The Sun Also Rise in the West (From Gambia To America

Sang w. Mendy

In June, 2011, it was excruciatingly humid as raining season can often be in the suburban country side of Banjul. The sun burned like fire, and the smell of fresh, green, farm crops graced the nostrils and gave a sense of satisfaction for helping one’s parents on the farm as required by every male child. It was the day for my interview with the American embassy and I was running late.  I rushed to the bath room and took a quick shower; dried myself, and put on my suit and tie. “Americans love suits and ties.” was the concept that most Africans has towards Westerners. So, my mom went and bought me a second hand-suit at one of the local stores. She had already washed and ironed them while commanding that I cut my hair two days ago.  For the first time, I was in a suit. I took a look at myself on the huge mirror that hung in my mother’s room, and noticed how oversized the suit was on me. But, I was not bothered; it looked perfectly fine on my tiny body. I took my leather bag containing my documents and headed to my father’s room. It was dark and gloomy, with little light penetrating from the small window, just beneath the ceiling, above his bed. I knew he was not asleep because he had just turned the radio on to listen to the 6.a.m news. 

“Baba” I said, in a carefully soft tone that illustrated some respect and as well exonerate my guilty conscience about waking him from his peaceful sleep.

“Mmmhh” He replied.

“I am about to go to the embassy for my interview” I said, walking closer to him. He sat up on his bed and stretched out his hands for blessing. I went on and knelt before him. Warmly, I felt his hands: One on my head and the other on my shoulder. He whispered and whispered as if afraid for me to hear what he was saying.  “Go in peace … May the god’s be with you” He finally said in a composed, compassionate and confident tune. I stood up, kissed his hands, and walked out. 

My mom was waiting at the entry door. I walked to her, held both of her hands and rubbed them on my face then kissed them good bye.  I went out to take a public transport. Usually, the buses come every 30 minutes, but for some reasons, it came earlier than that. I thanked the heavens and jumped right in and sat in the back seat.

Sang w. Mendy

 The bus, thus new on the outside, has a different picture in the inside: Old and rusty with cords hanging out from different angles. Coughing and gagging as it shifted gears now and then on the graveled, narrow road pockmarked with rainwater. There seemed to be nothing that would protect the driver if he entered into slumber and the car missing its route other than old, encroaching houses that erected some few meters away from the main road. I looked at my watch; it was 6:27a.m. I will probably be there before 8:30 a.m. which is my actual interview time.  I searched my bag and brought out the theoretical question and answer papers that are said to be commonly asked by the embassy. These were written by people who have or said to have had some experience about how the interview normally takes place. I have been readying them for about a week now, likewise memories most of the response questions. A little brain refreshment was what I needed. 

The car came to a stop. I got down and headed to the direction of the American embassy; some few meters away from the main road. I arrived at the Embassy at around 7:18a.m and it was already packed with people.  I looked at the long queue of other anxious Gambians, and wondered, how many of us would be lucky to get what we came for. How many of us will take it in good faith if issued a rejection letter.

 Things have changed. Just a few years back, The embassy could grimly stamp “rejected “in red ink on the front page of your national passport that would stand out whenever you opened it, thus making the passport that could cost about $ 120 and a long waiting –perhaps a month or so—invalid.  This act was not only unfair to the individual, but insulting to that individual’s national pride. It portrayed the powers and privileges America has upon Third World countries.   

Of course, there will be some that will come out with a big smile on their faces, while others –the unlucky ones will have that look of dejected, sheer shock when they are denied.  Their hopes and dreams that they have been longing for are shattered. Worst of all, the $200 they paid to apply is never refunded—not even a quarter of it.  It took some a full year before they could gather that much of money. Others go in to huge debt.  The pain and frustration become unbearable.  

 I know these feelings because I walked the same path 2 years ago before this blissful day.  I remembered the counselor sliding me my documents, topped by a letter that read “denied” through the empty space of the frame glasses that stood between me and him. I could not believe it. My heart spiraled into a deep abysmal trauma that shattered the warmth and confidence within my soul.  The feeling of worthiness diminishes, while shame and worthlessness fills in its absence. My entire life became totally consumed with deleterious thoughts, and blocked all kinds of logical reasoning. It hurt so badly. It hurt so bad that when i walk, it hurts. When i breathe it hurts. The pain was horrible and unbearable; awful and excruciating. I recalled a security man walking up to me from where I was standing staring with detestation at the counselor who sat at a far corner protected by heavy, strong glasses. He must have seen the anger and disappointment in my face and called the security man. The security man, though looking scary, was nice and gentle in his approach and speech. He must have seen such faces many times and was trained on how to handle such matters.  I never sit and contemplate on the why there were so much security personnel until now. They were present everywhere —on the inside as well as outside. They were not only there to stop terrorists attacks. I am sure they were there to level anyone that finds it hard to control their emotions and disappointments.  “Are you ok sir?” he said. Then, came in another one; talking on his radio and on the stand by. He was tall and huge. He seem like he could eat three of my size for breakfast and still yearned for more. Fear won over my anger making me relax my gaze. The man again asked in a tender, caring voice “Are you alright…sir?” I took a deep breathe, and told him I was fine. I looked at the gun strapped on his wrist and  wished that I could borrow it from him for a second. I wished he could just blow my head off for help sake. America: The land of milk and honey, the land of the brave and the free, the land well known for its flexible stand on democracy and, most of all, the land with sympathies and empathies with  the discriminated. Here I was. Denied an American visa because I was not financially strong and I do not come from a family that is financially strong, too. Unless the non-discrimination policy was a slogan, the fact that I was rejected on financial bases, was the greatest and highest discrimination one can ever imaging.

