This Way to America (standard:drama, 5499 words)
Author: Ebay	Added: Mar 29 2002	Views/Reads: 3346/2329	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A stressful day in the life of a family as one of their son tries to get a visa to come to America.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

down her cheek.  If this was a world she had any saying in creating, 
just a minute in the seven days, she would've made one minor change, 
and the onion would never have been.  But unfortunately for Ciray, if 
there is one ingredient that Pa Kallon loves in his food more than all 
others it's got to be the onion.  He simply can not imagine eating rice 
with any sauce that doesn't have onions and plenty of it too. He will 
say, " without onions, any sauce is just plain and tasteless.  It 
retains uncooked odor that makes it indigestible." 

The smoke in the kitchen made it all but possible to stay in there any
longer than few minutes at a time, and outside, until she finished 
cutting the onions, her smoke irritated eyes just got worse.  But this 
is always the case and Ciray hardly paid any attention to the tears 
anymore except to wipe them off every now and then.  All the while, she 
puts together a masterpiece of ingredients that are never read from a 
cookbook but always comes out perfect because it is a lesson learned 
from the heart at a very young age and over time became hers just like 
it did women before her.  It is a tradition that extends generations 
and will continue to forge a way through generations to come. Her 
mother was relaxing today in the cool shade of the house knowing that 
she'd done her share and it was time for her lessons to pay off and a 
daughter given the opportunity to get her blessings by putting food 
under the family.  Tomorrow, Ciray will be under the shades waiting for 
another to pay back a debt that will never be fully paid but the effort 
will be expected and appreciated. 

But in May, the sun was hot, the fire was not catching well causing the
wood to smoke more than usual, time was closing in and people were 
getting hungry waiting for news from downtown or a meal from the 
kitchen.  That day would've been a nice day for Binta to come help. 
Ciray would've liked that a lot. As a matter of fact, she thought about 
it.  But Binta was busy playing Chateau with her friends.  Oh, how 
Ciray would've liked to go yank her away from that stupid game.  But 
even Ciray knew that would end in Pa Kallon yanking her hair out of her 
skull.  Binta was the "spoiled brat" that everyone wished they could 
teach a lesson but no one dared to look at her the wrong way.  "She is 
only 10," Pa Kallon will cry whenever one of the Mother Kallons wanted 
to teach her a lesson.  "Leave her alone. She has all the time in the 
world to learn.  Isn't that right, my dear?"  Binta will nod so cute Pa 
Kallon wouldn't help but give her a hug and take her away from the 
reaching hands of so-called teachers.  That afternoon Ciray looked at 
Binta singing and hopping from one room to the other in a "pointless" 
game of Chateau, and back at the thatched covered hut where her father 
seemed to be paying no attention to her nor the smoke or the fume ball 
she was forced to slice, dice, and grind. 

"I feel sorry for you," Ciray said loud enough for Binta to hear. Binta
heard it and knew whom the comment was intended for, but she pretended 
she didn't hear a word. She never hears something she doesn't want to 
hear, but if she wants something from you, she hears you like a rabbit 
does gun shots. 

"Little cunning bastard!" Ciray finally said and faced the realization
that yes, it was hot, yes it was late, and yes, she was having a hard 
time fitting all the disagreeable things together, but she was going to 
do it herself and was not going to change a thing around The Compound. 

Hadja, AKA Mother Kallon #1, laid on her bed watching and counting the
squares on her ceiling trying to pass the time and occupy her mind with 
something else other than expectations.  She was tired of sitting 
outside expecting an entrance and relief because she'd seen the way he 
looked last night and this morning before he put on his best suit and 
disappeared in the morning dew.  Nine months was a snap compared to the 
few hours she's been waiting, and added to the few weeks or couple of 
months before that, eternity was not at all a practical impossibility; 
that was what eternity feels like. Hadja tried to help her son everyway 
possible, but for the first time, she realized that this was something 
she couln't help him with except through emotional support, and that 
she gave a lot of.  Seeing his young face grow old in the past couple 
of months made Hadja felt even older and the hours between 6am and 1pm 
grew another decade on her face and much longer on her aging heart.  
Now the day was finally here and she did not know how she was suppose 
to go through the next few hours that remained. Above everything else 
she had become totally incapable of thinking about anything else except 
that.  If he doesn't get it, she wondered, he would be devastated, 
heart broken.  What is he going to do then?  One thing for sure is that 
I cannot care for a brokenhearted adult child. My son will grow wiry in 
front of my eyes and I will have to bury him knowing that I couldn't do 
anything to save him. My dear God you have to help me.  I beg you to 
come to my aid and the aid of a good child.  For if you help him with 
this, I promise to fast five days in appreciation.  She robbed her face 
in Amen and became so quiet she almost fell asleep, but sleep was a 
pleasure her mind won't let her enjoy. 

