by Tim Merriman
“He may not agree, doctor. I’ve promised him I will help him complete his journey without judgment. Technically, I’m not his legal guardian yet. You can probably force him into custody by calling the Immigration and Naturalization Service, but I hope you won’t. They’ll most likely deport him right away and that certainly won’t help his condition. So what do we do?”
“There’s no official record of this, Miss Carson. I’m putting the lab tests on my tab and donating my services. If he decides not to stay, I won’t stop him.”
“I want him to decide and I want to support whatever he chooses. He’s come so far,” Rosa said, resigned to an unreasonable set of choices.
They went back to join the kids and Rosa sat down with Daudi a few feet away from Masozi and Ramla.
“The doctor is very concerned about your health, Daudi. He would like to put you in the hospital for a few days,” Rosa explained.
“We would miss the meeting at the United Nations.”
“We could still try to arrange a meeting with Mr. Akama after the meeting. They may not let us into the meeting anyway. We have no invitation.”
“I believe they will. I believe in my heart they will hear us.”
“Daudi, you have such wonderful faith in good things happening. Sometimes they just don’t,” Rosa said, choking back her tears.
“Can we tell him that I will come to the hospital just after meeting Kamau Akama?”
“We could, but it would be better to do as he says now. Your life could be at risk, Daudi.”
“Mamere believed I could do this. I am here. I must try to complete the journey. If I go to be with Mamere, so be it,” he explained simply.
Rosa was out of words or arguments. His resolve seemed unbending and she did not want the kids running from her.
“I promised I would do this your way and I’m doing that. I’ll tell him we’ll be back after the meeting.”
Rosa explained the situation to the doctor and he arranged some blood tests for Daudi on the way out. He again expressed his concern that without continued medication and monitoring the situation could worsen rapidly, but respected Daudi’s resolve.
Rosa led the group back out onto the streets of New York. She was subdued at first, but Masozi’s observations of the sounds and smells surrounding them soon had her laughing again. They had lunch in a restaurant overlooking Times Square, lingering to listen to the panpipes of a Bolivian music group. After they left the restaurant, they took a taxi to the wharf to catch the ferry to the Statue of Liberty. They all loved the boat ride, but the statue was less interesting to the kids than Rosa thought it might be.
“It was a gift from France to the United States, representing liberty and freedom,” Rosa explained.
“There are many people here,” Masozi observed. “It is quite noisy but I like the birds that squawk the best.”
“Seagulls, Masozi. There are as many of them as people here today. They like the food scraps people drop.”
“Why are this island and this statue so important, Miss Rosa?” Masozi asked.
“It’s hard to explain. When ships brought immigrants to the eastern United States and Ellis Island after 1886, when this was given, the boat came right through here past this statue. It was like being greeted by the nation itself. Lady Liberty was the first thing many of them saw. Most fly here now instead of coming by ship, but the symbol is still very emotional for Americans.”
“What is she holding in the hand above her head?” Daudi asked.
“It’s a torch guiding the way, but maybe what’s more interesting are the chains at her feet that you can’t see from here. They’re the chains she left behind for freedom. The seven spikes on her crown represent all of the continents of the world and all of the seas. People in the United States come from everywhere.”
“How do we take this freedom to our friends who are sick, Miss Rosa?”
“I’m not sure, Daudi. I think we take the message to the United Nations and hope they listen and work together to do something. Just as you say.”
“Yes. We will deliver our message soon.”
Rosa watched Daudi’s eyes glued on the face of Lady Liberty.
“You represent eighteen million children. And those are just the ones from your continent. I know there are many others around the world who also need assistance. Let’s hope that people hear what you have to say and do something more to help.”
They were all pensive on the boat ride back to the city. A big task loomed and they had delayed important medical treatment for Daudi to get it done. They were thinking about the day to come, wondering what would happen.
Rosa took them to a street level diner for a dinner of corned beef and cabbage. Masozi was delighted.
