₦airaland Forum

aisha2:
So sad to read. i can imagine how hurt she is now

tell me about it

wow

America at Last
Five hours and forty-three minutes after the plane landed, I was finally free. I was in America. Tunde was waiting and worried.

“What happened?” he asked as soon as I walked out of Customs.

When I told him, he laughed so hard tears were streaming down his eyes. Then, he grabbed me in those firm, muscular arms of his and lifted me up right outside the arrival hall.

“Welcome to America, my darling,” he said in a soft, happy voice.

I looked at America in the fading light and shrugged in surprise. I had imagined a sunny city with people so happy it’s infectious. I had even glimpsed the sun and seen the people from the customs area.

Now, it was dark and gloomy and a little bit chilly. It was late September. I’m told this is the fall season – the prelude to winter. People were wearing knickers and shorts. But, I was freezing.

If it ever gets this cold at any time of the year in my country, they may well declare a national emergency. Not that it would help much though because the last time a president declared a national emergency, it was about the infrequent power supply. At that time, we had power six hours every day. After he declared it a national emergency, we were lucky to have power six hours every week.

But, why worry about the cold, I told myself. I was with the love of my life.

“I told you, didn’t I? Our children will be Americans,” Tunde said, reminding me of a promise he made to me on the phone during one of his thousands of calls.

“And I told you, there is no place like home. We will stay here for a few years and go back home,” I responded.

“You call that place a country! With all those illiterates in power,” he hissed.

At that moment, Nigeria was the farthest thing from my mind. I was in God’s own country. Why worry about the devil’s backyard? I pulled Tunde closer and kissed him. His lips were cold and chapped. But, it was the best kiss I’ve had in four years. Heck, it was my first kiss in four years.

“I’ve made the best plan for your start in America,” Tunde announced. “Tonight, we sleep at the Hilton. Tomorrow, we’re going to Atlantic City for the weekend. It’s going to be a blast”.

I wanted him to keep talking. I loved that he was still a romantic. I loved the sound of his voice. I even loved the faint lisp that creeps into his speech sometimes. He was cute. He could be sitting on a toilet right now and I’ll think he’s the cutest thing on God’s earth.

I didn’t want to go to a hotel or to Atlantic City. I wanted to go home and cook him a true Nigerian dinner. I wanted to get in bed with him. I wanted to start working on a baby as soon as possible. I wasn’t getting any younger. I was 27. And, I know a grandchild would heal the rift between my father and I.

“Just have a child as soon as you can, your father will forgive you. A new child solves every problem,” my mother advised me on my last night in Lagos.

But, Tunde has a plan and we have to stick to it. That’s what a good wife does.

Just so we’re clear, dear diary – Tunde and I are legally and traditionally married. He paid my dowry before he left Lagos. His family brought yams, wine and bags of rice to my family. Unknown to everyone but my two sisters, brother and Tunde’s best friend, we were also legally married.

On the morning before he left for America, we drove to the registry in Lagos Island and took out a marriage license. The reason we kept it a secret was because we are Nigerians and we like big wedding parties.

We had to get married before a priest then throw the mother of all parties – a party that was sure to disrupt vehicular traffic in our neighborhood. It’s the only way we know how to do weddings in Nigeria. It doesn’t matter if the next day, we’re as poor as church rats again. All that matters is that for one day, we were the talk of the neighborhood.

As soon as we got into the hotel room, I pounced on Tunde and drained every fluid in his groin. I woke up three times during the night just to catch up with my sex quota. Four years is a long time for a girl to go without. Tunde was so sore he screamed when water poured on his penis in the shower in the morning.

The next morning, we got in his car and headed for Atlantic City. My America journey was about to begin.

In America
“The World Bank, huh? Is that like Bank of America or Citibank?” asked the Immigrations Officer as she looked at my passport.

She looked black. But, she could also have been Latina. Or, bi-racial. You can never tell with these Americans.

But, my bigger problem was that I couldn’t really make out what the woman was saying. No matter how much CNN, BET and MTV you watch, nothing prepares you for an American accent when you hear it face to face.

“Pardon me,” I said.

“You’ve not done anything wrong, no need to ask for a pardon,” she replied.

“I meant can you repeat the question,” I said.

“Is the World Bank like Bank of America or Citibank?” she asked.

