‘Will you call her yet?’ he asks. ‘Here is a picture.’
Samuel has recently taken a trip from Nairobi to Khartoum, and joined my father there. They planned the trip so my father could buy goods to reconstitute his business in Marial Bai. Phil Mays had sent my father $5,000, and with this money he planned to buy enough goods to open his shop again. While in Khartoum, Samuel heard about a certain young single woman—she was from a prosperous family and was currently studying English and business in Khartoum. Samuel went to see her and thought immediately that she was meant for me. I have no doubt that he first pursued her himself, but nevertheless, he has been pestering me since, insisting that I call her, so she and I can realize we’re meant to be married. I look at the picture he has attached, and she certainly is attractive. Very long hair, an oval face, a V-shaped smile, remarkable teeth. This woman, Samuel assures me, would jump at the chance to move to the United States to be my wife.
Now that I’m online, I decide that I should send an email to those whose addresses I can remember. I would call, but my stolen phone contains all of my phone numbers; I have memorized only a few. I conjure the email addresses of Gerald and Anne, of Mary Williams and Phil, and Deb Newmyer, and Achor Achor; he will forward the message to everyone else. At this point I do not care who knows.
Hello friends,
I am writing to inform you that I have recently been assaulted by two dangerous persons in my apartment. The attackers asked me to let them use my phone and when I opened the door, they held me at a gunpoint, kicked me in the cheek, forehead, and back, until I lost consciousness. They took my cell phone, digital camera, checkbooks, and over five hundred dollars in cash. Thank God they didn’t shoot me. For some time, I was guarded by a boy who I believe to be their son, Michael.
As I write to you, I do not have a cell phone and do not have your contact information. Please send me your numbers and I will call you tomorrow. I need to get all my information back.
Have a blessed day.
Sincerely,
Valentine Achak
P.S. Please remind me of your birthday.
Dorsetta, I pretend that I know who I am now but I simply don’t. I’m not an American and it seems difficult now to call myself Sudanese. I have spent only six or seven years there, and I was so small when I left. I can return to Sudan, though. Perhaps I should. The country has been very vocal about needing the Lost Boys to return to southern Sudan. ‘Who will rebuild this country if not you?’ they ask. It is the most incredible turn of events that we boys, who were shuffled from camp to camp and who lost half our ranks along the way, are now considered the hope of the nation. Though we are working jobs such as this, hovering near $8.50 an hour, we are far wealthier than most of the residents of our country. We live in apartments and houses that would be reserved only for rebel commanders and their families. And as fraught with peril as our journeys were, in the end, we have become the best-educated group of southern Sudanese in history.
My friends who have returned to Sudan, to visit their families and find a bride, uniformly gape at the primitive nature of life there. A life without cars, roads, television, air conditioning, grocery stores. There is very little electricity in my hometown; most of the power, when they have it, is provided by generators or solar devices. Certain amenities like satellite phones are becoming more common in the larger towns, but on the whole the country is many hundreds of years behind the standard of living to which we are now accustomed. One man I know drank the water from the river, as all of the people do, and he was in bed for a week, vomiting a year’s worth of meals. We have been weakened by our time in America, perhaps.
Dorsetta, what was I doing getting on another vehicle, again heading to Kitale, so soon after my accident? My bones still ached everywhere and I had no desire to get on that road again, but there had been a trip planned for many months, and I could not disappoint the boys. Thirty of them, two squads of nine-year-olds, were traveling to Kitale to play against the local boys’ teams. Usually such games were exhibitions only; our kids were roundly defeated by any of the Kenyan squads. But the score never mattered, only leaving the camp mattered, so there I was, just weeks after the accident, on September 5, getting on the bus again.
I stood by the vehicle, a closed-top UN bus this time, with George, and we watched the boys run from all sides of the camp. They were good boys, smiling boys—about a third of them had actually been born here, in this camp. To be born here! I never would have thought it possible. The others had come from many regions of Sudan, many brought here as infants, starving and barely alive. I occasionally wondered if one of them could be the Quiet Baby, now grown. Perhaps the Quiet Baby was a boy. It was possible, of course it was. In any case, I loved all of the boys equally.
