Read Online Behold the Dreamers by Imbolo Mbue - Free Book Online Page B

to the back of his head, Jende learned, and he was now in a conversation with his long-dead father. He needed to be rushed to a private hospital in Douala; money for the hospital could be borrowed from a businessman in Sokolo if Jende could talk to the lender and promise to send the funds for repayment as soon as possible. I beg you, Jende, his brother had said, you get for promise for send the money now-now-so, or Papa go die by daybreak.
    Jende had not been able to finish his food after that call. Neni had asked the waiter to wrap up the sautéed shrimp while Jende ran, first to an ATM, to withdraw money from his savings account, and then to a bodega bearing a Western Union logo on its window, to transfer the funds to Cameroon. He ran along Eighth Avenue like a deranged man, pushing aside bedazzled tourists so he could send the money as soon as he could even though the time would make no difference since his brother would not be able to retrieve the money till Monday.
    His father had survived, and Jende had been reminded that, indeed, bad news has a way of slithering into good days and making a mockery of complacent joys. But the day Bubakar called, that Tuesday in April 2008, was not a special day. Jende was at work, the weather was cold, the streets of Manhattan as brutal to drive on as any other day.
    He was parked on a street corner, reading Clark’s discarded Wall Street Journal, when he saw Bubakar’s name flashing on his phone. He picked up the phone warily, knowing it had to be big news, good or bad: Immigration lawyers, like doctors, did not call to say hello.
    Bubakar said hello, asked about his day. His voice was somber and serious, lacking the eh s and abi s he often added at the end of sentences, and from that Jende could tell something was amiss. Even when Bubakar asked about Neni and Liomi and tried to make small talk about life as a chauffeur, Jende could tell the man was merely sterilizing a spot on his heart so he could inject painful words.
    â€œI finally received the letter,” Bubakar said.
    â€œWhat did they say?”
    The asylum application was not approved, the lawyer told him. The case was being referred to an immigration judge. Jende was going to have to go to court because the government was going to begin removal proceedings against him. “I tried my very best, my brother,” he said. “I truly did. I’m sorry.”
    Jende said nothing—his heart was pounding too fast for his mouth to open.
    â€œI know it’s not good news, my brother, but don’t worry,” he went on. “We’ll keep fighting. There is a lot we can do to keep you in the country.”
    Still, Jende could muster no words.
    â€œIt’s very hard, I know, but we must try to be strong, okay?”
    The silence remained.
    â€œStay strong, my brother. You’ve got to stay very strong. I know it’s a mighty shock. Really, the decision is shocking me, too, very much right now. But what can we do? The only thing we can do right now is to keep fighting.”
    Finally, Jende muttered a barely audible something.
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œI say, this means I have to leave America?”
    â€œThey say that, yes. They don’t believe your story that you’ll be killed by Neni’s family if you go back to Cameroon.”
    â€œI thought you said it was a good story, Mr. Bubakar. In fact, you yourself told me that they would believe me. We left the interview happy. You told me I had answered the questions very well and that the Immigration woman looked like she believed me!”
    â€œYes, but like I told you the last time we spoke, I didn’t think it was a good sign when she told us to go home and wait for the decision in the mail instead of asking us to come back to the asylum office in a couple of weeks to pick it up. I didn’t want to read too much into it—”
    â€œYou told me not to worry too much about the fact that it was taking them too