The saying, “see it to believe it,” fits when talking about how hard of a worker my mother is. Her dedication can only truly be appreciated if you go shopping with her, especially if you’re going out to buy her something nice for herself. When we got the big house, Mom and I went out to buy her a new bed. It was supposed to be a treat for her; she worked so hard to make us kids comfortable that I wanted to make sure she got something that made her comfortable, too. But the shopping experience didn’t start off well. First, no one in the store came to help us. When a saleswoman finally noticed we were standing around, waiting, she approached and asked what we were looking for. She showed us some nice but very cheap beds, obviously not expecting us to spend much if we spent anything at all. My mom wasn’t happy about this; she was always aware of when people made assumptions about her. I could tell Mom was getting upset, so I jumped in and told the saleswoman that we wanted something bigger, nicer, better. The lady got the idea. She showed us a really good one—one I thought would be perfect—and she didn’t forget to mention that there was a built-in drawer where my mom could keep her firearm (I laughed at when she said it, but the saleswoman didn’t seem to notice). The lady finally came to the point in her pitch where she asked my mom to decide whether she wanted a soft mattress or a firm one. Seeing some confusion on my mom’s face, the saleswoman proceeded to ask my mom if she knew the difference.
“When I go to bed,” my mother said, “I do not worry about how soft or firm my bed is. I worry about if they [my kids] can eat tomorrow and if I am doing everything I can to give them a chance at a great future. I would sleep on the floor if I needed to.”
I sighed. The saleswoman looked confused and a little ashamed.
We bought the bed with a soft mattress and left the store.
Things like that come out of my mom’s mouth all the time. Those words leave me, and sometimes people around us, feeling guilty. Even though the saleswoman had no idea about our situation, I knew that my mom had been sick for a number of years, that her cancer never went away, but that I had never seen her cry over herself. When my mom is weak, when she’s sick or tired, she keeps going and doesn’t let her children see her stumble. She’s an exceedingly strong woman. She remembers life in Africa; she remembers the kind of houses we lived in and the kinds of clothes we wore (or didn’t wear), and the kinds of things we had to go without. Sleeping on the floor is nothing to her. On top of that, America is a powerful, new place, full of new rules and discriminating people, of undeserving people who don’t appreciate what they have and blame others for it. I think my mom believes that, if she gives up, her children will have lost some hope of surviving in this harsh world, even a harsh world in America.
After everything happened—the new house, the new appreciation for my mother, the mattress, and the completion of our move—I felt I’d emerged from the summer as a young man. I started searching for happiness from within my own self rather than from a girl. I started exercising and working out to get in shape; I believed (and still believe) that you must look good to feel good; to me, looking good meant being physically fit and liking what I see in the mirror. Even though I hadn’t graduated from high school yet, I had started my own business. I felt I knew something others didn’t, and it turns out I was right. When senior year came around not only was I a new man, a better man, but I also started at a new school: East Ridge High. I was “the new guy”, coming late in the game with a fresh beginning and a whole new head on my shoulders. My new guy name was originally “the black guy with beats”, but as people grew to know me and respect me, they simply learned to call me Wen. It was only a few weeks before I knew enough people there to feel right at home.
East Ridge educated a lot of students from many different areas. It seemed nobody came from the same places and, because of that broad and untapped knowledge filtering through hundreds of different backgrounds, I quickly became the “go to” guy for information on anything, from upcoming parties to something to do on a Friday night, to the ins and outs of the newest cell phones and who had what type of device. As a result, I got some of my own partying done, as should everyone their senior year of high school.
I was not that focused on my grades. To me, because of what I’d gleaned from my mother’s wisdom and her personal experiences, I felt that, while a “classroom” education is very important, getting all my education from books and homework was not my priority. I believe the education you acquire on your own—from people and from doing things outside the classroom—sticks with you more than those things you get from testing and books and a classroom smart board.
Even without spectacular grades, I still graduated high school and earned my diploma. I was now ready for college, ready to start another four years of formal education. After all she’d been through, my mother never would have let me live had I not gone through with college. (In fact, I’m enrolled in school now, as this book is being written.) After some thought, I decided on a place: Florida, the birthplace of my renewal. I made preparations to begin my college experience in sunny, warm, and snowless weather. I decided to attend college near where Sylvie lived, so she could help me with any coursework or social barriers I might run into. Also, I chose to be near my sister because it would relieve my mom from worrying about me and, hopefully, allow her to relax a little more. Though I’m still young, I finally realize I am my mother’s baby: I am and have been the most demanding person she has had to deal with. Still, I know she’s happy with the way I am turning out.
My future is currently very bright. My own business, though small, is doing well. I am halfway through college at the University of West Florida learning Computer Science and Marketing, and expect to graduate May of 2014. After that, I plan to return to Africa, to show my family and the people there who I still love how different America is, how incredibly hard it is and how equally wonderful and beautiful.