As they boarded, each of them giddy and touching every inch of the bus, I checked their names against the team roster.
Two were missing.
—Luke Bol Dut? I called out.
The boys laughed. On a day like this, they laughed at anything.
—Luke Bol Dut?
I looked out the window. The day was bright, light as linen. Two boys were running toward the bus. It was Luke and Gorial Aduk, the other missing boy. They were in their uniforms and were racing toward us as if reaching the bus would save them from certain death.
—Dominic!
It was Luke. He leaped onto the bus, almost hysterical. He couldn’t get his next words out.—Dominic! he said again.
Another fifteen seconds as he caught his breath.
—What is it, Luke?
—Your name is on the board!
I laughed and shook my head. It was not possible.
—Yes it is! And not just on the board! Your name’s on the list for cultural orientation. You got it! You’re going!
Cultural orientation was the final step. But before that step were so many others: first a letter, then another interview, then the name on the board. Then another notice for cultural orientation. All of this usually took months. But this wild boy was telling me that the board was telling me all this at once.
—No, I said.
—Yes! Yes! yelled Gorial. He was trying to pat my back.
—Wait, I whispered.
I asked the bus driver to wait, and I told the boys to stay with the bus. I turned to George. I stammered for a second, asking him to wait a moment while I…
He blew his whistle.—Go!
I ran toward the board. Could this be true? Noriyaki had been right! They really wanted me! Of course they did! Why wouldn’t they want me? They would not have waited so long if they didn’t want me.
I ran.
Halfway there, I caught myself. What was I doing? I stopped. I looked like a fool, running to the board because some nine-year-olds told me my name was listed. False reporting had become a joke; it happened all the time, and was never funny. I slowed down and considered turning around.
The moment I slowed my pace, I heard screaming. I looked up to see Luke and Gorial, trailed by a mass of other boys, running toward me.
—Go! they screamed.—Go to the board!
They looked like they would knock me down if they reached me. I turned again and ran, the boys close at my heels. We all ran, the boys skipping and jumping and laughing along side me. Gop Chol, coming back from the tap, saw us running down the road.
—Where are you going? he yelled.
His face again restored me to my senses. Should I tell him what the boys said, tell him where I was running?
I smiled and continued running. I ran with an abandon I hadn’t known since I was very small.
—It’s on the board! Gorial screamed to him.—Dominic is on the board!
—No! Gop gasped.—No!
He dropped his jerry can and ran with us. Now there were fifteen of us running.
—You really think it’s on the board? he huffed alongside me.
—It is, it is! yelled Luke.—I know how to read!
We ran, tears streaming down o
ur faces because we were laughing and maybe crying and maybe just delirious. Finally we were at the board, the Lutheran World Federation’s information kiosk, where they displayed refugees’ arts and crafts.
I ran my eyes over the names. Gop was doubled over, holding his side. There were so many names, and the light was too bright, the ink so faint.
—There it is! Gorial yelled. His finger was stuck on the board so I couldn’t see. I swept his little finger away and read my name.
DOMINIC AROU. SEPTEMBER 9. ATLANTA. Now Gop was reading with me.
—September 9? he said.—That’s Sunday. Four days away.
—Oh my God, I said.
—Four days! he said.
The boys made a song of it.—Four days! Four days! Dominic’s gone in four days! I hugged Gop and he said he would tell the family. He ran off and I ran off, back to the bus.—I’m going! I told George.
—No! he said. I told the boys.
—Where? With us?
—No, no. To America. My name is on the board!
—No! they all yelled.—No it isn’t, never!
—You’re really leaving? George asked.
—I think I am, I said, not quite believing it.
—No! You’re here for life! the boys joked.