Saran, another Mrs. Kallon, sat on the veranda braiding her daughter's
hair.  A little grease on the fingers, oil and comb out, 
piece-by-piece, straight it out as long as possible, take a piece, 
divide it into three and start braiding.  One side was finished and 
they hung on Fanta's right shoulder as Saran commenced to pull on the 
other side of the head. Fanta wanted to take a break and give her ass a 
well deserved rest, but she knew how Saran hated to stop in the middle 
of a hair and be expected to finish it later, so Fanta remained sited 
shifting her weight from one butt cheek to the other in an attempt to 
rest her butt one cheek at a time. 

"If you don't stop moving, I will stop!" Saran scolded. Everyone seemed
to be a little too tensed and way too tempered for the little children 
who did not know quite what was the big deal except that their brother 
left early that morning to go get something called a visa.  Now, their 
father is sitting home talking to Kareba instead of out in the store 
like he always does. The mothers are all walking with sad drawn-out 
faces yelling at them for every silly mistake. 

The shades moved, the smoke dried out, the fumes were gone with the
wind, most of Fanta's head was done, Saran's fingers were starting to 
hurt, and it was time for BBC world news.  Few braids later when the 
new problem in the kitchen became the heat instead of the smoke, and 
all the room were occupied in yet another game of Chateau, the entrance 
door opened .  Everyone stopped what they were doing to see who 
entered. Fughame walked through the door holding a small shopping bag 
in hand.  As if disappointed, they all returned back to what they were 
doing. 

The vibe hit Fughame like an opened can of bad odor. "Why is everyone
looking so down?" Her mother coming out of the storage room just looked 
at her and it downed on Fughame. "Oh, you haven't heard yet?" she said. 
"He's not been here yet?" "What are you talking about?" her mother, 
Mugane said. "You should be happy. He got it!" Now she really got their 
attention.  Hadja came tumbling out of her room with no head tie, one 
shoe in one foot and the other in hand. "Oh, oh, relax people before 
you break a foot. I'm just playing."  She laughed but the sound of her 
laughter was a lonely one in the space contained within the walls of 
The Compound. 

Hadja returned to her room slowly, disappointed. "You stupid kid, what
is wrong with you," Pa Kallon yelled from his thatched hut. "Look what 
you did." Mugame said referring to Hadja. "You insensitive bastard." 
"I'm sorry." "You should be.  Get out of my face before I throw this in 
your face." She shrugged and walked inside passing by her sisters who 
at least looked like they thought it was funny. Inappropriate but still 
funny. "With those big ugly teeth you think everything is suppose to be 
funny," Saran said as Fughane crossed the veranda and into the lightly 
lit hallway and up the stairs. 

Ciray finally finished what turned out to be deep fried Atlantic ocean
fish drown in a pot of fried onion and tomato sauce zested with chicken 
bouillon and a touch of those local peppers that will make your head 
and face break out sweat just by thinking about them.  She'd added 
fresh cabbages just when the sauce was simmering so as to add substance 
and give her mother, Hadja, something to be happy about.  Ciray served 
the rice in four different pans and the sauce in another four.  She 
took one of each to Pa Kallon under the hut.  When he opened the 
covered pans in front of him and Kareba, he had no doubt that Ciray was 
in the kitchen, cause only she knows how to make Pa Kallon realize the 
depth of his hunger just by looking at his food. 

"I guess I'm gonna have to marry that daughter of yours just to make
sure I will always have something like this from the kitchen," Kareba 
said. "Sorry, but you're too late for that," Pa Kallon said.  "Mamady 
and his brothers were just here the other day with their kola nuts for 
her." "Oh, really!?" Kareba was visibly surprised.  "I thought her and 
my Amani were getting along pretty well." "Well, you know nowadays 
kids.  All they want to do is fool around.  But her older sister, 
Fughane is ready...and Fanta should be ready in a couple of years." 
"What does Ciray has to say to that?" "What kind of question is that, 
Kareba," Pa Kallon almost could not believe that his friends will say 
something as foolish as that. 

