about a week, they'll be returning home to their native Cameroon. They came to America to stay but we won't let them. They're returning home because they cannot get papers to remain in our country and create a better life for themselves and their children. They're returning because we as a country have forgotten how to welcome all kinds of strangers to our home. She paused and looked around, giving the congregation time to digest her words. She then turned to Neni and Jende, hugged them, and thanked them for sharing their story. Father, mother, son, and daughter returned to their seats with the eyes of the congregation following them.

The assistant pastor, Amos, rose to speak after the sermon. You've heard Natasha's sermon and you've met the Jongas, he said. They're not strangers. They're our neighbors, but they cannot make their home among us. So I encourage you all to give generously to help them create a new home in their country. And while we give, he continued, let's remember that there are many more out there like this couple. Worse still, there are many out there who do not have a warm peaceful country to return to. There are many for whom the only chance at ever having a home again is in America.

Neni and Jende looked at each other when Amos mentioned the money. Natasha had told them nothing about it and this unexpected and kind gesture briefly misted Neni's eyes, the thought that she would be leaving behind a country abounding in institutions of tolerance and compassion.

After the service, a line of congregants stood in front of them, taking turns to greet them. One woman wanted to know where Cameroon was on the map, and another wanted to know if Jende needed help finding a lawyer to continue his immigration case. He told the first woman that Cameroon was right next to Nigeria. To the second, he said no, he did not need a lawyer, his case was closed.

Most congregants simply wanted to shake hands or wish them well or tell them how glad they were that the Jongas had shared their story. A teenage girl choked up while telling Jende of a friend's father who was deported to Guatemala even though he knew no one there. Her friend was very sad now, the young woman said. Jende gave her a hug and told her that, thankfully, they still had many family and friends in Cameroon.

T
HE
EMAIL
RESPONSE
CAME
WITHIN
TWO
HOURS
OF
J
ENDE
HITTING
THE
send button. Nice hearing from you, Jende, Clark wrote. I'm surprised to hear you're returning home but I understand. Sometimes a man just has to go back home. You can certainly stop by to say goodbye. Talk to my secretary.

Jende went to visit Clark wearing the same black suit he'd worn for his first day of work as Clark's chauffeur. Neni had told him the suit was unnecessary but he had insisted on wearing it. I'm going to be around people wearing suits, he reminded her. Why should I look like a nobody?

When he walked in, Clark stood from behind his desk to greet him. “It's very nice of you to come say goodbye,” he said, smiling as he offered a hand.

“It's me who has to thank you for making the time, sir,” Jende replied, taking Clark's hand into both of his.

Clark seemed beyond pleased to see him, smiling more broadly than Jende had ever seen him smile, his eyes brighter than they had been in all the months Jende drove him around, his face younger looking. Jende could tell that Mr. Edwards's happiness was not merely from seeing him—his former boss finally seemed a genuinely happy man.

“I wanted to give my condolences for the death of Mrs. Edwards, sir,” Jende said after they were seated. “I was at the memorial service, sir, but I could not get an opportunity to get near you to tell you how sorry I was.”

Clark nodded. Jende looked around at the office he'd moved to since they last saw each other. It had neither a sofa nor a view of Central Park, but the view of Queens was special in its own inferior way.

“How's your family?” Clark asked. “Are they happy to be going back home?”

“They are fine, sir, thank you. My wife is angry, but she is not going to stay angry forever. My son is happy because I tell him about all the fun things I will take him to do back at home. The baby does not know anything, so that makes me happy.”

“Are you happy?”

“I am, but the more the day comes closer, the more I feel a little bit of sadness that I might never see this city again. New York is a wonderful city. It will be hard to not live here.”

“Yeah, I'll have to learn to adjust, too. I'll be leaving next month.”

“Oh? You mean you are moving also, sir?”

Clark nodded. “Mighty and I are moving to Virginia.”

“Virginia?”

“I found a new job in Washington, D.C. We're actually going to look at houses this weekend. I'm hoping we can find something close to Arlington and Falls Church.”

“Falls Church? I remember, sir … that is where Mrs. Edwards came from?”

“You've got a good memory. And my family lived in Arlington for a bit before we moved to Illinois. My parents will be moving from California so they can be close to us.”

“That will be very good for you, sir.”

“Family's everything,” Clark said. “I'm sure you know that already.”

“It is everything, sir.”

