Imbolo Mbue - Behold the Dreamers

“Wow,” Jende said, mesmerized by what he’d just witnessed. “I know the sun comes up and goes down, but I never knew that it does it so nicely.”

“Amazing, isn’t it?”

“Sir,” Jende said after a brief silence, “I think Vince will stay in India for a few months and run back to law school.”

“I won’t be surprised,” Clark said with a laugh.

“I don’t know how India is, Mr. Edwards, but if there is heat and mosquitoes there like we have in Cameroon, I will be picking him up at the airport before New Year.”

The men laughed together.

“I will not worry about Vince for one minute, sir. Even if he stays, he will be happy. Look at me, sir. I am in another country, and I am happy.”

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

“A man can find a home anywhere, sir.”

“Funny, as I was thinking about Vince today, I wrote a poem about leaving home.”

“You write poems, sir?”

“Yeah, but I’m no Shakespeare or Frost.”

Jende scratched his head. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “I have heard a little about Shakespeare, but I don’t know the other man. I did not make it that far in school.”

“They were both great poets. I’m just saying my poetry is pretty remedial, but it keeps me going on many days.”

Jende nodded, and he could see that Clark could tell he didn’t quite understand the last point, either. “You learn how to write poems in school, sir?” he asked.

“No, actually, I just started a few years ago. A colleague gave me this little book of poetry, which I thought was a rather odd gift — why would anyone think I could use a book of poetry? Maybe it was just one of those lazy gifts where people pull stuff off their shelves.”

“A Christmas gift, sir?”

“Yeah. Anyway, I kept it on my desk, picked it up one day, and loved the poems so much that I decided to try writing one. Feels real good to just write out lines about whatever you’re feeling. You should try it sometime.”

“It sounds very good, sir.”

“I wrote one for Cindy, but she didn’t like it much, so I just write for myself now.”

“I will be glad to read one, sir.”

“Really? I can show you … Dammit,” Clark said, looking at his watch. “Didn’t realize it was getting this late.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir, I should have kept my eyes open. I was just talking and talking without paying any attention to the time.”

“No, no, I’m glad we talked. Thanks for joining me; I really appreciate it. I hope I didn’t put you in an awkward position, throwing out my feelings about work and shit.”

“No, sir. Please, Mr. Edwards, thank you so much for inviting me here.”

“Well, thank you for listening,” Clark said, smiling. “And I’ll be glad to recite the poem to you. It’s called ‘Home,’ and if you don’t like it, I’d rather you don’t say anything.”

“Yes, sir,” Jende said, smiling, too. “I will not say anything whatsoever.”

“Okay, here goes:

Home will never go away

Home will be here when you come back

You may go to bring back fortune

You may go to escape misfortune

You may even go, just because you want to go

But when you come back

We hope you’ll come back

Home will still be here. ”

THE ONE THING SHE MISSED ABOUT THE HAMPTONS (BESIDES THE BOYS, Mighty especially) was the food — the scrumptious catered food served at the Edwardses’ cocktail parties. All her life she’d thought Cameroonians had the best food but, apparently, she was wrong: Rich American people knew something about good food, too. Despite having to work fifteen hours on the days when Cindy hosted the parties around the pool, she looked forward to them because the food was too good, so ridiculously good that she had called Fatou one evening and told her she was sure she’d died and gone to food heaven, to which Fatou had replied, how you gonno be sure the cook no piss inside food to make it good? Neni was sure the cook hadn’t done anything to the food, since the three chefs Cindy always hired for the parties prepared most of it in the kitchen, and their three servers, with her assistance, took it directly from the kitchen to the backyard. All kinds of foods were there, things she’d seen in magazines and wished she could taste just by looking at the perfectly lighted pictures, wickedly delectable creations like sesame seared tuna with lemon-wasabi vinaigrette; beef tenderloin and olives on garlic crostini with horseradish sauce; California caviar and chives on melba toast; mushroom caps stuffed with jumbo lump crabmeat; steak tartare with ginger and shallot, which she loved the most and devoured without restraint though she’d never once imagined she’d one day find herself eating raw meat like a beast in the forest.