@@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ 

Yes, it was mind boggling for them to sit there and worry about him; but
they had no idea what he went through that day, the day before, before 
that and before that and before, before that.  Thinking about it, he 
suddenly realized it was no light weight on his young shoulders 
neither.  The day before had been the longest twenty-four hours of his 
teenage life.  And no teenager deserves to live under such emotional 
duress.  But one thing he was well aware of was that many people his 
age and beyond will love to trade places with him. So he did not 
complain. 

The I-20 came in the post office on Wednesday.  In all his excitement,
he still remembered the worries and guilt. He still vividly remembered 
how ecstatic he was when he looked into their little rectangular PO box 
and saw the white manila envelop squeezed into the small 4" by 4" 
space.  So excited but still his heart shook a bit.  First he worried 
about getting a reply, but now that the reply was here the real worries 
began.  They will be temporary but intense and means the different 
between a breakdown and a break dance.  What if it's a rejections 
letter?  Or just another form to fill out in the long list of official 
documents that asked for everything from his high school transcript to 
his father's bank statement--an account that had led to the most delay 
because it was thought to not be enough to support a student for four 
years of studies.  Little did they know that was an account that held 
just a fraction of what Pa Kallon was really worth.  It was used to 
store just enough of Pa Kallon's worth for official business and to 
deposit and withdraw from when travelling to Asia on purchasing trips.  
To further complicate matters, all this documents required not just Pa 
Kallon's signature, but the bank director's and a judge's.  The bank 
director was easy because he will sign a document saying Pa Kallon owe 
a million dollars even all he had was a dollar in his account. On the 
other hand, getting a judge to sign it was yet a story in itself. 

As he slowly peeled the clued edge from the envelope, his excitement
melted into constant questions and pessimism.  Maybe now they want to 
know how much my mother makes.  She doesn't even work. Will that be a 
problem?  Women dying to work.  Who in their right mind will want to 
work if they don't have to?  Confused people.  But I still want to go 
see how they do it.  Off went the seal.  He slowly took the top paper 
out.  He skipped the dear Mr. Kallon crap, did not even see it.  The 
first word to registered was "congratulations."  You can't be 
congratulated on a rejection.  The rest were just details he was not 
going to worry himself about yet.  When he looked at the second sheet 
to the place that said "start date: September 3, 1996", he laughed more 
like a yell, slammed the little box door shut and ran out. 

"I'm out of here!" He shouted to the gentleman that was busy in front of
one of the boxes.  He thought Yabe meant out of here as in out of the 
post office and all the heat that bounced off the metal brown boxes.  
Little did he know that 'out of here' meant out of that city, that 
country, that continent, and all the words that describe it and its 
inhabitants.  Yabe was on his way to another world; the world he had 
pictured in his head all those times at the movies and in the papers, 
or just from stories told by travelers.  He was going to the land of 
flying houses and money tree where females ask you to "fuck harder" and 
add please at the end.  He was on his way to that land where he was 
going to learn wizardry and how to make sure your empire becomes the 
only empire that never falls. 

Outside, he saw nothing.  He didn't even see Mody in the corner selling
newspapers.  He usually talked a little with Mody while he flipped 
through the highly censored but highly informational newspaper.  Mody, 
from all the conversation he had with Yabe, knew today was the day Yabe 
had been waiting for all those times. He always bought mangoes from the 
kids across the street.  Fresh yellow mangoes just like Hadja likes 
them. That day all Yabe saw was the future. He could already see 
himself strolling the streets under big glass buildings that form jazz 
in a skyline of a city. That was the future Yabe was heading for and if 
anything, he knew it was going to be a glittering one. 

That was on Wednesday.  Friday, Yabe was ready again to go see those
people that hide behind thick glass window asking you to speak louder 
and almost always send you home mad at yourself for wanting to leave 
your home so bad, and at them for not letting you do so. 

