Imbolo Mbue - Behold the Dreamers

“But isn’t there some other way you can try to get a green card?” Clark said after picking up his ringing phone and telling the person on the line he would call back. “I know how badly you wanted to raise your children here.”

“I did what I could, sir, but—”

“Surely there has to be a way to keep a decent hardworking man like you in America.”

Jende shook his head. “There are laws, sir,” he said.

“Listen,” Clark said, sitting up. “I’ve got a good friend from Stanford who’s an associate director at Immigration. If you had told me you had a case, I would have contacted him for you to get advice, or at least ask for a recommendation for an excellent lawyer. I had no idea.”

Jende looked down and shook his head, a rueful smile on his face.

“It might not be too late,” Clark went on. “Maybe you could reschedule your flight, give me some time to contact my friend and see if we can still help you?”

“I think it’s too late, sir.”

“But there’s no harm in trying, is there?”

“The judge will not allow it, sir, and even if he did …”

“You’re ready to leave.”

Jende smiled. “The truth, sir,” he said, “is that my body may still be here, but my heart has already gone back home. It is true I came here to escape a hard life and I did not want to go back. But when I had no choice but to go back, I found myself happy thinking about home, sir. I will miss America, but it will be good to live in my own country again. I already picture myself going to visit my father’s grave to show him my daughter. I see myself walking around Limbe with my friends, getting a drink, taking my son to the stadium. I am no longer afraid of my country the way I used to be.”

“But what about the children?”

“They will be fine, sir. We already have my daughter’s American passport. She will come back here when she is ready and maybe one day she will file petition for her brother. If not, my son will go to Canada and my wife can go visit America and Canada every few years.”

Clark nodded, smiling.

Jende looked at his watch and made for the door again, but Clark asked him to wait a second. He went over to his briefcase, which was lying on a chair to the right of his desk, sat down for a minute as he wrote something, and returned with a white envelope, which he handed to Jende. “Take this,” he said, “and take care of your family.”

“Oh, sir … oh, thank you so much,” Jende said, taking the envelope with both hands, his head bowed. “Thank you so much, Mr. Edwards.”

“Don’t mention it. Have a safe journey.”

“Oh, I was just wondering, sir,” Jende said as Clark took a step toward the door, “have you heard anything from Leah? Me and my wife, we wanted to invite her to our go-away party, but her house phone has been disconnected.”

“Yeah, I heard from her a couple of months ago,” Clark replied. “She sent me her résumé to help her get a job here, but I don’t think anything came out of me forwarding it to HR, what with the hiring freeze and all.”

“So maybe she is still not working?”

“I think so. Tough job market out there, especially for someone her age. My guess is that she’s probably picked up and moved out of the city so she wouldn’t run out of money.”

Jende shook his head, surprised. Leah hadn’t mentioned a plan to move away the last time they spoke, on Christmas Day. She had sounded fine, but she must have been downcast about her future — no job prospect, diminishing savings, her Social Security income still a few years away. She must have been scared, though she hadn’t given that impression. Could that have been why she was so happy about going to see the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center? Could it be because she was about to immerse herself in a spirit of hope and, for just a few hours, forget about her circumstances?

“If you ever see her, sir,” Jende said, “can you please tell her I say goodbye and that I am sorry for not saying goodbye to her directly? Please tell her I have gone back to Cameroon but maybe one day, by the grace of God, I will come to visit America and we will meet again.”

“Let’s hope I can remember all that.”

“I feel so bad, sir, when I think about her,” Jende said.

“The economy’s getting better,” Clark replied, turning toward the door.

“That’s what they say, sir, but … I hope she will be okay soon.”

“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Clark said as the men arrived at the door, where they wished each other the very best and shook hands for the last time.

SHE GAVE HER POTS AND COOKING UTENSILS TO BETTY, HER DINNERWARE and silverware to Fatou. Winston and Maami took her spices and the food in the pantry: the garri, palm oil, crayfish, fufu, egusi, pounded yams, and smoked fish. Olu came for her old textbooks and the desktop — a nephew of her husband’s would soon be arriving from Nigeria to study nursing at Hunter.

Natasha was happy to receive her unworn kaba s. They weren’t worth the space they would take up, she told the pastor, who was excited about adding the colorful dresses to her wardrobe. The dinette set she sold on Craigslist, as well as the dresser in the bedroom, the TV, the microwave, and Liomi’s cot. Their winter clothes, old summer clothes, and worn-out shoes she took to Goodwill; the old sofa she had Jende put out on the curb for anyone in need of an old sofa.

By the night before their departure, the apartment was empty except for their luggage in a corner of the bedroom. Whatever they hadn’t given away was in the garbage except for the bed, which they would be leaving for the new tenants.

The new tenants had arrived with Mr. Charles to see the apartment and while there they had asked Neni at least a dozen questions: How much of a pain was it dealing with five flights of stairs every day? Any weird neighbors? Where was the best place to order Thai or Chinese takeout late at night? Was Harlem really better these days like everyone was saying? They were a young couple — early to mid-twenties, pretty, giddy, white, with matching long hair — fleeing Detroit and in pursuit of a life as successful musicians. When Neni asked what kind of music they sang, they smiled and said it was hard to label, some combination of techno, hip-hop, and the blues. They called themselves the Love Stucks.

She was tempted to resent them but then they offered to buy the bed for twice what someone else was offering on Craigslist. They paid her cash right away, then shared a kiss in her bedroom. As they were leaving she heard Mr. Charles reminding them to never mention the arrangement to anyone because if he lost the subsidized apartment everyone would lose out on a great deal. The woman promised they would never say a word; she couldn’t believe they’d just landed an affordable apartment in New York City.

Less than eighteen hours before their flight and Neni was now alone in the living room. Timba was asleep in the bedroom; Jende had taken Liomi to dinner at a restaurant on 116th Street, for one last meal of attiéké and grilled lamb. After dinner they planned to have their last scoop of American ice cream on 115th Street; maybe a slice of cheesecake, too.

With all the bags packed, all the travel clothes laid out, all the itineraries printed out, there was little left to do. Neni sat on the floor, her back against the wall, looking around the living room. It seemed smaller and darker. It felt strange, like being in a faraway cave in a forest in a country she’d never been to. It felt as if she was in a dream about a home that had never been hers.

She looked toward the window, thinking of something she might have forgotten to do. There was nothing. Perhaps a goodbye she hadn’t said? There was none. Her friends had offered to come spend this last night with her, reminisce and laugh, because who knew if/when they’d ever see each other again? She had thanked them but said no. She had said her last goodbye, to Fatou, the day before. They had shared a long hug, and Fatou had said, how you gonno make me cry lika baby? She didn’t want to say any more goodbyes. Not to Fatou, or Betty, or Olu, or Winston, or any other friend.