by Leah Bassoff
“Please feel free to look through the collection and tell me if you wish to borrow a book. Some are meant for children, but some might be appropriate for your age group.”
After class, I eagerly approach the boxes of books and begin to look through them. One of the books has a man and a woman on the front locked in a passionate embrace. The man wears no shirt, and the woman has long flowing yellow hair and a dress that is open to reveal most of her breasts. I quickly put this book down.
Then I see it. It is Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart. I hardly believe my eyes.
I know what Nyanath would say. “It’s a sign, Poni.”
I approach my teacher. “Sir, may I borrow this book?”
“Ah,” my teacher looks pleased. “A fine choice, Poni. Yes, I’ll write down your name, and you may take it with you. Just return it when you’ve finished.”
“If you only knew how long I have searched for this.” I take the book and cradle it.
“You’re a good student, Poni. Enjoy.”
That night I rush through my chores so that I can go to my room and begin reading. Unlike Kakuma, where I had to read in the dark, here at Sister Hannah’s my eyes do not have to perform magic. I read without stopping, without looking up, read until the room fades away around me.
Finally I reach the ending of the book — the real ending this time. It feels wrong to read it before Lokure has the chance.
When I last left off reading Achebe’s book, missionaries had arrived in the Igbo village. I knew that the main character’s death was inevitable as soon as he decided to try to fight the missionaries. Yet when I reach the end of the book and see that I was right, I still feel devastated.
I had hoped that reading Achebe’s book and its long-awaited ending would fill me up, leave me satiated. Instead it leaves me hungrier than ever. I know I will need more than this one book.
———
BACK IN KAKUMA, people always whispered about America. Here at Sister Hannah’s the girls do the same thing. Some speak of “a land of opportunity.”
Others speak of danger.
“America will eat you alive, then spit you out.”
“Do you know that Americans have so much money that they hire people to brush their dogs’ teeth?”
“These people are called millionaires, and they are everywhere in America.”
“In America, people have more than one bathroom in their house. Sometimes they have ten bathrooms in one house. Maybe they go and pee into each one.”
“They have schools everywhere in America. You can choose which school you want to go to. There are schools for everyone, and girls are told to go to school there, just like the boys.”
I don’t know which of these rumors to believe, but suddenly, I do know that I must find out the truth for myself.
I don’t know how, but I must get to this country.
———
THE NEXT DAY, I APPROACH Sister yet again. She is in her office screaming out the window at the workers. “You have not placed the barbed wire as I told you. Pull it out and start once more!”
Sister is in a dark mood. This much is clear. I try to back out of the doorway, but it is too late. She has already spotted me.
“I give them instructions, but they go about things however they choose, willy-nilly.”
“Sister, there is something — ”
“What? Out with it.” She doesn’t give me time to dance around the question at hand.
I say my words quickly, so that I won’t have time to reconsider them.
“I think I need to go to America, to continue my studies. I think I can find more books there.”
Sister pauses and takes off her glasses. She acts as though she was waiting for just such a request.
“Well, in fact, your timing is perfect. I am actually working on sending a group of girls over to America, but I didn’t think you wanted to go.”
“I am told I might go to a university in America.”
Will she tell me that I’m being foolish?
Instead, she simply says, “Yes, well, I think this is a highly sensible choice for you.” She nods, as if this has decided it. “So since you’re interested, I’ll explain. An organization called the African Center places girls in various destinations around the United States — South Dakota, Minnesota, upstate New York. All cold states for some reason. But I have to warn you, this sponsorship process is very slow and tough.”
“That’s all right,” I tell her. “I can handle all this.” What could be tougher than what I have already been through?
“Poni, whatever you have heard about the United States, life isn’t easy there. As a refugee, you have to work five times harder than other people.”
I nod. Perhaps I should be frightened but, as always, I am too foolish to be.
———
WHEN THE GIRLS ARE not cooking, cleaning or studying, they gather around a small television in the gray common room.
“This is what America is like,” they say, pointing to the television. They watch Walker, Texas Ranger.
“You should come watch with us, Poni,” they say.
Instead, I open my book of English words and, as I do every night, I drag my tongue over these words, forcing them to fit within my teeth.
———
A FEW DAYS LATER, Sister gathers several of us girls together. “I’m going to start arranging for you to do interviews through the commission for refugees. I don’t mean to scare you, but you get only one chance at this. If you fail your interview, you don’t get an opportunity to interview again for many years, if at all.”
Wait more years? Add this to the years we have already wasted, and I realize that failing the interview is not an option. My girlhood has already dried up. I simply cannot lose any more years.
———
OVER THE NEXT COUPLE of weeks, Sister works with us to prepare us for our interviews.
“You must write your essays in advance, my girls. You must tell this commission why you should go to the United States. You must prove that you are fleeing persecution.”
