Behold the Dreamers(5)

“What did you tell these people about me?” he asked Winston. “The man said I came to him highly recommended.”

“Nothing,” Winston replied. “I only told Frank you drive a limo sometimes, and that you used to chauffeur a family in New Jersey.”

“What!”

“I lie, I die,” Winston said, snickering. “You think a black man gets a good job in this country by sitting in front of white people and telling the truth? Please, don’t make me laugh. I just didn’t want to tell you beforehand and get you even more nervous.”

“Bo, you serious? But I didn’t have any of that on my résumé! How come—?”

“Ah, you and your shocks. The man’s a busy man. I knew he wasn’t going to sit there asking you every kind of question. Frank’s his best friend. What? You’re not happy I told him?”

“Happy?” Jende said in a near-scream, shaking his head and throwing it back. “I want to jump out of this car right now and come kiss your feet!”

“No, thank you,” Winston said. “I’m interviewing some ngahs to do that for me.”

“Yes, you are!” Jende said, guffawing. “I won’t get jealous, because Neni will kill me.”

Winston laughed so hard, he snorted. “The one last night, Bo, let me tell you—”

“But what are we going to do about this background check thing?” Jende asked. “The secretary says I have to give this thing, this rev … em … reve … reverencies?”

“Don’t worry about that. We’ll fill out the forms together when I come over. I have some people for the references.”

“I owe you, Bo … In short, I don’t even know how I’ll ever thank you.”

“Just stop this thank you business right now, eh?” Winston said. “You’re my brother. If I don’t do it for you who will I do it for? Tell Neni to cook for me her special pepper soup recipe, the one with cow feet and chicken gizzards. That’s all I want. I’m coming over tomorrow evening.”

“You don’t even have to ask. The food will be waiting for you, plus frozen palm wine and fresh soya.”

Winston congratulated him again and said he had to get back to a brief he was working on. Jende continued driving around the Bronx, picking up passengers, dropping them off, listening to Lite fm, unable to discard the grin on his face. His cell phone beeped to announce a new text message. You just get your papers now, Neni wrote, and we’ll be all set!

Isn’t that the truth, he thought. First a good job. Then papers. How good would that feel?

He sighed.

Three years: That’s how long he’d been fighting for papers in America. He’d been in the country for only four weeks when Winston took him to meet with an immigration lawyer—they needed to find a way for him to stay in the country permanently after his visitor visa expired. That had been their plan all along, though it wasn’t what Jende had said when he went to the American embassy in Yaoundé to apply for the visa.

“How long do you plan on staying in New York City?” the consulate had asked him.

“Only three months, sir,” he had replied. “Just three months, and I promise I will return.”

And he had submitted evidence to back his claim: his work supervisor’s letter describing him as a diligent employee who loved his job so much he would never abandon it to go roam around aimlessly in America; his son’s birth certificate, to show he would never remain in America and desert his child; the title on a piece of land his father had given him, to show he intended to return and build on the land; a letter from the town planning office, which he’d paid a distant uncle who worked in the office to get for him, stating that he had applied for a permit to build a house; a letter from a friend who swore under oath that Jende wasn’t going to remain in America because they were going to open a drinking spot together when he returned.

The consular officer had been convinced.

The next day Jende had walked out of the consular office with his visa. Yes, he was going to America. He, Jende Dikaki Jonga, son of Ikola Jonga, grandson of Dikaki Manyaka ma Jonga, was going to America! He skipped out of the embassy and onto the dusty streets of Yaoundé, pumping his fist and grinning so wide an Ewondo woman carrying a basket of plantains on her head stopped mid-stride to stare at him. Quel est son problème? he heard her say to a friend. He laughed. He didn’t have a problem. He was leaving Cameroon in a month! Leaving to certainly not return after three months. Who traveled to America only to return to a future of nothingness in Cameroon after a mere three months? Not young men like him, not people facing a future of poverty and despondency in their own country. No, people like him did not visit America. They got there and stayed there until they could return home as conquerors—as green card– or American passport–bearing conquerors with pockets full of dollars and photos of a happy life. Which was why on the day he boarded an Air France flight from Douala to Newark with a connection in Paris, he was certain he wouldn’t see Cameroon again until he had claimed his share of the milk, honey, and liberty flowing in the paradise-for-strivers called America.

“Asylum is the best way to get papier and remain in the country,” Winston told him after he had gotten over his jet lag and spent half a day walking around Times Square in astonishment. “Either that or you marry an old white woman in Mississippi with no teeth.”