But finally the news sunk in. I would not be going on their trip that day, and probably wouldn’t see them again. Some of the boys seemed hurt, but they found a way to be happy for me. George shook my hand and they leapt over the seats and crowded around me and patted me on the back and the head and hugged my waist and legs with their small arms and tiny bony hands. I was not sure if I would see them again before I left. I hugged all the boys I could reach and we cried and laughed together about the insanity of it all.
It was Wednesday night and I was leaving Sunday. I had hundreds of things to do before my flight to Nairobi. My head ran through all the tasks necessary. There was no time. I knew everything that had to be done, having seen all of my friends leave before me. I had to be at cultural orientation two of the next three days, leaving no time for anything. I would say goodbye to my Kakuma family and friends on Saturday, but before then, it would be madness.
That night I went back to the board, to see my name again. It was indeed my name. There could be no error now. They could not remove my name from that list. Actually, I knew they could—they could do anything, and often did—but I felt at least I had grounds to fight if they tried to rescind their promise. While I was looking at the board that night, I saw also my name on the list for INS letters. They had not sent the letter; I only had to pick it up, and that was the last part of my release. It was all happening at once. I didn’t know what to make of the logic of the UN, but it didn’t matter. I was leaving in three days and soon everyone knew.
I was telling any person I could see, and they each told ten or twenty more. There was rejoicing in all quarters but there was also concern. Gop’s family, and many of my friends, though expressing happiness to my face, worried for me: what did this mean, that I should go on this trip so soon after the accident? This could not be good, they thought. It seemed to be tempting fate to take such a trip so soon after a near-death experience. No one said anything to me. I was too happy and unworried and they didn’t want to dampen my optimism. Instead, they prayed. I prayed. Everyone prayed. And amid it all I thought, this is not right. I’ve just found out my family is alive. How can I travel across the world? How can I not at least wait in Kakuma until Sudan is safe again? I had waited fifteen years to see my family, and now I was voluntarily taking myself even farther from them. Nevertheless, this was God’s plan. I could not believe otherwise. God had placed this chance in front of me, I was certain, and I became convinced of his presence in the sequence of my life when I learned of the possibilities offered by Mr. CB.
There was at that time a brand-new development at Kakuma: through the ingenuity of a Somali entrepreneur, it became possible for those with means to reach, or try to reach, relatives in war-torn areas of East Africa. The Somali, who became known among the English-speaking refugees as Mr. CB, knew how to contact NGOs working throughout the region, and could occasionally arrange to have those living nearby brought to the radio to speak to family members at Kakuma. To reach someone in southern Sudan, we could visit Mr. CB, and for four minutes of radio time, pay him 250 shillings—quite a lot for most of the camp’s residents. He would then try to ascertain how best to reach the relative in question. If there was an SPLA radio outlet in the area, he could start there. If there was an NGO in the area, he could go about negotiating with them. This was more difficult, given the NGOs typically had restrictions against using their radios for personal communications. In any case, if all hurdles were cleared, Mr. CB or one of his operatives—for he had employees representing all the nations of Kakuma—would say, We are looking for such and such a person, can you bring them to the radio? And on the other end of the line, someone would be dispatched in whatever village or camp or region to find this person. Sometimes that person would be a hundred yards away, sometimes a hundred miles.
I had the money to pay for a connection to Marial Bai, where I learned there was a cooperative NGO worker at the International Rescue Committee. I knew that it was necessary, now more than ever, for me to reach my father, to tell him about the developments in my life, that I had been chosen for resettlement to the United States. So very soon after Mr. CB opened his operation, I arrived, with 250 shillings in hand.
Mr. CB’s place of business, a rectangular room of mud walls and thatched roof, was always crowded. Wives were attempting to reach husbands, children looked for their parents. The Somali’s primary clientele was Dinka, but when I arrived that day there was a Rwandan teenager looking for her aunt, her only surviving relative, and a Bantu woman seeking her husband and children. I sat between two other Lost Boys, younger than I, who had come only to watch the process, to test its reliability before they went about raising the money for their own phone call.
