Imbolo Mbue - Behold the Dreamers

“Why?”

“I think it’s going to be best for you and the baby.”

“What about what I think is best?” she retorted, angry at him for making a decision about her life without consulting her and, even worse, for forcing her to add another year to the time it would take her to become a pharmacist. “How can you decide I’m taking off two semesters without asking me if it’s going to make me happy?”

“You’re going to stay home with the baby for a few months,” he said again, the finality of his decision evident in his tone. “Babies need to start their lives in the hands of their mother, and I want you to enjoy the baby while you’re recovering from the pregnancy.”

“Nobody needs to recover from pregnancy! And I can’t take off two whole semesters!”

“I’ve already decided.”

“I don’t want to! You know I can’t!”

“Yes, you can.”

“I can’t! You know I’m going to fall out of status and lose my visa, and then what?”

She wasn’t going to fall out of status, he told her. He’d already discussed the matter with Bubakar, who was going to help them do what they needed to do so the international students’ office at BMCC would approve her for a medical leave of absence.

I can’t believe you’re doing this to me, she cried as he continued clicking the channel buttons on the remote control, unable to find anything interesting to watch and unmoved by her tears. Why can’t I at least take the minimum number of classes I need for my visa, like I’m doing now? Why are you always acting as if you own me?

Having anticipated her reaction, he ignored her, making it clear he’d thought about the matter for days and wasn’t going to change his mind. Ultimately, she grew quiet and went to bed defeated, because there was nothing she could do. He had brought her to America. He paid her tuition. He was her protector and advocate. He made decisions for their family. Sometimes he conferred with her about his decisions. Most times he did what he deemed best. Always she had no choice but to obey. That was what he expected of her.

As her feet grew wider and her belly longer, her complaints to her friends about his behavior multiplied — there were too many things he wanted her to do or not do for both her and the child’s well-being. He insisted she eat the salmon and sardine dinners he made for her, she said, because he’d read in one of Mrs. Edwards’s discarded magazines that they were good for pregnant women and that fetuses whose mothers ate oily fishes grew up to be intelligent adults. He wanted her to please wash her lettuce well before making salad, because what if there were harmful germs on the leaves? She couldn’t wear heels anymore for fear he was going to dive into a tirade about how she might hurt herself and the baby, and was it worth risking an unborn child’s life just so she could look good? It was as if she had become an egg that might break at any minute. And you gonno complain about that why? Fatou said to her. Betty and Olu, another friend from school, said the same thing. Why are you making noise when he’s only looking out for you, they said. You said you suffered the last two times when you were pregnant and gave birth while living in your father’s house, Betty reminded her, and now that your husband is treating you like a queen so you don’t suffer again, you’re grumbling? If you like a hard life so much, come and take my life and I’ll take yours for the next few months.

Eventually, shamefully, she decided to defer to his wisdom, knowing that few women (rich women included) had the privilege of being married to an overly protective man who not only did everything he could to ensure his wife’s comfort but also spent hours wiping the dust-covered walls of their apartment and killing the roaches that sprinted from one end of the living room to the other like track-and-field athletes, all so he could protect the health of his unborn child. Though she could neither understand nor appreciate his decision about her taking two semesters off, she slowly allowed herself to feel no guilt about being a housewife in a city full of independent women, and not being, at least for a while, a successful career woman like Oprah or Martha Stewart. She decided to enjoy the unwanted privilege of sitting at home all day watching too many hours of talk shows and sitcoms and breaking news, which was what she was doing on the Monday morning the news came up on CNN.

“Jende,” she called from the living room. “Jende, oh!”

“Eh?” he replied, running out of the bedroom, where he was folding the clean clothes he’d just brought back from the laundromat. Her panicked voice made him nervous; every time she called his name like that, he feared it had to do with the baby.

“Watch,” she said, pointing to the TV. “Something about Lehman Brothers. Is that not where Mr. Edwards works?”

Yes, it was, he said, not yet panicking, not wanting to think that the news had anything to do with what Leah had been dreading. He heard a journalist say that the collapse was a massive earthquake that would reverberate across the world for months to come. He heard another journalist talk about the catastrophic fall in stock prices and the possibility of a recession. A former employee of Lehman Brothers was interviewed. She hadn’t seen this coming, she said. People were suspicious but no one thought it was really going to come to this. They’d been told just today that it was over. She had no idea what she was going to do. No one knew what they were going to do now.

Neni placed her hand on her chest. “Does it mean Mr. Edwards has no job now?” she asked.

Neither of them asked the next question — did it mean Jende would have no job, too? The fear within them could not let loose the words. Similar questions would burrow into the minds of many in New York City in the coming weeks. Many would be convinced that the plague that had descended on the homes of former Lehman employees was only a few blocks from theirs. Restaurateurs, artists, private tutors, magazine publishers, foundation directors, limousine drivers, nannies, housekeepers, employment agencies, virtually everyone who stood along the path where money flowed to and from the Street fretted and panicked that day. For some, the fears were justified: Their bread and wine would indeed disappear, along with the billions of dollars that vanished the day Lehman died.

“I have to call Mr. Edwards,” Jende said, hurriedly picking up his cell phone from the dinette table.

Clark did not answer his cell phone, but Cindy did when he called the house number. “You still have a job,” she said to him.

“Oh, thank you, madam. Thank you so much!”

“Nothing’s changing,” she said. “Clark’s going to call you to let you know when to come back to work,” she added, before quickly getting off the phone to take another call.

Jende placed the cell phone on the table and sat down next to Neni. He was dizzy, grateful but stunned. It had just dawned on him how tightly his fate was linked to another man’s. What if something ever happened to Mr. Edwards? His work permit was set to expire in March and he might not be able to renew it again, depending on how his court case went. Without working papers, he would never be able to get another job that paid as much. How would he take care of a wife and two children? How many restaurant dishwashing jobs would he have to do for cash?

“Please let’s not think like that,” Neni said. “You have a job for now, eh? As long as we have Mr. Edwards, we have a job. Are we not better off today than all those people walking out of Lehman? Look at them. I just feel so sorry for them. But then, we don’t know what’s on the road coming for us, too. We just don’t know. So let’s only be happy that today we were spared.”