EMAIL FROM AMERICA: Fiction Faction: This Journey
It is dark in the
morning. Our daughter is up and ready to go to the bus stop – she is in
high school. She steps into our bedroom and announces that she is going
to the bus stop. My wife says to her, “I will go with you, it is too
dark.” The seasons are changing and my wife says it is too dark for
children to go to the bus stop by themselves. In the darkness, I mumble
to my wife, “She will be fine, it is not too dark.” It cannot be as
dark as the mornings of my childhood in Nigeria, me scurrying around to
do my chores. But it is often futile to engage in these debates. The
unspoken communication: My wife wants me to see our daughter off to the
bus stop. I get up and I say to our daughter, “I shall go with you.”
Our daughter doesn’t like it, she argues with us, what kind of parents
escort their high school kids to the bus stop? What would the other
kids say, she grumbles? She resigns herself to the compromise. I will
escort her to the bend in the path to the bus stop where I can see the
lamp post that works. And we both agree: As soon as she says “goodbye
daddy!” I must return to bed.
In the kitchen, as
our daughter gets ready for school, she regales me with stories of her
yesterday. The stories are all American, of a culture and a way of life
that is alien to me even after all these years of my sojourn but the
names of her stories’ characters are delightfully United Nations –
dizzy pointers to the ancestry of those who fled strong opinions and
deadly force to come to this land of the allegedly free. Our daughter
laughs at her own stories and I laugh along with her. She is happy and
I admire and envy her. Who was the sage that said that we live through
our children?
We get to the bend
in the path and our daughter turns around and says “goodbye daddy!” I
stop and wish her a great day. In the dark I look around me. There are
shapes kneading themselves into human forms, benign spirits morphing
into students congregating at the bus stop. Out by the woods, sounds
warn of the mysteries and dangers of the dark and the known. All around
me the majesty of the moment overwhelms me and transports me to the
majesty of a past in Africa that will not leave me alone. Africa comes
calling again; the Africa that I remember despite her wars and issues.
Our Africa is a nurturing one – of caring clans, bountiful markets,
wondrous stories and heart breaking dances.
Why are we here?
Today, in America, we are riding shotgun in life’s SUV. Today we are
riding crouched low on the path of no resistance. Come dawn, we wanted
to stay in bed but today again slapped us awake and berated us to
turgid attention. The mirror shimmers with glee. It is not me that I
see in the sea of mirth but I cannot escape the mirror that forces me
to peer. We are out in the cold depths of America’s winter shivering in
dresses that were inspired by the searing heat of the land of my
ancestors. Why are we shivering when we could be clothed in the warmth
of the values of the new land? We are afraid to look our bullying
ancestors straight in the eyes and ask the question: Why?
America. This
journey is the same, has always been the same, from the beginning of
the earth. Nothing is new, it is the same journey and we have always
trudged on this same path. Yet, it is an abiding mystery, how it is
that each new traveler always gapes with awe and wonder at the changing
constants, this constant newness of this journey. It is the same big
fat bus filled with the same people, hustling, jostling, elbowing their
way out of somewhere to somewhere. Languages are dying; peoples are
dying; and dead customs litter the halls of bored museums, all
mummified by the happy pall-bearers of that cliché called change.
From Africa to America there is war everywhere, war fuels the
journey. Don’t look but our children are falling off the roofs of
trains, drowning in the waters of roiling seas that bloody the
relentless movement of warriors of color. Everyday history is made. But
their history is dead. They came kicking and screaming. They are still
kicking and screaming – at us. They don’t want us here. They say,
“Learn English! Speak English! You are in America!” they remind us,
speak English! Their eyes ask us to check multiple boxes – in English:
Who are you? Where are you coming from? Where are you going? When are
you going back home? We do not ask questions. We are happy to be here,
we tell them. We know the truth, that they know the truth. Welcome to
America.