We all sat on log benches on either side of the long room, and at the front, Mr CB sat on a chair, the radio on a rough-hewn table before him, two assistants flanking him, one Dinka, one Ethiopian, ready to translate when needed.
After two hours of listening only to static and disappointment, it was my turn, and by this time my hopes were realistic. As I waited, no one had been connected that day, so my expectations were low. I sat down before the table and listened as Mr. CB and his helpers contacted the IRC operator in Marial Bai. Much to everyone’s surprise, the connection was made within minutes. The Lost Boys behind me gasped to hear a Dinka voice on the other end. But it was far too soon. I wasn’t ready.
Mr. CB, using basic Arabic, explained that he was looking for my father, Deng Nyibek Arou. The Dinka assistant translated, and I heard the NGO worker say that he had seen my father just that day, at the airfield. There had been an Operation Lifeline supply plane that morning, and virtually the entire village had turned out to see what comprised the shipment. Mr. CB asked that my father, Deng Nyibek Arou, be summoned to the radio, and that he would call back in one hour. The man in Marial Bai agreed. I sat back on the log bench, the Lost Boys congratulating me, both of them electric with anticipation. I was absolutely numb. I was sure I had lost the power of speech. It seemed utterly impossible that I would be speaking to my father in one hour. I had not even planned what I would say. Would he remember me? He had so many children by now, I knew, and he was growing older…It was a horrible hour, that hour of waiting in that narrow room and that Somali barking into his radio.
A Burundian couple went ahead of me, attempting to reach an uncle they thought might send them money, but they had no luck. And soon it was my turn again. Mr. CB, with a certain swagger in knowing that at least this one connection, my connection, worked, took my money and contacted the Marial Bai operator again.
—Hello? he said.—Is he there? Okay.
The microphone was handed to me. I stared at it. It was as dead as a stone.
—Talk, b
oy! the Dinka assistant urged. I brought the microphone to my mouth.
—Father?
—Achak! a voice said. The voice was not at all recognizable to me.
—Father?
—Achak! Where on Earth are you?
The voice broke into a loud belly-laugh. It was my father. To hear my father say my name! I had to believe it was him. I knew it was him. And just as I became sure, the connection ended. The Somali, his pride at stake, called again. In a few minutes, my father’s voice again burst through the box.
—Achak! he barked.—Speak if you can! Be quick like a bunny!
—Father, they want to send me to the United States.
—Yes, he said.—I heard they were sending boys there. How is it? And the connection died. When Mr. CB found Marial Bai again, I continued where I had left off.
—I’m not in America. I’m at Kakuma. I want to ask you what I should do. I want to see you. I’m not sure I want to travel so far away from you, now that I know you and my mother are alive. I want to come home.
The radio cut out once more. This time the Somali took twenty minutes to regain the IRC operator, and the connection was now far more faint.
When my father and I could hear each other again, he was still talking, as if he had never been interrupted. He was lecturing now, far from amused, his voice raised.
—You have to go, boy. Are you crazy? This town is still ashen from the last attack. Don’t come here. I forbid it. Go to the United States. Go there tomorrow.
—But what if I never see you again? I said.
—What? You’ll see us. The only way you’ll see us is if you get to the United States. Come back a successful man.
—But father, what—
—Yes, the What. Right. Get it. This is it. Go. I am your father and I forbid you to come to this place—
The connection snapped closed for good. The Somali could not regain it. So that was that.
In those last few days before leaving, I ran everywhere. The next day was my first day of orientation, and my last day of work at the Wakachiai Project. I ran to class and sat with fifty others, mostly younger boys who I did not know; everyone my age was gone. There were two teachers, an American and an Ethiopian, the American withering in the heat. This classroom, the best in Kakuma, was indoors, in the International Organization for Migration center. It had a real roof and floor and we sat in chairs. We listened, but were too excited to pay attention properly, to process the information in a useful way.