Sister looks right at one of the girls, Rose Lolik. Rose has a habit of tilting her head towards her shoulder to hide the large scar down her face. I have never asked about how she came by this scar. Girls do not reveal the things that happened to them when their villages were attacked or when they were in Kakuma. Girls speak in code. “Things happened,” a girl might be heard to whisper. Many of the girls were raped, either by soldiers, guards or foster parents. Many of the girls were beaten or worse. But they do not speak of it. To what end?
Sister Hannah speaks to Beatrice. “I know you don’t like to look people in the eye. This is natural for you Sudanese, but in America it means you are lying. If the person interviewing you thinks you are avoiding his eyes, you fail the test. You must overcome your fear, Beatrice.”
“Okay,” Beatrice replies. Her voice is gravelly and burnt-sounding.
“Oh, and Beatrice, you need to speak more loudly,” Sister informs her. “Pretend you are speaking to someone in the back of the room, and please remember to shake hands when you greet someone.”
At this, Beatrice looks completely embarrassed, but she says, “I understand,” much more loudly.
Kuir, another girl, asks, “Sister, if the commission people are asking for information such as our age or when this or that happened, what should we tell them? There is so much I don’t remember.”
Sister takes Kuir’s hands. “This is really the problem, girls. The commission wants you to have an answer for everything. If the person interviewing you thinks you are lying or thinks your story is unclear, they will reject you. You must fill in the facts you don’t remember. Do you understand what I am telling you? It’s not that I am advising you to lie, but you must make reasonable guesses. God will forgive these s
mall transgressions,” she continues. “Think about it from the point of view of the interviewer. You are trying to become a refugee, to prove that you cannot stay in your homeland, so is the interviewer going to want to hear that you’ve had a simple, easy life?”
All of us girls look at one another as if to confirm the obvious and then shake our heads.
“You Sudanese women are taught not to speak about your problems, but for the interviews, you need to tell. Many of the boys going to America are getting famous by sharing their stories. But what about you girls?”
“Shall I tell them that my parents were both killed?” Beatrice asks.
“Yes, but girls, do you know how many hundreds of applicants will have this same story? Who in the camps hasn’t lost a mother, father or brother? You need to make your story different, need to make it unique. Do you understand? When you write your essay, you need to include description. You only get this one chance, see?”
That night, I lie in bed trying to think of how to share my life experience with a stranger. Must I reopen all the images of death and destruction that I keep rolled up and tied with reeds?
Bad things happened to us girls. Has it come down to who can describe them the best?
I have long since used up all of the words that Lokure gave me. It is up to me to find my own words now.
———
ONE DAY AS WE ARE sitting at the lunch table, I see Rose Lolik gazing intently at a piece of paper she is holding. It seems she has forgotten to tilt her head, as she usually does to hide her scar. I look at this scar, which runs from just below her eye to the bottom of her cheek, thorny as an acacia branch. What memories does Rose keep within this jagged piece of skin?
Rose, sensing my gaze upon her, turns towards me. I think she will talk to me, but instead she clicks her tongue.
“Why are you eyeing me?”
Her question catches me off guard. I start to speak, but Rose doesn’t give me the chance. She starts waving the paper she is holding in front of me.
“Are you trying to steal this?”
Now I am confused. “Steal what? That piece of paper?”
“You can’t have this, Poni. No one can.” I am completely surprised to hear Rose yelling like this. Rose, who usually ducks her head, who hardly ever speaks.
Even though I don’t know why she’s carrying on this way, I reach out my hand to try to calm her. She doesn’t take it. Instead she runs out of the room.
I look over at Nyanath, utterly bewildered. “What just happened?”
“It is not your fault. The paper she carries. It’s the address of a white volunteer Rose met in Kakuma. She carries it with her everywhere. She thinks that if she gets to America, she will find this person, and he will help her.”
Does Rose really hate me so much that she thinks I would steal this from her? Has it come to this?
But then I think of Rose’s face. Things were done to girls. Best to hide things away, whether it is the address of a volunteer or a thorny scar across your face. Hide it where no one else can find it.
I hope Rose does make it to America. Truly, I hope her volunteer does save her.
If only she knew this. If only I could tell her.
———
THE FOLLOWING NIGHT Nyanath moves nearby as I am hunched over my paper, trying to write another draft of my essay.
“I hear you may be leaving soon,” she tells me.
“I’m trying,” I tell her. “Will you come, too? Will you fill out the necessary paperwork?”
“Some girls are meant to leave. My place is here with Sister Hannah.”
“I don’t know how I’ll make it without you, Nyanath, without you calming me all the time.”
“You’ll survive,” she says with a smile. “Don’t worry. I think God has good fortune in store for both of us.”
Nyanath is the only one who believes this. That there is no limit on good luck, that there is enough to go around.
———
FINALLY, THE DAY for my commission interview arrives. Despite my earlier claim that I am fearless, I wake up with my whole body numb from nerves.
