by Mbue, Imbolo
“I didn’t say he’s not attentive,” she said. “He is. He’s a good listener. But every so often, he lets himself get distracted in class. He and his friend Billy—”
“They do what?” Neni asked. She was aware of the anger in her voice but didn’t care to tell the teacher that the anger wasn’t directed at her.
“Billy’s the clown, but Liomi can’t stop himself from laughing at every silly thing Billy says or does. Liomi’s a great kid, Mrs. Jonga. He’s obedient, he’s sharp, he’s just an all-around good boy. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this—I can tell from his performance how involved you are in his schooling.”
“But he makes noise in class?”
“He loves to laugh. Which is fine, of course. It’s a good thing to be happy, don’t get me wrong, but when he’s in class, it would help for him to be less … giggly?”
“And you spoke to him? He does not listen to you?”
“He listens sometimes. I’ve moved him and Billy to extreme ends of the classroom. It’s not just Liomi. Other kids get a kick out of Billy and his little brand of comedy—we’re working on him. But in the meantime, it’ll be good if we can help Liomi so he doesn’t continue to—”
“Oh, don’t worry about anything continuing,” Neni said, widening her eyes as she stood up to button her jacket. “None of this nonsense will continue after today.”
The teacher nodded and was about to add something, but Neni was already out the door. She ordered Liomi to stand up and he complied, jumping up from a bench in the hallway and strapping on his backpack. She said nothing more to him until they got home, though she held his hand firmly as they walked down Frederick Douglass Boulevard, tightening her grip as they hurried past a housing project where two young men had been gunned down the week before.
At home, she gave him crackers and orange juice. She could see his fear as he gingerly moved the crackers into his mouth.
“Lio,” she said to him softly, after he had finished his snack and she had asked him to sit next to her on the sofa. She hadn’t envisioned herself speaking to him this gently when she’d walked out of the parent-teacher conference, but something about walking past a place where young men had died, then watching him eat his crackers so sadly, had softened her heart.
“Lio, do you know why we send you to school?” she said.
He nodded, looking down to avoid her eyes.
“Do we send you to school to play, Liomi?”
He shook his head.
“Tell me why we send you to school.”
“So I can learn,” he said slowly, almost shamefully.
“To learn and do what else?”
“You send me to … nothing, Mama. Just to learn.”
“Then why do you play in class? Eh? Why do you not listen to your teacher?”
He looked at her, then the floor, then the wall, but said nothing.
“Answer me!” she said. “Who is Billy?”
“He is my friend.”
“Your friend, eh?”
He nodded, still looking away.
“Because he’s your friend, you have to let him distract you? Have I not told you that when it comes to school, you cannot let yourself be distracted?”
“But Mama, I did not do anything—”
“Listen to me, Liomi! Open your ears and listen to me, because I will say this once and then I’ll never say it again. You do not go to school to play. You do not go to school to make friends. You go to school to sit quietly in class and open your ears like gongo leaf and listen to your teacher. Are you hearing me?”
The child nodded.
“Open your mouth and say ‘Yes, Mama’!”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Do you think Papa goes to work every day so you can play in school? Without school, you will be nothing. You will never be anybody. Me and Papa, we wake up every day and do everything we can so you can have a good life and become somebody one day, and you repay us by going to school and playing in class? You know what’s going to happen if I tell Papa what the teacher told me? Do you think he’ll be happy to hear that you think school is a place to play?”
“Mama, please …”
“Why should I not tell him?”
“I won’t do it—”
“Wipe your eyes,” she said. “I won’t tell him. But if I hear that you did one stupid thing in class again …”
He nodded, drying his eyes with the backs of his hands.
“I hope so, because you don’t know how it hurt me today, what the teacher said.”
His lips started trembling, and with one look at them, and his tear-stained face, her heart softened again. She moved closer to him, wiped his cheeks with her palm.
“You’re going to do well in school, Liomi,” she said, drying her palm on her scrubs. “You’re going to graduate high school with A grades and go to a good college and become a doctor or a lawyer. You want to become a lawyer like Uncle Winston or a doctor like Dr. Tobias, don’t you?”
The child shook his head.
“What are you shaking your head for? Don’t you want to be a lawyer or a doctor?”
“I want to be a chauffeur.”
“A chauffeur!” Neni exclaimed. “You want to be a chauffeur?”
Liomi nodded, looking at her confusedly, his brow furrowed and lips slightly parted.
“Oh, Lio,” she said, laughing, enjoying the first light moment of her day. “Nobody chooses to be a chauffeur. You think Papa would choose to be a chauffeur if he could choose to be anything in the world? Papa is a chauffeur not because it is the best thing he can be. Papa’s a chauffeur because he didn’t finish school. And he’ll never be able to finish school now, because he has to work so me and you can finish school. A chauffeur job is a good job for Papa, but it won’t be for you.”
Liomi forced a smile.
“I’ve told you this, and I’ll keep on telling you: School is everything for people like us. We don’t do well in school, we don’t have any chance in this world. You know that, right?”
He nodded.
