Imbolo Mbue - Behold the Dreamers

“I think they moved to another spot,” Jende said. “Today is a market day — they cannot miss their chance to come on a day when everyone comes with big purses.”

“I’ve never liked those singing gamblers,” Bosco said, “but at least they’re not half as bad as money doublers. I hate money doublers.”

“You shouldn’t hate anyone.”

“But I hate them! I really hate money doublers!” Bosco screamed, his face suddenly unpleasantly twisted like that of a child about to descend into a tantrum. “My mother gave them my school fees to double so she could use the second part to pay for my sister’s school fees, but they never brought back the money. My mother lost everything! That’s why I never finished school. They stole my school fees!”

“But it’s your mother’s fault for giving them the money.”

“No, it’s not her fault! It’s the doublers’ fault. They promised to double the money. They didn’t double it! They took it and spent it and left us with nothing.”

Bosco sat down on the sidewalk and began wailing. Jende tried to calm him down by rubbing his shoulders but he refused to be consoled, pushing away Jende’s hands and hysterically crying and cursing the money doublers over and over. A crowd gathered around him, asking what was wrong. Money doublers, money doublers, he cried. The crowd started laughing. Stupid man, ei di cry like small baby, they said. Money doublers them know how for talk sweet talk. If they want we money, we go give them.

“No!” Bosco begged. “Don’t give your money to money doublers. Money doublers are bad people. God will punish them! They will have everlasting diarrhea for what they did to my mother! They will never sleep at night again. Their children will all die horrible deaths!”

Embarrassed, unsure of how to get the crowd to leave his friend alone, Jende began running. He ran through the market, elbowing a girl with a tray of yellow peppers on her head and a burly man carrying yards of fabric on his shoulders. The wind was pushing against him, as if to prevent him from going forward, as if to stop him from deserting his friend and leaving him a carcass for mockers, but he pushed against it, running faster than a man fleeing salivating wildcats, hoping to see the ocean and be relieved by the sight of it. Finally, out of breath, he got to the beach. But there was no water there, only a pile of garbage in its place, foul-smelling and stretching to the horizon.

He woke up sweating.

While showering that morning, he thought about the dream and decided that it was because he hadn’t kept his promise to Bosco. Bosco had called him two months earlier, asking for money to take his wife to see a specialist at Bingo Baptist Hospital for pain and swelling in her right breast. The doctor at the government hospital at Mile One hadn’t been able to explain what was wrong with the breast, and Bosco’s wife had been crying incessantly for days, unable to move her right hand. The bobbi dey like say ei don already start rotten for inside, Bosco had said, his voice breaking as his wife screamed in the background. Jende had promised to see what he could do. He had done nothing. The night before his dream, he’d spoken to Sapeur, who’d told him that Death was coming for Bosco’s wife any day now. The dream was therefore his guilt manifesting, Jende decided. He thought about calling Bosco to see what he could do, but there was no credit on his calling card. Besides, he didn’t think he had any kind of money that could save Bosco’s wife. And he had to rush to work.

At work he continued thinking about the dream as he drove Mighty and Stacy to a playdate, about what else it could mean. Maybe one of his friends back home had given money to a money doubler. It wouldn’t surprise him if that were the case. People didn’t learn, even after all the stories that circulated around Limbe of how money doublers had deceived Ma-this or Pa-that. Why couldn’t people learn? he asked himself. By all accounts, no one in Limbe had ever given money to a money doubler and gotten the money doubled. No one had ever given money and gotten any money back. And yet people continued to give to them, falling into the trap of crafty young men who walked up to them on the street and visited them in their homes, promising quick and high returns on their money through incomprehensible means. One woman at Sapa Road had been so enraptured by the two charming men in suits who visited her at home that she’d given them all of her life’s savings for double the money in three months’ time. Her hope, the story around Limbe went, was that she would use the doubled money to buy a ticket for her only son to move to America. But the doublers did not return on the appointed day. Or the day after. Or the month after. Destroyed, the woman had eaten rat poison and died, leaving the son to bury her.

By the time Jende woke up on the day Lehman collapsed, he had pushed the dream and Bosco to the hinterland of his mind. He was thinking nothing of money doublers and their unfathomable victims, merely glad he didn’t have to go to work on a Monday. Cindy had given him the day off, telling him Clark would be too busy in the office to go anywhere, and assuring him that she and Mighty would be fine in cabs, considering she had only one appointment and Mighty’s piano teacher was on vacation.

Jende thankfully accepted Cindy’s gift — a weekday off would be great for him. With Liomi at school, he could spend some alone time with Neni and help her around the house: clean the bathroom, do laundry, and, if he had enough time, cook and freeze a couple of meals so Neni wouldn’t have to worry about cooking until at least the following week. Her back had been aching unceasingly since she returned from the Hamptons, and he’d asked her to stop working and take only the minimum number of classes needed to retain her student visa. Pregnant women are not supposed to do anything strenuous in their last months, he’d said to her, even though his mother had continued farming till the day she gave birth to each of her five children and had in fact given birth to his youngest brother under a guava tree at their farm behind Mawoh Quarters.

“But I like to work,” Neni had protested, berating herself for days after she’d called the agency to say she wouldn’t be available to work for a few months. Work will be there for you when you’re ready, he assured her. He listened patiently whenever she began a piteous and long-winded rant about how being pregnant and not working made her feel fat and lazy and worthless, told her to remember how much she sometimes hated her job, and guaranteed her that not working was the best decision because her health was the most important thing. I’ll go out there and work four jobs before I let you go to work in pain and discomfort, he promised her.

A week after she quit her job, he took his dedication to her a step further and informed her that she was going to take off the upcoming spring and summer semesters and stay home after the baby arrived in December.

“No!” she immediately responded, standing up from the sofa where they’d been cuddling. “I’m not taking off any time from school.”

“I’ve already thought about it and decided,” he calmly informed her, leaning back on the sofa and crossing his legs.

“You’ve decided, eh?” she said, glaring at him, hands akimbo, as he picked up the remote control and turned on the TV. “What do you mean you’ve decided? When did you decide this? You know I don’t like this. I don’t like it one bit when you decide something about me without asking me. I’m not your child!”

“You’re my wife and you’re carrying my child,” he said without looking at her, leisurely clicking the remote control as if he and his wife were discussing what to have for dinner. “I want my wife to stay home with my new child for some time.”