“This is better than McDonald’s cheeseburger,” he raved. “I will remember this food for all of my life.”
“You won’t have to remember it so long, Masozi. We can eat here again,” Rosa suggested.
“Masozi collects food memories, Miss Rosa. He can give a wonderful description of the best goat meat he has ever eaten. Just the description will make your mouth water,” Daudi teased.
“This may replace even my best goat memory, Daudi. Do they have goats in New York, Miss Rosa?”
“I’m sure they do, Masozi. You can find every kind of food that every kind of people eat. I’ll watch for an east African restaurant and we’ll see if they cook anything like the ladies at Sister Mary’s.”
After dinner they retired to the hotel room and watched The Wiz on DVD. All three kids were quiet throughout the movie, as transfixed as they had been the night before with the original film. When it was over, they contrasted the two versions and decided they both had strong points.
“Okay, my little movie critics, I think it’s time for bed,” Rosa said after a few minutes. “We have an early day at the United Nations. We need to try to get registered tomorrow as one of the Kenyan delegations. I suppose there may be others there from Kenya.”
“But not like us,” Masozi said proudly.
“Not like you. There’s no one like you three, I think, Masozi. Now to bed.”
They trundled off to share the king bed again after taking turns at the bathtub.
Rosa turned to e-mail and found eleven messages from Ilan alone, asking for the next article. She wanted to sleep but didn’t want to lose momentum, so she sat at the laptop and knocked out twelve hundred words in two hours. She downloaded photos of the kids with Miss Liberty in the background. It was powerful imagery. She wondered if she would be perceived as exploiting the kids, but vowed that every dime these stories earned would benefit them or the orphanage. She had taken pride in her work in selling stories and making a good living, but she didn’t want profit from her young friends. She wanted what they did: justice, a hearing, a few moments of hope. She checked in on them and took one more photo as they slept in a heap with what seemed like miles of king-size bed surrounding them. She returned to her computer to proof the article and send the folder to Ilan. He should be delighted.
At midnight she called for a six-thirty wake-up and then crawled into her own bed for sleep that came quickly. The phone did not wake her. Ramla punching the television on to watch The Wiz again at five a.m. woke her. Rosa groaned, but understood the fascination with the African-American version of the tale they loved. Ramla could look at Dorothy and see herself. She ordered room service for breakfast and gave herself over to the movie with them.
By eight-thirty a.m., they were on the street and walking to the U.N. building.
“This is a special day,” Daudi said. “I am hoping we will meet Kamau Akama.”
“We may hope, Daudi, but we must be patient. We may only get registered today.”
They stood in line for twenty minutes, waiting for the doors to open at nine a.m. Inside was a large registration area with alphabetical options for registrants. Rosa went to the information window to begin.
“Where can we go to get in this conference if we’re n
ot pre-registered?” She asked of a white-haired man wearing a blue blazer.
“You must be pre-registered. This is by invitation only, madam. I don’t think there’s any way to get in without a specific invitation,” he explained politely.
“There must be something we can do. Who’s in charge? Who can I appeal to?”
“Well, Mr. Singh is the registrar and his office is behind the letter M over there. You might find him there.”
“Thanks, that’s a help.”
She checked on the kids who were watching the fountain as it sent a fine spray over Masozi’s laughing face. She encouraged Ramla to watch carefully for police or security guards and warn her of any undue interest from them. Rosa went to the M sign and asked for Mr. Singh. A distinguished gentleman wearing a turban came out from behind the curtain when the lady at the M window called him on a radio.
“Hello, can I help you, miss?” he asked, bowing slightly from the waist.
“I hope so, Mr. Singh. I am representing three young people from Kenya who very much want to be heard at this conference. I know this must be very irregular but hope you will help us make the impossible happen,” she asked in her most humble way.