“Me and Papa, we don’t want you to ever be a chauffeur. Never. We want you to have a chauffeur. Maybe you’ll become a big man on Wall Street like Mr. Edwards, eh? That’ll make us so happy. But first you must do well in school, okay?”
Liomi nodded again and she smiled at him, then rubbed his head. For the first time since Bubakar told Jende about the possible deportation, she was hopeful. Until the day she left the country, she was going to keep believing that she and her family had a chance.
When Jende returned home from work around six o’clock (thanks to Mr. Edwards being out of the country for work and Mrs. Edwards canceling her evening plans because of a cold), she served him his dinner and left for her eight o’clock precalculus class without telling him what Liomi’s teacher had said. In class she sat in the front row, as she did in every class, believing physical proximity to the teacher was directly related to class grades. Except that night, her theory was once more proven wrong: When the instructor returned the previous week’s test, she had a B-minus.
“I just … I don’t understand this grade, Professor,” she said to the instructor after she’d lingered around him long enough for all the other students to leave.
“Do you disagree with the grade?” the instructor asked as he moved a folder into his burgundy man bag.
“No, I don’t think I disagree,” she said. “It’s just that I stayed up all night the night before this test to study. I did many practice problems, Professor.”
“I’m not sure what you’re asking me to do.”
“All this studying and I end up … I hate it when I work so hard for something and I get a result like this. I just hate it! No matter what I do, I just cannot do well in precalculus, and now my whole GPA is going to go down …”
“I’m sorry,” the instructor said as she began walking toward the door.
“It’s okay, Professor,” she said, turning around. “I’m not angry at you.”
> “Why don’t you email me? I’ll be glad to meet to see what you’re struggling with.”
She sighed and nodded, fatigue blended with frustration making it hard for her to utter words.
“And cheer up,” the instructor said. “Lots of students would be happy with a B-minus.”
Eleven
AROUND HIM TOURISTS AND NEW YORKERS CHATTED OR IGNORED EACH other, everyone enfolded in their joys and sorrows and apathies. Someone laughed at one end of the subway car, a sweet laugh that on any other day would have made him look around because he loved to see the faces from which happy sounds came. Not tonight—he couldn’t care about the merriment of others. He kept his head down, immersed in his misery. This is what it had come down to, he thought. This is what all his suffering had amounted to. Where did he go wrong? He rubbed his face with his palms. What would he do in Limbe if he returned there? Maybe the Council would have a job for him, but it would probably be a laborer job. No way in heaven and on earth was he going back to sweeping streets and picking up dead cats and dogs. Maybe he’d move to Yaoundé or Douala, get a job as chauffeur for a big man there. That might work … but such a job would never come by without a connection, and he knew no one with a solid link to a minister or CEO or any of the big men who ran the country and always kept at their service chauffeurs/bodyguards to tail them from dawn to dusk and run errands for their wives and mistresses and make their children feel like little princes and princesses. If by chance he could get such a good job, he might be able to rebuild his life in … No, he wasn’t going to think about what he would do in Cameroon. He wasn’t returning. That was never the plan. He’d done everything the way he had planned to. He was in America. Neni was here with him. Liomi was an American boy now. They weren’t going back to Limbe. Oh, God, don’t let them deport me, he prayed. Please, Papa God. Please.
“Can I sit here?” a pleasant voice asked him. He lifted his head and saw a young black man pointing to the seat next to him, where he had placed his bag.
“Oh, yes,” he said, taking the bag and putting it between his feet. “So sorry.”
He bowed his head again. He exhaled. What were his choices? What could he do to stay in America? Nothing, except ask for the judge’s mercy, Bubakar had said. Or maybe he could talk to Mr. Edwards. Yes, he could tell Mr. Edwards the truth about his immigration situation. Mr. Edwards might help him. He might give him money to hire a better lawyer. But Winston had said it was better he stayed with Bubakar. Bubakar may be a useless mbutuku, Winston had said, but he was the architect of the case, and he would know best how to handle it in front of a judge. Winston was sure the judge would not deport Jende—New York immigration judges were known for their leniency, he’d found out.
It was of no consolation.
Jende heard the automated system tell riders to stand clear of the closing doors, please. He lifted his head. The white people were nearly all gone. Mostly black people remained. More black people got in. That was how he knew it was Harlem, 125th Street. He picked up his bag and stood by the door. When he exited at 135th Street, he went into the bodega at the corner of Malcolm X Boulevard and bought a Diet Coke to change his mood, to help him force out a smile when he walked into the apartment and saw Neni sitting at the table waiting for him with a face as crestfallen as a basset hound’s.
The next evening he called Bubakar from the car while waiting for Cindy, who was treating her friend June to a facial on Prince Street. It had been a week since Bubakar called him and in that time he had wanted to call the lawyer to get a better understanding of his case, but every time he picked up his phone he couldn’t dial the number because … what if Bubakar had more bad news for him?
“Listen, my brother,” Bubakar said. “These things take time, eh? Immigration courts are backlogged these days like nothing I’ve ever seen before—there’s just too many people the government wants to deport and not enough judges eager to deport them. You should have received your Notice to Appear long ago, but the way your asylum case has been going, I don’t even know when you’re going to get it because I’m calling the asylum office and nobody is telling me anything useful. So you may not even have to stand in front of a judge for up to six months, maybe even one year. And then after the judge sees you, he’s going to want to see you again, and the next court date may not be for Allah alone knows how long. And even if the judge denies your asylum case, my brother, we can still appeal the decision. We can even do more than one appeal.”