It is said that it is not everyday that the mahattan wind blow west to
east, but sometimes it does it and does it right in people's face as 
they run to the seaside in search of those fresh fish the fishermen 
bring at the end of the day.  And Yabe knew that getting up at 5am was 
no routine for him, but with the slightest effort--no thanks to an 
alarm clock-- on that Friday morning he was up on the dot.  An hour 
later the fast talking inquisitive taxi driver with eyes swollen from 
sleeplessness and coffee tainted breath dropped him off in front of the 
big blue-and-white building in the middle of downtown. 

The last time Yabe was at that big blue-and-white building was a Monday
and seven in the morning seemed a little late because, although the 
sign on the door read "offices opens at 9am", he still had to take his 
place behind a line of about a dozen mostly men.  On this Friday 
however, Yabe aimed to be there before those dozen people. So, he 
arrived at 6am.  Unfortunately for him, others thought the same and 
arrived an hour earlier than before and Yabe was right back to where he 
was a month ago.  He thought that was funny. The thought that those 
people slept there even crossed his mind. He just smiled, gave the 
driver a crisp 1000 franc bill and stepped out of the cigarette tainted 
interior of the yellow Renault 12. "Good Luck," said the Driver. 
"Thanks," Yabe said and closed the door behind him. 

The two young men in highly faded blue uniform were already sitting on
their stools in front of the house. To their right, the wall railed a 
line of 10 men and one woman about the same age as Yabe's mother, 
Hadja.  Walking to the back of the line, Yabe opened the folder he held 
in his hands.  The green shinning cover of the passport was still there 
and inside was a picture of a smiling Yabe. The small envelop that was 
tucked beside the passport still had in it the two recently taken 
passport photos staring at each other wondering who was going to be 
chosen for the space on the back of the passport where the visa will be 
stamped.  He looked at the signed I-20 and slid his finger cross as if 
too fragile for any strong touch, wiped what seemed to be a little dirt 
dried on it, but turned out to be an ink.  On the other side of the 
folder laid the other papers he thought he wouldn't need but brought 
along just in case they decided to surprise him again about some papers 
they never mentioned the previous times.  When everything was in check, 
he adjusted his suit over his shoulders, and looked over the crowd of 
people barely keeping themselves from falling asleep.  Some had given 
up on standing and sat on the ledge of the building. "Get away from the 
building," one of the guards yelled just when Yabe thought he too could 
sit along the edge.  Now him along with the rest that were sitting had 
to get up and stand at least a foot away from the building. 

Pretty soon the passing cars became more frequent and the passengers
more observant of the line that was then over forty people long and 
still continued around the building.  The day became clearer as the sun 
beamed up above the horizon and along with it the temperature went on 
an upward mobility. Sweat formed on their foreheads and rolled down 
their arm, but still they kept their cool. Dressed in their best suits 
with papers in hand and in their heads they stored stories a passport 
to a lifetime of opportunities. Yabe shared stories with few and came 
to the personal conclusion that of many standing there his road had 
been the shortest and much smoother.  Mohammed, the gentleman he beat 
to the line only by a step, went from what sounded like a successful 
business of buying many different condiments at wholesales and selling 
them in a small shop he'd built at a busy intersection in South Corner. 
 Mohammed was doing fine then with that store in South Corner and even 
thinking about enlarging it.  That was until the America bug struck 
him.  He sold the store to his cousin and hoped to go make it better in 
America.  That was over two years ago and now that cousin was the one 
supporting and helping finance his running-arounds.  As of that Friday, 
Mohammed had had four different passports, tried at three different 
embassies in three different countries, and had four different 
identities; he'd been denied visa flat out trice, made to come back 8 
times and spent more money than he ever thought he had.  Friday, he 
believed, was going to be different. It will be the day he gets his 
visa because he had all the paper works current and was sure to be 
granted that B-2 visa for a visit that will spell three months, but 
years will come and go and he will still be moving from one odd job to 
the other, taken advantage of by managers who love to sing the three 
letters acronyms--INS--but shit in their pants when the 'N' is switched 
to a 'R'.  He will ache for those greens in blistering cold and muscle 
aching routines and when the sun rises he'll coiled in the corner of a 
two bedroom apartment occupied by six to eight people.  Every now and 
then, he'll take pictures in front of tall buildings and inside fancy 
hotels and offices claiming to be his daily hangouts if not his work or 
residence.  The greens saved over months are wrapped around those 
pictures and shipped with stories that are far from the truth but 
serves to send another unsuspecting young man to that line in front of 
the big blue-and-white building. 

