Imbolo Mbue - Behold the Dreamers

Neni took a few steps back toward Cindy. “Size six, madam,” she replied.

“That’s bigger than me,” Cindy said, the smile still on her face, “but I think you can make do. I have a few things I was going to send over to the thrift store.”

“Oh, madam, yes, thank you. I’ll take it. I know how to alter clothes. Thank you—”

“They’re real designer goods,” Cindy said, crossing her legs and picking up her iPhone. “Dresses and stuff. I’m not sure if it’s your style, but you can have it all.”

“Thank you, madam! I’ll take it all. I’ll make it my style. Thank you so much.”

“I’ll have some things for your son, too. Mighty’s old clothes and toys. You can take it all when you leave.”

“Oh, madam, I am so glad. I don’t even know how to thank you.”

“And remind me of your bonus before you leave. You’ll need some extra money to prepare for the baby.”

“We will, madam, I will!” Neni sang, placing her hand on her chest, then over her belly. “Thank you so much, madam. I am just so grateful.”

Cindy looked at the gleeful woman and smiled again.

Neni smiled back at her.

They had found a win-win solution.

LIOMI SAT NEXT TO HIM IN THE PASSENGER SEAT, SLIDING TO THE FLOOR whenever a police car came in sight. When a white woman pointed out one morning that it was illegal for a child of Liomi’s age to sit in the front seat of a car, Jende graciously replied that yes, it was, he knew, thank you so much, madam.

Father and son went to sleep together every night in their bedroom facing a funeral parlor, sometimes to the sounds of curses and scuffles among the grieving. They woke up in the morning with their bodies covered in sweat, the weak fan having brought little relief from the midsummer heat. After bathing, they ate fried ripe plantains and eggs, Jende always forcing Liomi to eat at least a whole plantain and two eggs, and drink a full glass of orange juice. They dressed for the day together, donning jeans and T-shirts, Liomi always making sure he wore the same colors as his father. Their bellies full and lunch bags packed, they walked to the subway station hand in hand and took an uptown subway to pick up the cab in the Bronx. In the subway, they sat close to each other, Liomi’s hand always in Jende’s. After four hours of picking up and dropping off passengers, they took out their lunch — food Neni had cooked and frozen — and ate in the backseat of the car. For dinners they went every other day to one of the African restaurants on 116th Street, where they ordered attiéké with grilled lamb, their favorite meal in all the restaurants there. Sometimes, after they were done eating, they bought ice cream at a shop on 115th Street and walked down Malcolm X Boulevard holding hands and licking ice cream. The days were perfect for Jende, almost heavenly, and even though he missed his wife, he was happy to be alone with his son.

“Papa?” Liomi said to him as they dined at a restaurant adjacent to the 116th Street subway one evening.

“Eh?”

“Is it true that we’re going back to Cameroon?”

Jende stopped chewing. He put down the ball of attiéké he had in his right hand. “Who told you we’re going back to Cameroon?” he said, keeping his voice low so as not to pull attention but widening his eyes to show Liomi how much he had aroused his anger.

“No one, Papa,” Liomi replied, averting his eyes.

“Then why are you asking me?”

“Nothing, Papa,” he replied. “I only heard Mama saying it on the phone.”

“Mama said it, eh? To who?”

“I don’t know, Papa.”

“When did she say it?”

“Papa, I don’t—”

“You don’t what? Why were you listening to your mother’s conversation?”

The boy went mute, his small mouth covered with the white granules of attiéké. Beside them, the bald man eating thiebou djeun had paused eating to watch the father, fists clenched on the table, and seven-year-old boy who appeared ready to run in terror.

“We’re not going back to Cameroon, you hear me?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“You’re never going back to Cameroon, do you hear me?”

“I hear you, Papa.”

“Finish your food.”

Back at the apartment, Jende called Neni and, without asking questions, mercilessly scolded her for exposing Liomi to their pain. “How dare you mention it in front of him?”

“I didn’t know he was listening.”

“You don’t need to know anything, Neni. You don’t have to know who is listening to what you’re saying. You only need to learn how to shut your mouth sometimes.”

“But what if he knows? If the immigration judge decides to send us back home are we going to shut his eyes so he doesn’t know we’re taking him back to Cameroon?”

Jende slapped the frame of the bed and stood up, unable to believe his wife’s words. “Eh, Neni!” he shouted. “Is that what you think? You think we should tell a child his father might be deported? You want Liomi to know what’s happening to me ?”

Neni did not respond. It was the first time he had screamed at her so loudly, the first time in almost twenty years, from when they were teenagers at National Comprehensive.

“Bubakar has promised us that we will be here for years even if things don’t end up the way we want them to. You know that! You know we still have many years in this country. Don’t you know that?”

“I know what he said.”

“Then why are you going around talking as if we’re leaving next month?”

“No one knows the future. Anything can happen. You know that.”

Jende sat down and closed his eyes, shaking his head. For a moment he didn’t know what to say to his wife. “Are you saying this because you think I’ll be deported?” he said. His voice was low and woeful, saturated with anguish. “Eh, Neni? Is that why you’re talking to me like this?”

“No, bébé, please,” Neni said, embarrassment at the misery she was mindlessly causing him suddenly obvious in her voice. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m not saying anything, bébé . I’m sorry. I don’t even know what I was trying to say.”

“Why are you making me feel so bad?”

“I’m really sorry, bébé . You know what is best for us. I won’t talk about it when Liomi is home anymore.”

“Just stop talking about it! There’s nothing to talk about. I’ll get a green card!”

“You will, bébé, ” Neni responded, her voice cracking. “It’s just that I’m so afraid sometimes, and I want to talk about it with my sister. I don’t want to go back to Limbe, bébé . I don’t even want to imagine what is going to happen if …”

“I’m afraid, too, Neni. You think I’m not afraid? But what has fear ever done for anyone? We have to be strong and protect Liomi.”

“You’re right.”

“We cannot go around worrying about what the judge is going to decide. We just have to keep living.”

“Yes. And we’re doing that, aren’t we?”

“So what’s your problem then?”

“Nothing … nothing. I will remember not to talk anymore. We will be fine. I’m sorry I angered you, bébé. Please cool your temper and rest. And please, let’s not talk about it over the phone. You know what Bubakar said about the government listening.”

Jende went to bed that night bitter in spite of Neni’s apologies, angry at her for recklessly exposing their child to harmful untruths and angrier at himself for all the failures of his life. He made Liomi sleep alone in his cot that night, wanting nothing of cuddling with a child he might one day disappoint. But the next morning, when he awoke, Liomi was at his side, his small hands on his father’s belly. Jende looked at the round sweat-covered face and knew he had no choice but to snuggle close to his child and enjoy the rest of their father-and-son summer.