The alarm went on and the entry gate opened. We formed a queue and walked in.   I prayed so hard even before this frightful day.  The butterflies in my stomach jolt and vibrate as I enter the security room. All clean, they issued me a ticket that reads number 056. Then I knew I was number 56. One at a time, our numbers were called and we went and submit our documents at  the interviewing section and got back to our seats and wait . It felt like the longest wait I had ever been to in my life. The whole room was steeped in a vast silence and stillness so profound that the only sound was coming from the TV that stood in front of us; above our heads.  I began to rehash the questions and answers again in my head. A lady sitting next to me finally took my mind away from what I was rehashing. “What are you applying for?” She asked. “Student visa” I replied. “You?” I asked. “K1 visa.” She replied. I nod my head as if I know what K1 visa means. “My husband is in the US, I am planning to join him.” “Oh wow, that’s great, you are a lucky woman to have an American husband “I said. “Do you have a family in America?” she asked. “Nope” I replied in a sympathetic tone.  “What is the name of your school?” Before I could answer, the guy that was first in line came out with his face all pale and looked like he was ready to cry. Without saying a word, packed his stuff and exited. The room went silent again. We were like criminals waiting for our verdicts. Talking to the lady was comforting, but I stayed mute and wished she just live me in peace. “Good luck” she said. I looked at her then quickly turned my head away, afraid that tears might fall from my eyes. It took me a few minutes before I could find the strength to wish her the same.

 Instead of my number, my name was called by a male voice. It was the voice of a Black American. I walked in and remembered first advice “smile. American people like people that smile.” I smile. I could almost feel the muscles on my cheeks stretching to its core. But, to my surprise, the guy didn’t smile back. In fact, he only looked at me once then stick his eyes on the documents before him; my documents. Still bowing his head, he separated the documents, took the ones he needs and hand me back the rest. He asks me to place my fingers on a machine for my biometric fingerprint, and I did.  “Thank you, you can go back to your seat.” I turned and head to my seat still hanging on to my smiling face.

 I prayed the Our Father once, Holy Mary 10x, then, glory be to God once. I relaxed and promised to take everything by good faith no matter the outcome. I should let Jesus be in control. If he said I was going to be in America, nothing can stop me. Not even the President of the United States of America, Barrack Obama. In fact, if only he knows how much I love him. If only he would allow me to hug Michelle Obama or let me marry Malia or Sasha.  “Stop dreaming boy” a voice in me sad. I giggled and relaxed on my seat. Men have to dream big! 

I heard my name again and slowly, I walked in to the chilly, heavy plain glass room. I try to smile, but felt my lips trembling. I gave up the smile and tried to focus. “The councilor was a blonde young man. He was on a suit and tie which I felt connected to. He did the usual how  are you, I am fine greeting then went straight ahead to the questions. “Why do you choose to study in America?” I start to think. The questions and answers I have been rehashing left me. I could not remember any of the replying questions. I cleared my throat and started answering. “Because of the quality education in America, the diverse culture in America, and the global recognition America has, I could not think of a better place than furthering my studies there.” “How long do you plan on staying in America?” “As long as it take me to finish my degree.” “Are you going to cause trouble there?” I giggled to the question. “no” I said. “What a dump as question”I said to myself. “ I am sure going to bite, kick, and kill all the male students and hold the ladies captive.” I giggled to my thought and he looked and me and smile. “Okay, good luck with your studies then. Come for your visa at the end of this week.”  He finally said. I could not believe my ears. I stood there: voiceless, Motionless.  I wanted to scream, jump, break the glasses and kiss him and hug him and worship him.  Hurriedly, I walked out, to the waiting center. Everybody looked at me. I smiled and thanked the lady. Everybody congratulated me and wish me luck as if I have just won a lottery. I took my stuff and headed outside. I decide not to take a taxi, but walked home which was about 30 km’s away. You sure can predict the celebration at home.

 Three months later, after I got my visa. the day for my flight came. It was a night flight and I could not wait to get on a plane. I had been warned by my father as well as my mother that I should keep my traveling secret, that I shouldn’t announce it to neither of my friends nor my neighbors. They though that  if the news broke out that I was going to America, envious minded people would throw a magic charm of bad luck on me.  That I will either fall sick or die. Either ways, the spell will make sure I never see America. I believe them and long kept it secret.