Yabe had a bowl of pap with French bread crumbled in it.  The time on
his wristwatch said 9:30am but nothing seemed to change beside the 
White people that came and disappeared into the house paying the 
waiting natives little to no attention.  Last time on that Monday, he'd 
wondered why the sign read "offices open at 9am," but still the first 
person in line was still in the same place he was at the beginning of 
the day.  But he was patient, or forced to be patient, until that first 
person was allowed to go inside the building sometime around 11am.  On 
Friday, he expected the same thing and therefore didn't border with 
mere differences between what was promised and what was delivered. 

The abruptness of the cold interior almost gave Yabe a fever.  The metal
detectors where now behind him, the robotic marine behind the dark 
glass was behind too, especially the rude guards who asked him to 
remove his belt and touched him everywhere looking for some concealed 
weapon that don't exist.  Ahead he saw more chairs.  He was asked to 
sit on the one right next to the guy that was ahead of him in the line. 
At least they are a little hospitable inside, he thought. 

With every person that walked up to one of the small glass windows, Yabe
moved up a seat and another person came in from outside.  After few 
such change in seats he found himself standing across from a tall 
pot-belly balding man with a white shirt that was ready to burst open 
and reveal a stomach so unhealthy only a lifetime of remote control and 
burgers could create. "Yabane Kallon?" he asked as if a trivia 
question. "Yes, sir," Yabe responded, knowing damn well that man did 
not even have the decency to pronounce his name correctly. "So, you 
want to go to America, eh?" "Yes, sir." "For what." "To go to school, 
sir." "What's wrong with the schools here?  You have a very nice 
university right here. One of the best in Africa.  And it's free!" "I 
know sir, but..." "You want to go to America, anyway." "No, sir." "No? 
Then why are you here?" "I don't want to go to America just for the 
sake of going, sir. The university here is very good but they don't 
have the program I want." "Oh, yeah? What would that be?" he asked 
looking at the papers in front of him for the first time. "Business 
administration with emphasis on information systems." "You know exactly 
what you want to do don't you?" "Yes, sir." "But you know school is not 
free in America.  Matter of fact, it's very expensive. Who's going to 
support you while you study." "Right there sir," Yabe said pointing to 
the papers in front of the man, "the affidavit.  My father is going to 
pay for all my expenses." "I see.  What does he do? Your father?" "He 
is a business man." "I see.  So you want to be like your father?" "Yes, 
sir." "He didn't study in America, did he?" "No sir.  But if I am given 
the opportunity to go, I will learn and use my education to further his 
business." "How long you suppose this will take?" "Four years." "What 
if you are not finished in four years?" "I will, sir." "Then, what?  
You want to stay in America and work." "No, sir.  Come back as soon as 
I am done." 

The man behind the window started flipping through the papers handed to
him. One after the other, he looked through them, punched something in 
the computer he had sitting on the side.  He left Yabe standing there 
and disappeared in the rear of the room.  Yabe stood with his heart 
pounding, palm sweating, and his mouth dried.  He wanted to sit down to 
keep himself from falling, but there were no chair by the little glass 
window and going back to his seat was out of the question.  The man was 
gone but few minutes, but to Yabe, it was more like hours.  As few 
minutes became eternity between which his faith was to be decided upon, 
he wouldn't calm his mind, so he decided to eavesdrop on the 
conversation going on at the other window between Mohammed and the 
lady.  That conversation was going all wrong.  Too much talking, Yabe 
would say, if you have to talk a lot, you might as well leave and 
return another day.  Yabe had experienced a lot of this and knew with 
an almost certainty that Mohammed was not going to walk out there with 
a promised to come get his stamped passport the next day. Thinking back 
to his own unfinished matter, he hoped he wouldn't face the same faith, 
because you never know with these people.  No matter how promising it 
looks at the window, going in the back might unearth something 
unpleasant that might change the whole outcome. So to be on the safe 
side, he recited every helpful souras he could remember under his 
breath. He was reciting the one that promised to rid your surrounding 
of all evil when he saw the man returning. By the time the man made it 
to the window, Mohammed picked up his papers and walked out the office 
on the brink of tears. 

And Yabe thought he was going to cry.  Which he almost did, but on a
very different stroke: Tears of joy. 


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