“Eh?” Jende said. “You mean to say I’m not going to court any day now to hear that I have to leave the country as soon as possible?”
“No! It’s not that bad, at all! There is still a long process ahead.”
“So I could still have a few years in this country?”
“A few years?” Bubakar asked in mock shock. “How about thirty years? I know people who’ve been fighting Immigration forever. In that time, they’ve gone to school, married, had children, started businesses, made money, and enjoyed their lives. The only thing they cannot do is go outside the country. But if you’re in America, what is there to see outside America, abi?”
Jende laughed. Truly, he thought, there was nothing much to see outside America. Anything a man wanted to see—mountains, valleys, wonderful cities—could be seen here, and God willing, after he’d saved enough money, he would take his family to see other parts of the country. Maybe he would take them to see the Pacific Ocean, which Vince Edwards had told him was where he’d seen a most beautiful sunset that had brought tears to his eyes and left him humbled by the beauty of the Universe, the magnificent gift that is Presence on Earth, the vanity that is the pursuit of anything but Truth and Love.
Jende began to feel lighter, a leaf released from beneath a rock. His situation wasn’t half as bad as he’d feared. How much would it cost to fight all the way to the end, he asked Bubakar. A few thousand, the lawyer told him. But no need to worry about that just yet. “You and your cousin have already spent a good amount of money to get you this far. Take a break and save for the battle ahead. When the court sends the Notice to Appear, we’ll discuss a payment plan.
“You are in a better situation than many others,” Bubakar added. “You have a wife who has a job, even though she does not have working papers. Immigration didn’t get back to us within a hundred and fifty days after we filed your application so I forced them to give you a work permit. At least you have been able to work legally. At least there are two of you, my brother. You can both work and pay whatever bills you have. Some families don’t even have one job.”
“But what about my work permit?” Jende asked. “Will I be able to renew it after it expires now that Immigration wants to deport me?”
“Did your employer ask to see your work permit when he hired you?” Bubakar said.
“No.”
“Good. Then stay with him.”
“But what will happen if I cannot renew it and the police stops me and—”
“Don’t worry about things that might never happen, my brother.”
“So if my work permit expires and I cannot renew it and the police stops me on the road, I won’t get into trouble for working as a driver?”
“Listen to me,” Bubakar said, somewhat impatiently. “As far as Immigration is concerned, there are many things that are illegal and many that are gray, and by ‘gray’ I mean the things that are illegal but which the government doesn’t want to spend time worrying about. You understand me, abi? My advice to someone like you is to always stay close to the gray area and keep yourself and your family safe. Stay away from any place where you can run into police—that’s the advice I give to you and to all young black men in this country. The police is for the protection of white people, my brother. Maybe black women and black children sometimes, but not black men. Never black men. Black men and police are palm oil and water. You understand me, eh?”
Jende said he did.
“Live your life wisely and put aside all the money you can,” Bubakar said.
“Maybe one day, Inshallah, an immigration bill like the one Kennedy and McCain were fighting for will pass Congress and the government will give everyone papers. Then your wahala will be over.”
“But Mr. Bubakar, after that thing did not pass, I just lose all hope.”
“No, don’t lose all hope. Maybe one day, Obama, Hillary, if one of them wins president, they’ll give everyone papers. Who knows? Hillary likes immigrant people. And Obama, he must know some Kenyan people without papers that he’ll like to help.”
“But can such a thing ever really happen?”
“Oh, yes. It happened before, one time, I think 1983. It can surely happen again, but we cannot hope for it. We’ll keep on trying our own way, and you keep on sleeping with one eye open, eh? Because until the day you become American citizen, Immigration will always be right on your ass, every single day, following you everywhere, and you’ll need money to fight them if they decide they hate the way your fart smells. But Inshallah, one day you’ll become a citizen, and when that happens, no one can ever touch you. You and your family will finally be able to relax. You’ll at last be able to sleep well, and you’ll begin to really enjoy your life in this country. That will be good, eh, my brother?”
Twelve
SHE MET HIM AT A CAFÉ ACROSS FROM THE PUBLIC LIBRARY ON FORTY-second Street, the same place where she had met him the past two times. After she’d emailed him the morning after he suggested they meet to talk about improving her precalculus grade, he had replied within an hour and proposed they meet in the café because he didn’t have an office since he wasn’t really a professor, just a mathematics Ph.D. student at the Graduate Center who was teaching for extra income and experience. He went to the café every Sunday to study, he told her during their first meeting, and he was glad to meet students there, though he didn’t understand why more students didn’t take his offer to help them. I am very grateful for your offer, Professor, she’d said to him, leading him to remind her once more that she didn’t have to keep on calling him Professor. Call me Jerry, just like everyone in class does, he’d said, but she couldn’t because he was her teacher and she had to address him properly, as she’d been taught to do in primary school.