Looking back, I cannot believe I transformed from a hopeful, awkward and depressed kid to the person I am today. Life in the United States is the best thing anyone can ask for. It really is the land of hope, possibilities, options, and, most of all, happiness. Though some people will always discriminate, though some circumstances and personalities cannot be avoided, there still is nowhere in America that is as bad as certain places in Africa. Coming here gave me hope when I was five and still does now that I’m in college. I look at my future as something that’s all but a guaranteed success.
One day I will return to Cameroon to change as much as I can for the people who live there. But, first, I need to focus on my goals and accomplish what needs to be accomplished here, in my second home: America.
The last picture I have of my dad and I
My mom and dad back in the 80s
CHAPTER 14:
The Last Trip.
“Family. There is no one in this world who can replace them.
Leaving your family behind and never going back is like leaving a part of yourself to be lost forever.”
Though it had been over ten years, I never thought it would be so soon before I had to return home to Cameroon. Both the trip itself and the reason for it left my heart empty of any joy: on April 9th, 2013, my father, a healthy man of 67 years who had raised over twenty children, died suddenly from unknown causes. Of the many broken hearts that day, mine was one of them. In addition to the pain of loss, a cloud of guilt and regret hung about me the day I found out and in the weeks following. The days leading up to the announcement of his passing are a blur, filled with all the little things in life that seem to do just that: fill, but not empower, supply, but not satisfy.
April 7th, 2013.
I was at school. A call came in on my cell from Cameroon. I knew who it was.
I didn’t answer.
I hadn’t spoken to my father in months and had no true interest in talking to him. We were not angry with one another, so to speak, but we did live in different worlds, both figuratively and literally. Whenever we had conversations he simply couldn’t understand
me—what I was talking about, how I was feeling, the things I was experiencing—and the conversation always ended with an awkward air between us right before, or, if I were at home in Minnesota, my father would ask to speak with my older brother. I’d hand over the phone to Francis, frustrated, and leave the room to do something to get my mind off of my irritation. The request was inevitable and I always expected it, but it still left me slightly embittered and unsure about my father’s love for me. This anger I held toward him had existed for years and for a multitude of reasons.
But, by the time this particular call came in, I was old enough to I decide for myself if I wanted to have a conversation or not. Even when my older sister told me he was in the hospital and encouraged me to speak with him, I hesitated, and ultimately refused.
April 8th, 2013.
My spiritual talent for sensing death came into play again as a strange feeling swept over me the next day. My thoughts focused on my father. I felt uneasy about him, about not talking to him. I immediately called my sister in Florida; even though I already had it, I asked her for his number. I planned to get an international phone card after my classes and give him a call so he could hear my voice and we could talk a little bit.
On my first call to Cameroon the network was down; the line never connected. The second time it connected but rang and rang and no one ever picked up. I tried a third time while walking back to my dorm from the library around 12 midnight. As I dialed I realized it was still too early in Cameroon (around 6:30 am); I wouldn’t be able to talk much to my father even if he did answer. I didn’t complete the call and reluctantly resolved to talk to him early the next day.
April 9th, 2013, 12:30am.
I crawled beneath my covers. My day’s early start plus the mental anxiety about my father had exhausted me. As usual, my phone was resting on the window sill next to my bed. As I was getting comfortable under my sheets my phone rang. I glanced over. It was from my dad’s number. Aggravation set in.
My cellular service provider does not have good reception in Pensacola. On top of that, my phone doesn’t work at all while I’m in my dorm. Had I answered, my father would not have heard me talking; he would have had a conversation with silence and static, maybe the occasional, incomprehensible word from his son. I lay there, contemplating, listening to the phone ring. I could have gone out of the building to talk, but I was really tired, and now I was grumpy. I had resigned earlier to call him when I woke up in the morning before I went to class. I stood behind that decision.
I didn’t answer the phone.
April 9th, 2013, 9:00am.
My first class wasn’t until 1:00pm. I woke up feeling awkward. The day felt unexplainably weird. I had no motivation to do anything. My sour mood caused me to forget about calling my dad back. My head pounded severely; the pain medication I took didn’t help. I trudged through the morning and made my way to my math class that afternoon. I sat there, unable to pay attention, which was highly unusual for me. The day just felt wrong and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why.
After class I called up my best friend, Robar, and met him at McDonalds for a late lunch. While we were having our usual worldly conversations I received a call from my sister’s husband. I answered. He pled with me to come over as soon as possible, trying his best not to tell me what the fuss was about. I kept pressing him, and he finally told me.
“Wen,” he said, “your father passed away today. Your sister needs you. She is on the floor crying and you need to come here, fast.”
