Behold the Dreamers(114)
“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Clark said as the men arrived at the door, where they wished each other the very best and shook hands for the last time.
Sixty-one
SHE GAVE HER POTS AND COOKING UTENSILS TO BETTY, HER DINNERWARE and silverware to Fatou. Winston and Maami took her spices and the food in the pantry: the garri, palm oil, crayfish, fufu, egusi, pounded yams, and smoked fish. Olu came for her old textbooks and the desktop—a nephew of her husband’s would soon be arriving from Nigeria to study nursing at Hunter.
Natasha was happy to receive her unworn kabas. They weren’t worth the space they would take up, she told the pastor, who was excited about adding the colorful dresses to her wardrobe. The dinette set she sold on Craigslist, as well as the dresser in the bedroom, the TV, the microwave, and Liomi’s cot. Their winter clothes, old summer clothes, and worn-out shoes she took to Goodwill; the old sofa she had Jende put out on the curb for anyone in need of an old sofa.
By the night before their departure, the apartment was empty except for their luggage in a corner of the bedroom. Whatever they hadn’t given away was in the garbage except for the bed, which they would be leaving for the new tenants.
The new tenants had arrived with Mr. Charles to see the apartment and while there they had asked Neni at least a dozen questions: How much of a pain was it dealing with five flights of stairs every day? Any weird neighbors? Where was the best place to order Thai or Chinese takeout late at night? Was Harlem really better these days like everyone was saying? They were a young couple—early to mid-twenties, pretty, giddy, white, with matching long hair—fleeing Detroit and in pursuit of a life as successful musicians. When Neni asked what kind of music they sang, they smiled and said it was hard to label, some combination of techno, hip-hop, and the blues. They called themselves the Love Stucks.
She was tempted to resent them but then they offered to buy the bed for twice what someone else was offering on Craigslist. They paid her cash right away, then shared a kiss in her bedroom. As they were leaving she heard Mr. Charles reminding them to never mention the arrangement to anyone because if he lost the subsidized apartment everyone would lose out on a great deal. The woman promised they would never say a word; she couldn’t believe they’d just landed an affordable apartment in New York City.
Less than eighteen hours before their flight and Neni was now alone in the living room. Timba was asleep in the bedroom; Jende had taken Liomi to dinner at a restaurant on 116th Street, for one last meal of attiéké and grilled lamb. After dinner they planned to have their last scoop of American ice cream on 115th Street; maybe a slice of cheesecake, too.
With all the bags packed, all the travel clothes laid out, all the itineraries printed out, there was little left to do. Neni sat on the floor, her back against the wall, looking around the living room. It seemed smaller and darker. It felt strange, like being in a faraway cave in a forest in a country she’d never been to. It felt as if she was in a dream about a home that had never been hers.
She looked toward the window, thinking of something she might have forgotten to do. There was nothing. Perhaps a goodbye she hadn’t said? There was none. Her friends had offered to come spend this last night with her, reminisce and laugh, because who knew if/when they’d ever see each other again? She had thanked them but said no. She had said her last goodbye, to Fatou, the day before. They had shared a long hug, and Fatou had said, how you gonno make me cry lika baby? She didn’t want to say any more goodbyes. Not to Fatou, or Betty, or Olu, or Winston, or any other friend.
She wanted to go to sleep, wake up, shower, get the children ready, pick up her luggage, and leave.
Sixty-two
THEY BADE NEW YORK CITY GOODBYE ON ONE OF THE HOTTEST DAYS OF the year. Late August, around the same time he had arrived five years before. They boarded an Air Maroc flight from JFK to Douala via Casablanca. On the cab ride to the airport, she stared out the window in silence. It was all passing her by. America was passing her by. New York City was passing her by. Bridges and billboards bearing smiling people were passing her by. Skyscrapers and brownstones were rushing by. Fast. Too fast. Forever.
He felt nothing.
He forced himself to feel nothing.
He sat in the front seat with the seed money for his new life packed in a red JanSport backpack, twenty-one little bundles of cash tied with brown rubber bands. Each bundle contained a thousand dollars of his fortune: eighteen thousand from Cindy Edwards and their savings; fourteen hundred dollars from the people at Judson; two thousand from Clark Edwards.
“Why don’t you just send it through Western Union and pick it up when you arrive?” Winston had asked him.
“Never,” he had said. “You want Cameroon government to know I have this kind of money and come after me?”
“You and your fears,” Winston had said, laughing. “What will they do if they know? They can’t tax money you transfer.”
“That’s what you think, eh? Wait until Biya decides to change the law. Then the government is going to start asking for ten percent of all Western Union transfers.”
“Ah, Bo! The government can never do such a thing.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know. But, now that you say it, I don’t blame you for being cautious. One can never trust any government—I don’t trust the American government and I definitely don’t trust the Cameroon government.”