Everyone came with something to eat: fried ripe plantains, bitter leaf soup, egusi stew, cow feet and beans, poulet DG, grilled tilapia, attiéké, moi moi, soya, jollof rice, curry chicken, pounded yams. Winston brought drinks, along with his laptop and speakers.
In Betty’s sparsely furnished living room, they ate and they danced, to Petit-Pays and Koffi Olomidé, to Brenda Fassie and Papa Wemba. Then Meiway’s “200% Zoblazo” came over the speakers. Trumpets and keyboards sounded, calling all celebrators to the dance floor. The rhythm—fierce, pulsating, resolute—demanded that everyone get on their feet. Those who were eating put down their food. Those who were drinking put down their bottles. Ting, ting, ting, ding, ding. Neni moved to the center of the room—her hips couldn’t help swaying to music this good. Her feet couldn’t stand still even if she wasn’t having the happiest day of her life. Everyone was up, packed in the eight-by-twelve space at the center of the room. Arms raised in the air, the women rotated their buttocks, going harder and harder toward the floor, faster and faster as they rose up. Behind them, one arm around their waists, the men worked their crotches: up, down, left and right, forward, backward, side to side. All around, buttocks and crotches moved in one accord, pressed against each other as the music soared. Then, the chorus arrived. They jumped and skipped as they pumped their fists, singing together as loud as they could, Blazo, blazo, zoblazo, on a gagné! On a gagné! When one of Jende’s non-African friends from work asked him what the song meant, he shouted, without pausing to catch his breath, it means we have won, man. It means we have won!
Judson Memorial Church bade them farewell, too.
Natasha asked Neni if Jende could come with her to church on the second Sunday of August. Jende agreed—it seemed a good time to visit an American church and see if Americans interpreted the Bible the same way as Cameroonians.
The Scripture that morning was from Genesis 18, the story of the weary visitors who visited Abraham and Abraham, not knowing they were angels, treated them with kindness. Natasha preached about the treatment of weary strangers in America. She decried the contemporary American definition of weary stranger as illegal alien. Remember when we welcomed our visitors at Ellis Island with lunch boxes? she asked to loud applause. And a free doctor’s checkup! someone in the back shouted. The church roared. Natasha smiled as she watched her congregants whispering among themselves. Sad, she said, shaking her head. Treating our friends in need of help the way we treat our enemies. Forgetting that we could find ourselves in search of a home someday, too. This bears no resemblance to the love the Bible speaks of, the love Jesus Christ preached about when he said we should love our neighbor as ourselves.
Before ending the sermon, Natasha called the Jongas to the front of the church. This is the Jonga family, she told the congregation. In about a week, they’ll be returning home to their native Cameroon. They came to America to stay but we won’t let them. They’re returning home because they cannot get papers to remain in our country and create a better life for themselves and their children. They’re returning because we as a country have forgotten how to welcome all kinds of strangers to our home. She paused and looked around, giving the congregation time to digest her words. She then turned to Neni and Jende, hugged them, and thanked them for sharing their story. Father, mother, son, and daughter returned to their seats with the eyes of the congregation following them.
The assistant pastor, Amos, rose to speak after the sermon. You’ve heard Natasha’s sermon and you’ve met the Jongas, he said. They’re not strangers. They’re our neighbors, but they cannot make their home among us. So I encourage you all to give generously to help them create a new home in their country. And while we give, he continued, let’s remember that there are many more out there like this couple. Worse still, there are many out there who do not have a warm, peaceful country to return to. There are many for whom the only chance at ever having a home again is in America.
Neni and Jende looked at each other when Amos mentioned the money. Natasha had told them nothing about it and this unexpected and kind gesture briefly misted Neni’s eyes, the thought that she would be leaving behind a country abounding in institutions of tolerance and compassion.
After the service, a line of congregants stood in front of them, taking turns to greet them. One woman wanted to know where Cameroon was on the map, and another wanted to know if Jende needed help finding a lawyer to continue his immigration case. He told the first woman that Cameroon was right next to Nigeria. To the second, he said no, he did not need a lawyer, his case was closed.
Most congregants simply wanted to shake hands or wish them well or tell them how glad they were that the Jongas had shared their story. A teenage girl choked up while telling Jende of a friend’s father who was deported to Guatemala even though he knew no one there. Her friend was very sad now, the young woman said. Jende gave her a hug and told her that, thankfully, they still had many family and friends in Cameroon.
Sixty
THE EMAIL RESPONSE CAME WITHIN TWO HOURS OF JENDE HITTING THE send button. Nice hearing from you, Jende, Clark wrote. I’m surprised to hear you’re returning home but I understand. Sometimes a man just has to go back home. You can certainly stop by to say goodbye. Talk to my secretary.
Jende went to visit Clark wearing the same black suit he’d worn for his first day of work as Clark’s chauffeur. Neni had told him the suit was unnecessary but he had insisted on wearing it. I’m going to be around people wearing suits, he reminded her. Why should I look like a nobody?
When he walked in, Clark stood from behind his desk to greet him. “It’s very nice of you to come say goodbye,” he said, smiling as he offered a hand.
“It’s me who has to thank you for making the time, sir,” Jende replied, taking Clark’s hand into both of his.
Clark seemed beyond pleased to see him, smiling more broadly than Jende had ever seen him smile, his eyes brighter than they had been in all the months Jende drove him around, his face younger looking. Jende could tell that Mr. Edwards’s happiness was not merely from seeing him—his former boss finally seemed a genuinely happy man.
“I wanted to give my condolences for the death of Mrs. Edwards, sir,” Jende said after they were seated. “I was at the memorial service, sir, but I could not get an opportunity to get near you to tell you how sorry I was.”
Clark nodded. Jende looked around at the office he’d moved to since they last saw each other. It had neither a sofa nor a view of Central Park, but the view of Queens was special in its own inferior way.
“How’s your family?” Clark asked. “Are they happy to be going back home?”
“They are fine, sir, thank you. My wife is angry, but she is not going to stay angry forever. My son is happy because I tell him about all the fun things I will take him to do back at home. The baby does not know anything, so that makes me happy.”
“Are you happy?”
“I am, but the more the day comes closer, the more I feel a little bit of sadness that I might never see this city again. New York is a wonderful city. It will be hard to not live here.”
“Yeah, I’ll have to learn to adjust, too. I’ll be leaving next month.”
“Oh? You mean you are moving also, sir?”
Clark nodded. “Mighty and I are moving to Virginia.”
“Virginia?”
“I found a new job in Washington, D.C. We’re actually going to look at houses this weekend. I’m hoping we can find something close to Arlington and Falls Church.”
“Falls Church? I remember, sir … that is where Mrs. Edwards came from?”
“You’ve got a good memory. And my family lived in Arlington for a bit before we moved to Illinois. My parents will be moving from California so they can be close to us.”
“That will be very good for you, sir.”
“Family’s everything,” Clark said. “I’m sure you know that already.”