“They don’t even have the decency to apologize and explain why it took them a whole eternity to make one decision—”
“You didn’t make it sound that bad, Mr. Bubakar! You told me that the woman was very satisfied with my answers!”
“I thought so, my brother. I thought she was. But who knows how those bastards at Immigration really think? We give them a story and hope they believe it. But some of them are wicked people, very wicked. Some people in this country don’t want people like me and you here.”
“What is going to happen to me now? Are they going to arrest me and force me inside a plane? Will I get a chance to say goodbye …”
“Oh, no, God forbid! Inshallah, it’ll never get to that. No, for now you’re going to get a date when you have to stand in front of an Immigration judge. ICE lawyer will be there, pushing for the judge to throw you out of the country. I will be there, standing next to you, pushing for you to remain. I’m going to do everything I can to convince the judge that the people at USCIS are wrong and that you belong in America. The judge will either side with ICE lawyer and deny your asylum application or he’ll side with us and approve the application so you can remain in the country and get a green card. Inshallah, the judge will side with us.”
“So you are saying it’s going to be you versus the lawyer from the government?”
“That’s correct. Me versus their lawyer. Better man go win all.”
“Oh, Papa God!”
“I know, my brother, I know, believe me. But you have to put your faith in me. You must, okay? We’re going to do this together. Have we not made it this far together?”
Jende took in a deep breath. The car seat had turned into a bed of needles.
“Did I not help you make it this far?” Bubakar said. “Did I not petition USCIS to give you a work permit when they were taking too long to get to your case? Eh? Is it not because of that work permit that you were able to get a driver’s license and now have a better job?”
“What am I going to do?”
“You’ve got to trust me.”
“It’s not that I don’t trust—”
“Did I not help you apply for a student visa for your wife to come here and go to school? I got your whole family together in New York, my brother. Got you this close. The least you can do is trust me that, Inshallah, we will win this case and you’ll get a green card.”
Jende’s mouth dried up.
Bubakar asked if he had any other question.
“When do I have to be in court?” he asked softly, dreading the response.
Bubakar said he didn’t know—he’d received only a letter of explanation today but Jende should be getting the Notice to Appear, with a court date, soon enough.
“You have any more questions, my brother?”
Jende said no; he could think of nothing more to say or ask.
“Call me anytime with any questions, okay? Even if you just want to talk.”
Jende hung up.
He dropped his phone on his lap.
He did not move.
He could not move.
Not even his mind could move; the ability to create thoughts deserted him.
What he’d lived in fear of the past three years had happened, and the powerlessness was worse than he’d imagined. If not for his pride, he would have cried, but tears, of course, would have been useless. His days in America were numbered, and there was nothing salty water running out of his eyes could do.
Upper West Siders strolled by. MTA buses stopped by. A chaos of kids on scooters rushed by, followed by three women—their mommies or grandmas or aunties or nannies—cautioning them to slow down, please be careful. Mighty would soon be done with his piano lesson. The nanny would be calling in about twelve minutes to ask Jende to bring the car to the front of the teacher’s building. What should he do in those twelve minutes? Call Neni? No. She was probably on her way to pick Liomi up from his after-school program. Call Winston? No. He was working. It wouldn’t be right to call him with bad news at work; besides, there was nothing he could do. There was nothing anyone could do. No one could save him from American Immigration. He would have to go back home. He would have to return to a country where visions of a better life were the birthright of a blessed few, to a town from which dreamers like him were fleeing daily. He and his family would have to return to New Town empty-handed, with nothing but tales about what they’d seen and done in America, and when people asked why they’d returned and moved back into his parents’ crumbling caraboat house, they would have to tell a lie, a very good lie, because that would be the only way to escape the shame and the indignity. The shame he could live with, but his failings as a husband and father …
He looked out the window at the people walking on Amsterdam Avenue. None of them seemed concerned that the day might be one of his last in America. Some of them were laughing.
That night, after he’d told Neni, he watched her cry the first tears of sadness she’d ever cried in America.
“What are we going to do?” she asked him. “What do we have to do?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “Please dry your eyes, Neni. Tears are not going to help us right now.”
“Oh, Papa God, what are we going to do now?” she cried, ignoring his plea. “How can we keep on fighting? How much more money do we need to spend now that it’s going to be a court case?”
“I don’t know,” he said again. “I’m going to call Bubakar soon to discuss more. The news hit me so bad … it was as if someone was pressing a pillow against my face.”
They would have to use the money they had saved, they agreed. All of it: the couple thousand dollars they had put away by sticking to a monthly budget and which they hoped to one day put toward a renovation of his parents’ house, a down payment on a condo in Westchester County, and Liomi’s college education. If they had to get rid of their cable and Internet and take second jobs, they’d do that. If they had to go to bed hungry, they’d do that, too. They would do everything they could to remain in America. To give Liomi a chance to grow up in America.
“Should we tell Liomi now, so he can be prepared if we have to leave?” Neni asked.
Jende shook his head and said, “No, let him stay happy.”
Ten