“Miss, this is a meeting of doctors, refugee camp directors, pharmaceutical company representatives, and heads of state. Children are very much our concern, especially from Africa, but there is no way to include them in the conference. That would be most irregular. I cannot encourage you in any way.” Rosa was stunned.
“These children have hitchhiked half way around the world without passports, without support, sometimes without food. One has AIDS, one lacks vision and a leg, and the third is learning to talk again after watching her family slaughtered. And now you tell me this Children’s Conference can’t include children?”
“I am not the secretary general,” he said, falling back on an officious tone for emphasis. “I am the registrar for the conference. There is little I can do. I am sorry.”
“Me too. I’m very sorry. This is so unfair. I don’t blame you, Mr. Singh. But it is just wrong,” Rosa said, spinning on one foot and walking away. He shook his head in frustration, but at what he considered Rosa’s rudeness, not the obvious disconnect of a children’s conference without children’s voices being heard.
She found the kids outside at a bigger water feature, splashing in the edge of it. Ramla tugged on her sleeve to point out a portly policeman sidling toward them. She took their hands and led them in the other direction, trying to think what she would do.
“Where are we going, Miss Rosa? Is there another way into the meeting?” Daudi asked.
“They won’t let us in. I’m not sure where to go. I just don’t want to have to chat with that policeman about anything. You still have no papers. They don’t usually ask kids for papers, as you’ve discovered. I just don’t want to tempt the fates right now.”
“Do not worry, Miss Rosa. If Ramla is the Lion and I am the Tinman and Daudi is Dorothy, we still have no Scarecrow. Would you like to be our Scarecrow?” Masozi asked with such honest intensity that Rosa burst into tears.
They gathered around her on the public plaza and hugged her. She could see a photographer taking photos of the four of them huddled there, her crying, them comforting her.
“Be all right, Miss Rosa.” Ramla said. Rosa just wept harder for knowing Ramla was now taking care of her. She was supposed to help them. She pulled herself together and found inspiration in their earnest faces.
“I forgot we were on our way to Oz. You know, I have a bizarre idea that just might work. Come with me,” Rosa said, dragging them off to a bench. “Now give me a minute. I’m going to try and do some wizardry.”
Rosa took out her cell phone and called her niece, Nancy. The phone rang and rang and she was about to give up when someone finally picked up.
“Aunt Rosa, where are you now?” Nancy said.
“How would you like to come to New York City tomorrow?” Rosa responded.
“New York? Whatever for?”
“If I buy you a ticket and pay all your expenses, could you fly out in the morning with your sewing machine?”
“Sure, I could do that. I only have three children, a hungry husband who thinks he’s helpless at home, and a pile of laundry to do.” She laughed. “Actually heading to New York sounds like a lot more fun than all that. Let me call Paul and figure this out. I don’t even want to ask why you need a sewing machine, but I’m game, whatever it is.”
“I’m in a real jam, Nancy. I found the kids and now we need help. We need a seamstress of unparalleled skill, a sewing machine, and imagination. You have more of that going for you than anyone on the planet. Are you coming?”
“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away. I’ll call Grandma, Paul, and my sis and all will be done. They all owe me big time. You’ll see. Let me know what I need.”
“You’re my favorite niece, Nancy. I know I’ve told you that, but you’re being promoted to all-around hero. Grab a pen and I’ll give you a list of what to bring.”
Rosa described what she wanted, and told Nancy she’d call back with flight details. She called the premier frequent flyer desk at United and used accumulated mileage in her frequent flyer program to get Nancy on a partially full flight from St. Louis at seven o’clock the next morning. Then she ran back inside the building and used the phone directory at the pay phone to find a costume shop in Greenwich Village that specialized in movie and theater themes. The children had no idea what she was up to, but had caught her sense of urgency so they simply leaped into the cab without question and arrived at the shop fifteen minutes later. Along the way, Rosa explained her plan.