I hung up the phone. I was having difficulty processing what I’d just been told. Robar asked what was wrong. I calmly told him my father just passed away and that I needed a ride to my sister’s house. Like a great friend, he didn’t ask any questions—he just took me, as quickly as he could.
I walked into the house, still in disbelief. Sylvie was crying uncontrollably, screaming to God, asking him why he had given her father a cruel and undeserved fate. Her wild grieving did little to convince me of the truth: that I did not have a father anymore. My logical mind took over. I told her things to try to get her to calm down, but she just couldn’t stop crying. I, on the other hand, had yet to shed even a single tear.
I stayed there for a little while trying to comfort and calm my sister but, eventually, I had to return to my own home, my dorm room. Even as I left her house, I still hadn’t processed that I had no dad to talk to anymore. I just kept thinking that he hadn’t yet given me his annual advice, he hadn’t yet given me his own version of “the talk,” he hadn’t yet seen me come home again. That none of those things would ever happen left me feeling numb inside.
It would be over a month of scheduling, planning, and organizing before my family and I would be in Cameroon for the funeral.
Eulogy.
Dear Dad,
Most kids have good memories of them and their father playing around or going on field trips. The few memories I had of us have all faded away, taking you, my dad, with them.
I cannot think of any trips I took with you or any laughs we shared. What I do remember is that we shared the same bed when I was eight years old until I was nine, when my mom left for the USA. I know we shared the same birth month, and that your birthday is one day before mine. I know we shared the same aspirations for greatness.
You were very kind, always putting everyone and everything ahead of yourself. Even when you were sick, you sought to help the people you loved. You left this earth with a smile, knowing you’d stayed true to your principles.
Though I'm now left without a father, in reality you will always be with me, somewhere in my heart, waiting for the day when we will meet again and make new memories.
Until then, Dad, you won't be forgotten.
Love, Your Son,
Wen Muenyi.
“I know we shared the same birth month… I know we shared the same aspirations for greatness.”
Photograph of My father’s Marketing & Business book.
Wen currently studies Marketing at the University of West Florida.
Getting There.
We—my mother, Francis, Sylvie, and I—went through the grueling process of getting all seven required shots and vaccinations completed so that we could travel to Cameroon. We put up with the aggravation of obtaining emergency traveling documents through the appropriate United States government offices. Finally, after what seemed forever, May 20, 2013, arrived, the day we would board a plane to Africa to see the family we’d left behind and put Dad to rest.
Mom left for Cameroon ahead of us to make sure things were set up properly for the services; she wanted to make sure nothing would go wrong. Despite the hardship, she, once again, went above and beyond to take all the responsibility for those duties so that we, her children, wouldn’t have to worry even more than we already were. Also, because she was more familiar with the culture, she could make sure nobody got angry at us for forgetting some minute detail. (Man—how I love my mom!)
Before getting on her flight, Mom told us that she had spoken to my dad’s other wife. She said that my dad had told his assistant (who was also his nephew), that if he died they were to leave his body in the mortuary for however long it took for his family in America to return home. Even if it took a year, he didn’t care. He wanted us at his funeral.
From what people have told me, it seems my father was somehow aware of his impending death. Right before going to sleep for the last time, he told his nephew to clean his bed area, that his family was coming to see him. Apparently, those were the last words he spoke to anyone.
Sylvie, Francis, and I waited in the airport to get on our long series of flights from Minneapolis, Minnesota, to Doula, Cameroon. We would meet Valery in New York’s La Guardia airport and then together we would fly to Africa.
After a short layover in Brussels, we’d arrived. We felt different than we had been going to America—older, wiser, and more knowledgeable about the world—but it appeared as if nothing in Cameroon had changed since we’d left i
t ten years before. People were a little older, and there were some new young faces, but that was it.
Our home, Cameroon, had frozen in time.
The airport looked exactly the same as it had a decade prior. The weather was (expectedly) humid and hot and there were people everywhere trying to sell us things so they could make a little money for groceries. The truly interesting part came when we arrived in Customs and they were preparing to receive us. This was where being an American citizen really made a difference. Francis and I strolled into Customs feeling good; we had no problems at all entering the country as we flashed our blue American passports. However, Valery and Sylvie, who were both still flying with their old, green Cameroonian passports, were held back. They weren’t legally recognized as Americans and that meant that—even though they were our relatives and had been on the same flight as Francis and I—the airport authorities felt at liberty to do whatever they pleased to them, especially since they’d been out of the country for so long.
(Now, one thing about Cameroon is certain: the country functions on bribery. If you want something, you have to pay someone for it. It works this way up and down Cameroon’s social and political ladders, from the common man all the way up to the President, who leaves no one questioning that he loves and welcomes bribes from whoever is rich enough to please him.)
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