“I've got some cousins in the area, and Cindy has a half-sister there. Cindy wasn't close to her before the end, but she came to the funeral and Mighty and I have been in touch with her lately.”

“That is good, sir.”

“Yeah, we had a great time visiting her a couple of months ago. Mighty's really looking forward to growing up with his cousins. It's important for him to know he has family, now that … well, now that so much has changed.”

“It is very true, sir,” Jende said, nodding. “Very true. And how is Vince?”

“He's good; I spoke to him this morning. He's thinking about opening a retreat center for American execs visiting Mumbai so they can attain peace and quiet between running around pursuing opportunities.” Clark laughed. “It sounded funny, but he might be on to something.”

“He is a very smart boy, sir,” Jende said.

The executive smiled, his pride undisguised. “Yeah, it's just hard for anyone to know where he's going to end up.”

“Maybe he'll end up in Limbe,” Jende said, laughing.

“Maybe,” Clark said, laughing with him. “You never know. He could go to Limbe and teach folks there how to be one with the Universe and free themselves from their egos. Or he could have them walk around talking about rejecting the illusion.”

“Or maybe, sir,” Jende said, laughing hard now, “he could take them to the beach in the evening and they could watch the sun going down. The fishermen will be returning with their canoes on one side of the beach, and Vince and his followers will be sitting on the sand on the other side with their legs crossed, doing that chanting and meditation thing.”

“I can almost picture that!” Clark said, guffawing and slapping the table. “I can completely see that happening.”

“He can stay with me and my wife until he gets tired of being in one place.”

“Oh, I'm sure he won't have a hard time finding a new place to go to. He told me if his business idea doesn't work out in India, he might head to Bolivia. Don't ask me what's in Bolivia.”

“Maybe a lot of mindful people, sir?”

“Maybe a lot of mindful people!” Clark said, and they laughed together.

“The boy is a very special young man, sir,” Jende said as their laughter died down.

“Yeah, special is a good word.”

“If there were ten thousand more young men like him in this world, or even just one thousand, I swear, sir, there will be more happiness in the world.”

Clark smiled.

Jende shifted in his seat. He was enjoying his time with his old boss, but the new secretary had warned him that Clark had only thirty minutes for the meeting. He glanced at his watch. Not much time left. He had to quickly say what he'd come to say.

“Sir,” he began, “I came here not only to say goodbye but also to personally thank you for the job you gave me. You may not understand how it changed my life, but because of that job I was able to save money and now I can go back home to live well. Even though I would have liked to continue working for you and stay in America longer, I am happy that I can now go home and live a better life than the life I lived before I came to America. So I am just very thankful, sir.”

Clark shifted in his seat and rubbed his eyes with his palms. “Wow,” he said. It was apparent no one had ever traveled so far to thank him for doing nothing more than pay for a service. His desk phone rang, but he didn't pick it up.

“I hear all these things that people are saying about Wall Street people, sir, about how they are bad people. But I don't agree with them. Because it was you, a Wall Street man, who gave me a job that helped me to take care of my family. And you were very nice to me. I think you are a good man, Mr. Edwards, and that is why I came to thank you.”

Clark Edwards stared at his former chauffeur, clearly thinking of the best words to convey his surprise at what he was hearing. “I'm very touched, Jende,” he said. “Really, and I thank you, too. It was a great experience for me, having you. Quite a thrill many times, actually. And if I never said it, I hope you know how much I appreciated your loyalty and dedication.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And I'm sorry, Jende …”

“No, please, Mr. Edwards, don't be sorry. For what?”

“That our time together had to end. I'm not sure how to put it, but … It's a pity, you know?”

Jende shook his head. “Our people say no condition is permanent, Mr. Edwards. Good times must come to an end, just like bad times, whether we want it or not.”

“Indeed,” Clark said. “I'm just glad we can part as friends.”

“I'm also glad, sir,” Jende said, nodding as he pushed his chair back and stood up.

Clark stood up, too, and the men shook hands, the streets of New York on which they once drove together visible through the window beside them.

“Do pass on my regards to Neni,” Clark said.

“I will, sir. Please tell Mighty that me and Neni send him special greetings.”

“Will do. He was very fond of you guys. You may not have realized it but your presence in his life really did impact him a great deal. He still tells me, Jende said this, Neni did that.”

“We think about him also, especially after Mrs. Edwards died. I thought sometimes about maybe I should call you and try to see him, but … me and my wife, we had so many troubles going on that I did not even have time to do a lot of things I wanted to. But we don't forget him. He is a good boy.”