The hour came for me to go to the air port. The family gathered around by the entry door for traditional prayers. My dad sat in front, and my mum sat on her right hand and was surrounded by my siblings. In front of my father, was placed a calabash of palm wine, a jar of water,  bottles of whisky,  red wine, Coca Cola, and Fanta. A kolanut, a handful of salt, and a pile of garlic. We often have this kind of gathering on special occasions such as: the first day of school, a naming ceremony, a wedding ceremony, a funeral, a visitor, or if any member of the family was about to make a long journey.  It is a symbol of opening the way: To give thanks to the ancestors, to show respect to them, and also, to ask for their blessing and protection. Since my dad is the head of the house and the eldest, he was the one to perform the libation. He asked me to come forward and kneel before him. He held the cow’s horn, while my mum poured him all the different types of liquor one at a time.  He started by calling all his forefathers and dripping the mixed liquor at the small rounded hole excavated in front of the entrance door and began to talk.

“ You, our grandfathers, and our fathers. You, our grandmothers, and our mothers. You, that went before us. You, that we look upon to.  You, that  protect us tirelessly from the kingdom of the Blessed Dead. You, that comprehend, embrace, and take in all with great affection and allow us a place within your shrine.  We greet you. We acknowledged and honor your present.  “Your children are gathered today again, asking for your consecrations as they are about to make this journey. Should you choose to allow them take this journey, you cannot let evil join them. You always stood with people that do well and wish for good.  You never affiliate with people with evil intentions, nor have you ever patronized the spirits of evil doers. For such is tantamount to inviting a stranger off the street to take your kingship. Our offering to you is a duty that shows our strong commitment to you. So, you may wish to honor yourself by fulfilling your duty of protecting us. We recommend you to protect this boy as he is about to enter a strange land. Guide his mind, his heart, his eyes and his legs. That he will only think good, talk good, see well, and walk well; that you will be with him throughout his educational journey.” He concluded.  I did the sign of the cross and stood up.

Raul Mendy (Sang's father)

 My father thus often tells to people he is a Christian, he is not a practicing one. He is more on to traditional practice than going to church.  The only time I see my father at church is on festival days like Easter or Christmas or when there is a funeral. However, he is much more a practicing Christian than my mother. I remembered seeing my mother only once in church, and that was the day I was taking my holy communion. Maybe she was too occupied with house work.

The taxi finally came and I loaded my bag at the trunk. All of my 7 siblings came and give me a hug and wish me a safe journey. My mum was the last to wished me farewell. She walked up to me, and  Looked me in the eyes for few seconds without a word. Then, she hugged me. She hugged me so tight that I could feel her heartbeat. It was warm and comforting that it made my throat tighten, my heart ache, my lips purse, and my eyes sting with tears.  I bend and cried on her shoulders. Indeed, there is nothing greater than a motherly love.

I got to the airport at about 45 minutes before my departure time. I showed my documents to the immigration officer and they were all intact. I went and sat in the waiting room for my flight. The waiting seemed endless. Nonetheless, the flight came. And, finally, I was inside a plane for the first time. It was thrilling mix with great feeling. As the engines start, I held tight to my seat. The air roared and popped my ears, but I still love it. My heart was boundidn faster than its normal beat, but the feeling was great. Soon, the plane was on top of the skys and  I watched the clouds float by like cotton balls. I was very lucky to be able to travel by plane. Many of my friends’ travel by boat to Europe on the Atlantic Ocean. Many also travel by land. Some made it, while some die, and their bodies were never found. How horrific the thought of them used to be. How painful it was for their families to digest the pain. Africa is indeed hard. Very hard that it left its people with no choice but to get out by any means necessary.  

illegal migrants

After few hours, I became bored and wished the plane reach its destination. Every time I fell asleep and woke up and realized we are still in the air made me gnash my teeth with resentment. When the plane finally landed and I took a look at the landscape, it was beautiful. Everything was bright and clean. Yeah, they need not tell me where I was. I was in America; New York City. It all felt like a dream to me. Although the climate was a little chilly, it was wonderful. The people were so kind that they smiled at you whenever you made eye contact. All the things said to be in heaven are right here in America: Fanciful houses and cars, nice parks and soccer pitches and, most of all, sexy women. I raised my head up and thanked the heavens for sending me in this part of the world. I spent the rest of the night that day staring at my apartment window, down to the streets glittering with lights and moving cars.  However, I came to realize I was on my honeymoon stage.

Months past and the excitement eventually change into anxiety and unpleasant feelings of frustration and anger. I start to experience inauspicious events that were shocking and strange. My cultural back ground could not let me digest these grim feelings. I felt lonely and isolated at my neighborhood. My heart melts when I saw many drug addicts and homeless people.  I cried the whole day when 9 children where gun down. I start to realize America is not many of my African brothers and sisters think it was. I miss home. I miss home really bad that I can’t wait to finish college and go back. I miss the social life of people. I miss the noise of my young siblings that normally deny the freedom of early morning sleep. I miss my mother’s smile and her noble food. I miss the humble laugh of my friends.  I love America and her people, but there is no place like home.