The interview starts at 8:30 a.m. sharp. Although Nairobi is only nineteen miles from Juja, the roads have so many deep holes that we must allow ourselves three hours for the journey. Sister Hannah tells me that Americans work by the clock and that if we are late for our interview, we will lose our chance.
“If you are even five minutes late, you’re done. There are too many other people lined up for them to wait on you,” she tells us.
We are about six miles away from the interview when our car gets stuck in the mud. All of us girls look at one another.
This cannot be happening, not now.
The driver gets out. He signals that Sister Hannah should press her foot on the gas pedal while he pushes. The car’s tires spin, but every time they do, they seem to drive the car even deeper into the mud.
“Stupid!” Sister Hannah yells, this time to the car.
Meanwhile, the driver kicks at the wheels and curses. Then, remembering the nun in his presence, he apologizes profusely. But Sister Hannah is not interested in anything but the time.
“Get out and walk, girls. Hurry.” I can hear the panic in her voice. “You’ve no time to spare. I’ll stay behind with the driver. You can’t be late, girls, so go.”
I picture an American man waiting to interview me. See him look at his clock and, when I am late, get up to leave. I want to scream out to him, to tell him to wait.
The hard voice in my head taunts me again. So many girls left behind, and you thought you could escape.
But I ignore the voice once more and do what I do best. I run without waiting or looking to see whether or not the other girls are with me.
I am a little girl again, running while people fall down around me.
Something is trying to pull me back. This time it is the mud on the road, thick and clingy as despair. The mud grabs at anything it can get to — my shoes, the hem of my dress — but still I keep going.
Sweat trickles down my back and into my undergarments. Will I ever get to stop running?
The interviewer with the clock is waiting for me. America, this strange country, is waiting for me. That is if it doesn’t close its doors before I have a chance to get there.
I am panting now, gasping for breath. But then I look up and, like a beacon in front of me, I see the sign for the high commissioner’s building.
I look around to see if any of the other girls are with me, worried that I have lost them for good. But then I see them. They are a ways behind me, but they are coming. I begin to laugh with relief to see them panting and plowing towards me: Rose Lolik, Kuir, Beatrice, Grace Choi.
“This way,” I yell, pointing towards the sign. “This way, girls.”
We have made it this far. Now come the interviews.
Who will make it farther still?
———
WHEN I GET INSIDE, my mouth is so dry from running, but I don’t dare ask for water. I sit down and wait to be called. My legs tremble, but I cannot tell whether it is from nerves or from the running. I move my tongue around my mouth, try to make it wet enough so that I can at least speak. My tongue, once split and tattered, must work, must now win me a spot in America.
The white man who is assigned to interview me is dressed in a dark suit and has a face that reveals no emotion. I look down at my own muddy dress hem, but I don’t try to explain it or tell the man about our car breaking down. Sister Hannah told us that Americans don’t like excuses.
“I am going to turn the recorder on now,” my interviewer says. “Try to just answer the questions I ask you.”
“Yes, sir,” I reply. Is it sir? Is this the correct title? I remember Sister Hannah’s instructions. Look him in the eyes. Cast-down eyes could mean that you are
lying. You must go with the American way now.
“Your age?”
“I am eighteen years old.”
Say your answers with conviction. Do not act as though you have any doubts.
“How many brothers and sisters do you have?”
I remind myself that he is referring to brothers and sisters in the strict sense of the word.
“I have three.”
“Any alive?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Your mother?”
“I believe she’s dead.”
“Your father?”
“I believe he’s dead.”
“Did you see any of them killed?”
“Not with my own eyes.”
“But you think they’re dead?
“Yes.”
“Tell me about the night you fled your village.”
Use descriptions. “It was very dark, but I still saw things.” Be specific. “I saw my neighbor bending over her foot, because a bomb had taken it.” Use all of your senses to describe what happened. “My ears — I couldn’t hear out of one ear because the bombs were so loud. But even so, I could hear people screaming. I smelled hair burning, the sourness of blood. I am sorry, sir, to speak of such things, but since you asked. I lost my mother and my sister in the chaos. We were all running at once. There was a woman running with a child on her back, but the child had no head on it. Both child and mother were killed moments later by a bomb.”
“How did you get to Kakuma?”
“I walked. We all walked across the desert. My tongue was dry enough as to split down the middle, and people were sitting down all around me to die. So many different kinds of deaths, the soft ones, the loud ones. There was a white Land Rover that got hit by a land mine. Everyone dead. Bodies everywhere.”
I stop and look at my interviewer. His face is so blank.
What is he thinking? How many of these stories has he heard, and how is mine any different?
“Do you feel your life is still in danger?”
“Yes. I can’t go back to my village, since it was destroyed. There are men who wait outside Sister Hannah’s compound and say they are our uncles. They threaten to steal us away and force us into marriage.”