“He is. I'm glad he's looking forward to moving to Virginia. If he didn't want to go, I would have passed on the opportunity, even though it's something I've wanted to do for a long time.”

“Barclays is transferring you to work in another office in D.C., sir?”

“No, I'll be starting a whole new job. Heading a lobbying firm.”

Jende moved his hand to scratch his head.

“It's a firm that lobbies to protect the interest of organizations,” Clark said. “I'll be heading one that lobbies for credit unions. The work's going to be very important in this economic climate. Very exciting opportunity for me.”

“It sounds like it is a different kind of work, sir.”

“It is. Wall Street's been good to me, but I don't think there's room for the likes of me here anymore. Besides, with everything that's happened, I'm ready for a change.”

“I am very glad, sir,” Jende said, smiling. “I hope you have success with the lobbying.”

“Thank you,” Clark said, smiling back. “I hope so, too.”

“By the way, Jende,” Clark called as Jende began walking toward the door. “I forgot to ask you. Why are you going back home?”

Jende did not need time to think about the best answer. He immediately turned around, walked back to the desk, and told the truth. “My application for asylum was not approved, sir.”

“Asylum? I had no idea you were applying for asylum.”

“I never mentioned it to you, sir. It is something which I kept between me and my wife and my lawyer. I did not think I should bother you with something like that.”

“No, of course, I understand. I'm just surprised. What does it mean it was not approved? Are you being deported?”

“No, sir, I'm not being deported. But I cannot get a green card unless I am granted asylum, and for that to happen I will have to spend many years and a lot of money going to immigration court. And them maybe the judge will still decide to not give me asylum, which means the government will deport me in the end. It's just not how I want to live my life, sir, especially when you add the fact that life in this country is not easy.”

“But isn't there some other way you can try to get a green card?” Clark said after picking up his ringing phone and telling the person on the line he would call back. “I know how badly you wanted to raise your children here.”

“I did what I could, sir, but—”

“Surely there has to be a way to keep a decent hardworking man like you in America.”

Jende shook his head. “There are laws, sir,” he said.

“Listen,” Clark said, sitting up. “I've got a good friend from Stanford who's an associate director at Immigration. If you had told me you had a case, I would have contacted him for you to get advice, or at least ask for a recommendation for an excellent lawyer. I had no idea.”

Jende looked down and shook his head, a rueful smile on his face.

“It might not be too late,” Clark went on. “Maybe you could reschedule your flight, give me some time to contact my friend and see if we can still help you?”

“I think it's too late, sir.”

“But there's no harm in trying, is there?”

“The judge will not allow it, sir, and even if he did …”

“You're ready to leave.”

Jende smiled. “The truth, sir,” he said, “is that my body may still be here, but my heart has already gone back home. It is true I came here to escape a hard life and I did not want to go back. But when I had no choice but to go back, I found myself happy thinking about home, sir. I will miss America, but it will be good to live in my own country again. I already picture myself going to visit my father's grave to show him my daughter. I see myself walking around Limbe with my friends, getting a drink, taking my son to the stadium. I am no longer afraid of my country the way I used to be.”

“But what about the children?”

“They will be fine, sir. We already have my daughter's American passport. She will come back here when she is ready and maybe one day she will file petition for her brother. If not, my son will go to Canada and my wife can go visit America and Canada every few years.”

Clark nodded, smiling.

Jende looked at his watch and made for the door again, but Clark asked him to wait a second. He went over to his briefcase, which was lying on a chair to the right of his desk, sat down for a minute as he wrote something, and returned with a white envelope, which he handed to Jende. “Take this,” he said, “and take care of your family.”

“Oh, sir … oh, thank you so much,” Jende said, taking the envelope with both hands, his head bowed. “Thank you so much, Mr. Edwards.”

“Don't mention it. Have a safe journey.”

“Oh, I was just wondering, sir,” Jende said as Clark took a step toward the door, “have you heard anything from Leah? Me and my wife, we wanted to invite her to our go-away party, but her house phone has been disconnected.”

“Yeah, I heard from her a couple of months ago,” Clark replied. “She sent me her résumé to help her get a job here, but I don't think anything came out of me forwarding it to HR, what with the hiring freeze and all.”

“So maybe she is still not working?”

“I think so. Tough job market out there, especially for someone her age. My guess is that she's probably picked up and moved out of the city so she wouldn't run out of money.”