“It’s like the Bank of America, only this time for the whole world,” I said because I had no clue how to answer the question. There are no two World Banks.

But, this woman was no ordinary cookie. She takes her job seriously. She cannot be fooled easily.

“You traveled all the way from Africa for a two day meeting?” she queried.

“They won’t let me stay away longer in my office,” I lied.

Her smile faded by a slight shade. Trouble. I dug in.

“Plus, my sister is due any day now. She’s married to a no-good guy who is in prison. I’m on standby on three flights every day. If she goes into labor right now, I’m turning back,” I lied.

It’s crazy the things you do for love. I am a church going girl who gives ten percent of her salary as tithe to the church. And, I’m Catholic – they don’t enforce those Old Testament rules in the 21st century. I always frown at lying and deception. Now, I was Ms. Deception. All because of my Tunde. All because of love.

The immigrations lady shot me an affectionate look. I could swear I saw tears floating in her eyes.

“I so know what you’re saying. My sister is pregnant too and her man is in jail. I don’t know what she’s going to do,” she blurted out.

She stamped my passport and passed it to me without another question.

My heart raced with delight. My palms were sweating. Even though the hall was fully air conditioned, I could feel a line of sweat dribbling down the back of my neck.

I am officially in America!

“Thank you,” I said.

“I love your accent by the way,” the immigrations lady said.

“Thank you,” I replied and hurried away before she realized I was an impostor.

I wanted to jump up in joy. But, I had to be composed for a few more minutes.

Just to show me how lucky I would be in this America, God arranged it that as I got to the baggage carousel, my bag was rolling down the chute. America is going to be good to me.

I got my luggage and strolled towards the arrival hall. I could see people in the arrival lounge waiting to receive their guests.

Then I saw him. My Tunde. He was holding a bouquet of flowers and several balloons. He had the biggest smile on his face. I was so happy I wanted to cry. I would have run to him if my luggage wasn’t slowing me down.

I was a few steps away from the arrival lounge when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around and saw the glowering face of a customs officer looking at me. His dog bared his fangs at me.

“Please come with me,” the custom officer said.

It was an order. Not a request. He turned sharply, took his place beside me and marched me to a room at the far corner of the hall. As I walked beside him, I could feel my heart slipping into my stomach.

The door opened and I stepped into a room with poor, shadowy lights. Two large, intimidating men stood at either end of a table. They stretched their rubber gloves for effect, as if choreographed. I saw a sinister smile curl up on the face of one of the men.

I swallowed hard. I’ve seen this before. In the movies. Anal probe. It all adds up. I’m from big, bad Nigeria. I must surely be here with some drugs hidden in my bowels.

I set down my luggage, took off my jacket and started undoing the zipper of my trouser.

“What are you doing?” the man who had not been smiling barked at me.

“Getting ready,” I answered tamely.

“Getting ready for what?” the smiling agent who was no longer smiling shouted.

“You want to do a search, right?”

“You hiding something?”

“No”.

I zipped my zipper back up. Perhaps the Americans have a new, more sophisticated way of searching for drugs that didn’t include anal probe.

The officer who had led me in took my luggage and dumped them on the table. For the first time, I noticed the yellow tag on my bags. It wasn’t there when I left Lagos. My mind was racing with a hundred thoughts. What did I do wrong? After all I’d gone through to run away from Lagos, I couldn’t go back. Besides, my father’s curse was waiting for me too.

“Do you have any banned food, agricultural produce or dairy in your bag”, one of the officers asked.

“No,” I replied.

One of the officers unzipped one of my bags. He flipped through the neat rows of clothes, magazines and books until he discovered the five bounded herbal roots in a plastic bag at the bottom of the bag. The second agent grabbed what looked like an x-ray of my bag from the top of a file cabinet. They compared the plastic bag and the x-ray image and nodded in agreement. Then, they turned to me with that snarling smile of a boxer who has just shoved his helpless, hapless challenger into a corner and is winding up for the kill.

“What is this?” the agent with the sinister smile asked.

“Herb,” I replied.

“Like weed?”

“No, it’s a drug”.

“A drug!” they chorused.

“Yes. A traditional drug,” I replied.

“You know penalty for trafficking drugs in the United States?”

“I am not trafficking. It’s for my private use”.