Chapter Fifteen
Rosa found what she expected, costumes that didn’t quite fit and didn’t quite look like they should, but given a few alterations in the hands of a skilled seamstress, they would work. She and the kids tried them on amid giggles and guffaws as they saw themselves becoming the characters they so admired. They decided that Ramla made a better Dorothy and so Daudi became the Lion. She bought the costumes from the shop for far more than they were worth and they taxied back to the hotel laden with boxes.
Rosa just about dropped her boxes as she spotted Ilan perched outside the door of the suite.
“Ilan, what are you doing here?”
“I’m here to look after important clients. You guys. Hi kids, I’m Ilan. You can call me Uncle Ilan.” The kids looked at each other and Rosa, but since she seemed happy to see this person, they decided to like him, too. Daudi set down his box and extended his hand. Ilan took it and shook hands with genuine warmth.
“I am Daudi. Why are you our uncle?”
“Well, I just want to be, Daudi. I want to have bragging rights for knowing you. Look at this.” He pulled out a copy of USA Every Day and they were on the front page. The story wrapped the giant photo and trickled onto page two. Now Rosa really did drop her boxes. And her room key. Ilan chuckled.
“Oh my gosh, this is amazing,” Rosa said. “Come on inside and we can put this stuff down.” Ilan picked up the room key and opened the door while Rosa collected boxes. They all trooped into the suite and piled the boxes on the table. Ilan handed the paper to Rosa while the kids crowded around.
“We so need this right now, Ilan. Your timing couldn’t be better.”
“You are all enjoying a picture I am not seeing. Please explain,” Masozi interrupted.
“I’m sorry, Masozi. It’s USA Every Day, the biggest newspaper in the Western hemisphere and a photo of the three of you is on the front. Ilan is my friend with the Global Press who makes my stories and photos available to media companies. This is very hard to get done.”
“I think I understand. You think this will help us get to the United Nations or to meet with Mr. Akama?” Masozi asked.
“That’s it, Masozi. But now I have another plan, and I need to talk to Ilan about it.” Daudi nodded, but seemed only too willing to let Rosa make whatever plans she wanted.
“Do y
ou need me right now, Miss Rosa? I am a little tired and would like to rest,” Daudi said.
“Read,” Ramla said quietly and everyone turned to her.
Rosa looked at Daudi and thought conserving his energy was probably a good idea. She said, “That’s a great idea, Ramla. Why don’t you three take the book and go get comfy on the couch and Ilan and I will figure out the details.”
Daudi found his book and began reading to Masozi and Ramla. Ilan and Rosa watched a moment. She made coffee and they settled down to talk at the breakfast bar in the kitchenette.
“What’s going on? I thought you might be at the conference already,” Ilan asked.
“No, it’s what I expected. It’s very formally organized. The kids are not invited guests and there are no exceptions. I was afraid of this, but I’ve been so absorbed by Daudi’s intensity about this that I want what he wants. I’m not willing to hear no.”
“What will you do?” Ilan asked.
“I have a plan, Ilan, and you can really help me.”
She explained her intent in detail. They brainstormed others who could be involved in the impromptu media event. Within minutes, Ilan was on the phone to his contacts. Rosa checked in with Nancy to convey the travel arrangements and run down the final list of things to bring. All was good on that front. Nancy would be at the hotel by tomorrow morning, the second day of the four-day U.N. conference. Since the first day was filled with registration and an opening reception, they hadn’t missed much by not being there today anyway.
Rosa still had serious doubts about what they could do, but she was determined to try anything. When the conference was over, successful or not, Daudi’s health would be the only priority. It should be now, but he would not hear of it. The journey was about this meeting with a man who had no idea they existed as specific personalities. She also had no doubt that Mr. Akama knew of their plight in the abstract and was committed to assistance. She was torn between the irrationality of what she was doing in the face of U.N. policy and the need to champion the cause of young friends. It was no contest. They deserved her support, no matter what.