Behold the Dreamers(110)
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.
Fifty-nine
BETTY HOSTED A FAREWELL PARTY FOR THEM IN THE BRONX. MOST 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, singing 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.