“Finally, a honest criminal!” the agent with the sinister smile declared.

I didn’t have to be a genius to figure out that my medicinal drug, albeit of the traditional variety, was being confused for a hard drug. At that moment I didn’t know that in America, a herb can be a weed and a weed can be a herb. I also didn’t know that in America, a drug was called a medication.

Panicked, I told my first truth in America.

“I brought it as a precaution, in case I have malaria,” I said.

“You take drugs for malaria?” the non-smiling agent asked.

“Yes. It’s an African treatment. It’s faster than normal drugs,” I replied.

“You’re calling a medication a drug?” the agent who brought me in asked.

“Yes. We call a drug a drug or a medicine. But, medicine is too long,” I told him.

The agents shared a curious look. I could tell they were confused. Working at an airport like this, I’m sure they’ve heard a lot of things. But, I guess they’ve never heard this.

“I tell you what, you prove that thing is what you say it is and we’ll let you go. If not, your ass is off to jail,” the agent with a sinister smile declared.

“Can I have two bottles of sprite or 7Up please?” I pleaded as two lines of sweat dribbled from my scalp and down my neck.

“What for?,” the smiling agent asked.

“To prove myself,” I replied.

“You sure you don’t want a coca-cola? You know, ‘coke is it,” the agent with the sinister smile said with a sneer.

“I’m sure, sir,” I muttered.

“How long is it gonna take?” he asked

“At least four hours,” I responded.

My mind was in a riot. I was not going to bring the herb. But, my mother had insisted. She said she read once that when people had malaria overseas, they sent them to Liverpool. Thanks to the game Americans call soccer, my mother knew Liverpool was not in America because the city had a big football club in England.

She said the Americans would put me in a cage with dogs and send me to Liverpool where I would arrive with rabies and other diseases the English can’t treat. In the end, a very short end, she emphasized, they would dig me a hole and wait for me to die.

But, with these five bounded herbs, I can be my own doctor. Once I felt the chills of malaria, I can soak them up in a bottle of gin or sprite and wait a few hours until the medicine seep into the sprite. Then, I can let the herb-juiced sprite or gin loose on the malaria. It was better with gin but I know these agents will laugh me to prison if I asked for a bottle of gin.

The officer who had marched me in returned with two bottles of Sprite.

“You want anything else?” he asked

“Yes, can I have my Bible? It’s in my briefcase,” I replied tamely.

“Sure”.

He opened my briefcase, removed my Bible and handed it over to me.

I soaked two sticks of herb in a bottle of Sprite, closed the lid and opened my Bible to the book of psalms. I may be in the land of Christopher Columbus. But, even Columbus bowed to one God. I was going to pray to that God. I opened my Bible to the book of Psalms.

“Psalm 23 ain’t gonna help you,” the officer chuckled as he and his colleagues left the room and shut the steel door.

I was on Psalm 122 when the door opened again. The agent with a sinister smile and the unsmiling agent entered.

“What you got?” asked the agent with a sinister smile.

I opened the bottle of sprite with the herbs. The color had changed. I grinned. I can now prove my case to them. Then, I tasted it and cringed. There was still too much sprite and too little herb.

“It’s not fully ready but a pharmacist can confirm the medicinal content,” I told them, spewing what I later learn was called bull shitting in America.

“In this place, we’re the doctors, lawyers, nurses and pharmacists. As a matter of fact, we’re the judge and jury too,” the unsmiling agent said.

The unsmiling agent grabbed the bottle, smelt it and frowned.

“It don’t smell like sprite no more,” he declared.

“Well, if you put shit in water, it’s gonna smell different,” the agent with a sinister smile answered as he fished a handcuff out of his pocket.

The unsmiling agent tasted the herb-juiced sprite and flexed his jaw.

“It kindda have a kick,” he declared.

Curious, the agent with a sinister smile took the bottle and examined it for several seconds.

“Bleep it, I have insurance. Might as well use it if I have to,” he declared.

He takes a sip. Then a little more. He sets the bottle down, shoots me a confused look for a few moments then turns to his colleague.

“It sure tastes like a goddamn syrup,” he said.

The agents looked at themselves for a few seconds. It felt like a lifetime. Finally, the unsmiling agent shut my bag, put the handcuffs back in his pocket and smiled.

“Welcome to America”.