She was certain she’d gotten her fill, thanks to the ample leftovers at the end of all three parties, but she was nonetheless glad when Anna called and asked if she could come help out at a brunch Cindy and her friends were having in Manhattan.

“Are they going to use the same chefs from the Hamptons?” she asked Anna.

“No,” Anna said. “This one is just brunch. Two chefs from here and no servers. So me and you, we going to serve and clean after. The other girl who works for Cindy’s friend used to work with me every year, but she quit last week, so Cindy tell me to call you.”

“All those people for just the two of us to serve and clean after?”

“No worry, not too many people. Just her and the five friends and their husbands and some children. Cindy says one hundred dollars for you, only three hours. It’s fair, no?”

Neni agreed it was beyond fair, and arrived at June’s apartment on West End Avenue the next Sunday afternoon. There were no more than six children there, and Mighty, thankfully, was one of them. He ran to her when he saw her entering the apartment and hugged her so tightly that Neni had to remind him he wasn’t her only baby, she had another baby growing inside her.

“How were your last days in the Hamptons?” she asked him in the kitchen as she and Anna waited for the chefs to hand them the first appetizers.

“Boring,” Mighty said.

“You did not have any fun after I left?”

“Not really.”

“But now I feel bad, Mighty,” Neni said, inflating her cheeks to make a funny sad face. “Your mom really wanted me to take off my last two days, but next time I will stay if that is what Mr. Mighty demands.”

“I’ll demand!” Mighty said.

“Yes, sir. Or maybe you’ll come with me to Harlem instead. That way we can continue making puff-puff for breakfast in the morning and playing soccer on the beach in the evening. Do you want that instead, Mr. Mighty?”

“Really? It’ll be so cool to go to Harlem … but, hold on, there’s no beach in Harlem.”

“Then we will … I will—”

“We’ll watch stupid movies, and I’ll beat you at Playstation and arm wrestling every time!” Mighty said, laughing, a twinkle in his hazel eyes.

“You should never be proud that you beat a woman,” Neni said, contorting her face to feign indignation as she picked up a tray of appetizers. “Come, everyone is going to start eating.”

As she walked the appetizers around the room before setting the leftovers on the table, she smiled and nodded at Cindy’s friends, all of whom she’d met in the Hamptons. They had been kind and polite to her: offering her advice on the benefits of prenatal yoga and telling her where the best yoga studios in the city were (thank you so much for the information, madam, she always said); reminding her it was okay for her to call them by their first names (something she could never do, being that it was a mark of disrespect in Limbe); complimenting her smooth skin and lovely smile (your skin is so smooth and beautiful, too, madam; you have a lovely smile, too, madam); wondering how long it took her to get her braids done (only eight hours, madam). Their friendliness had surprised her — she’d expected indifference from them, these kinds of women who walked around with authentic Gucci and Versace bags and talked about spas and vacations and the opera. Based on movies she’d seen, in which rich white people ate and drank and laughed with nary a glance at the maids and servers running around them, she’d imagined that women who owned summer houses in the Hamptons wouldn’t have anything to say to her, besides ordering her around, of course. After she’d met no fewer than four of them, all of whom had smiled at her and asked how far along she was in her pregnancy, she’d spoken about this unexpected congeniality with Betty, and she and Betty had agreed that the women’s behavior was likely due to the fact that it wasn’t every day they met a beautiful pregnant Cameroonian woman from Harlem. Such women couldn’t possibly be kind and polite to every housekeeper, they surmised. Cindy, on that Sunday afternoon, was the kindest and politest of them all, reminding Neni to do only the easiest work and make sure she didn’t overexert herself. Watching Cindy chatting with her friends and laughing with her head thrown back, Neni had to convince herself that the strange episodes in the Hamptons had indeed happened.