by Mbue, Imbolo
“Why then would you want to give him up for adoption?” Natasha asked her.
Neni leaned forward on the couch, pulled a tissue from the box on Natasha’s coffee table, and looked away as she patted her face dry. Five feet away, on Natasha’s desk, the computer had gone to screen-saver mode and was displaying picture after picture of Natasha and her husband, children, and grandchildren. They looked like a happy family.
“I completely understand that you want the best future for your son,” Natasha said. “No one can fault you for wanting what every mother wants. But you have to ask yourself, is this the best way? What are you willing to give in exchange for what you want? And what do you know about this man who you want to talk to?”
“He was my precalculus professor last year,” Neni said quietly, her voice wrapped in distress.
“Mmm-hmm, and what else? Is he a good friend of yours?”
Neni shook her head. “Not a good friend like we talk all the time. But we had coffee on the last day of the semester and promised to stay in touch. He is a very nice man. He was nice to me and when he met my son he was nice to him, too.”
“How much have you been in touch?”
“We email each other a few times, nothing too special. He included me in his email list when he sent pictures of his fortieth birthday celebration with his boyfriend in Paris. I included him in my email also, when I emailed everyone to say that Timba had been born. He emailed me back congratulations and said he cannot wait for the day he has a child, too. Things like that.”
“I see.”
Neni nodded. “He told me that he and his boyfriend, they want to adopt very much, that is why two nights ago, when I was up thinking about my son, this idea just came to me like a lightning. I woke up in the morning and I could not think of anything else.”
“You haven’t told anybody yet, have you?”
“Who can I tell, Natasha? My friends will think I have become a madwoman, and my husband, I don’t even know how I will … That’s why I called you first, if you could help me talk to my husband, let him understand it will be the best thing for our son.”
“Do you really think that, Neni?”
Neni did not respond.
“You really believe that giving your son to this professor, who you barely know, and his partner will make your son happy? Make you happy? Because you’re going to have to—”
“If it means that my son can remain in America and become a citizen by being adopted by an American couple, I will be happy. I will tell him it is for the best for him and he will be happy, too. And I don’t care that they are gay, if they promise to treat him well.”
“But will your husband care that they’re gay? How does he feel about gays?”
“He’s not afraid of them.”
“Yes, but is he … never mind that. My bigger concern is not about them being gay. I think it’s wonderful that they’re gay, just like it’s wonderful that I’m not. What I care about is how this is all going to play out. Assuming you email the professor and meet and he tells you, sure, if you have to go back to Cameroon, my partner and I would love to adopt your boy. Assuming your son is happy with the arrangements, you kiss him goodbye at the airport and get on the plane, how do you think you’re going to feel the moment that plane gets in the air, knowing you might not see him for years?”
“I don’t know how I will feel … I will be worried for him, but … I don’t like to live my life thinking too much about how I’m going to feel. I just have to …”
Natasha leaned forward and pushed the box of tissues closer to Neni, who sniffled, but didn’t reach for a tissue.
“I know you came to see me,” the pastor said, “because you want me to validate you, tell you that you’re making a tough decision but it’s the right one. But I can’t do that … I really can’t, because I believe you will regret it. I don’t believe for a second that you’ll go through with it, knowing how much you love your son. But if you do … I’m sorry, Neni, but regret, especially when it comes to your child, it’s not something you want to live with.”
“I will not regret it,” Neni said. “I will not regret leaving him behind so he can become a citizen, grow up and be—”
“Are you even certain he can become a citizen if they adopt him?”
“I Googled it, and it says American citizens can adopt an illegal child and file for green card for him, and after a few years the child can become a citizen.”
“I’ve never heard of that. I would consult an adoption lawyer first, especially since the couple you have in mind is gay and there’s DOMA to worry about.”
“But I cannot take money to pay for a lawyer without telling my husband first!” Neni said, throwing her hands in the air. “And if I try to talk to him about this … I cannot even say anything to him these days without him …”
“Don’t worry about the money for now—I could always get you a free consultation somewhere or talk to the church board about helping you guys pay for a lawyer.”
“Oh, thank you so much, Natasha! From the bottom of my heart, I thank you so much!”
“But before we go ahead and start spending money on lawyers,” Natasha said, “I’ll ask you to please spend more time thinking—”
“Thinking about what?”
“Think about if this really is the best solution. Spend some more time—”
“I don’t have more time!” Neni cried. “My husband is ready to go back home right now, and I don’t know what else to do! I’m so angry at him, I cannot eat, I cannot sleep …”
“But there has to be another way to get your family out of this situation.”
“There are other ways but my husband says no!” Neni cried again, pulling tissues from the box and bawling into them. “He wants what he wants and I cannot do anything about it!”
Natasha leaned back in her seat and for almost a minute she said nothing, looking on as Neni finished her cry, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose. When Neni was done, Natasha stood up, picked up Neni’s used tissues from the floor, and brought her a new box of tissues.
“Oh, Natasha, what am I going to do?” Neni said as Natasha retook her seat. “Sometimes I feel as if I am in a movie about a crazy African woman.”
“We just have to trust God that the movie will have a happy ending, don’t we? And Neni and her family lived happily ever after!”
Neni burst out laughing, then she was crying, then she was laughing and crying all at once. Natasha watched as she went through the full range, dried her eyes, and then laughed again and cried again, unable to believe this was where life had dumped her.
“I can’t imagine how difficult this is for you, but you have to look at the things you’re willing to do. You’re willing to divorce your husband and marry a man you barely know. You’re willing to give up your child for adoption knowing you might not see him for many years.” Natasha paused, looking at Neni intently. “I think you ought to step back a little bit, ask yourself why you’re—”
“I have to do what I need to do.”
“I’m not disagreeing.”
“I don’t like how people say to a woman, oh you want so many things, why do you want so many things? When I was young my father said to me, one day you’re going to learn that you’re a woman and you should not want too many things; like I should just be happy with my life even if it’s not the kind of life I want.”
“Mmm-mmm,” Natasha said, shaking her head.
“I’m not ashamed of wanting many things in life. Tomorrow when my daughter grows up I will tell her to want whatever she wants, the same thing I will tell my son.”
Someone knocked on Natasha’s office door and said her next appointment had arrived. Natasha said she’d be ready in five minutes. She stood up, came around the coffee table, sat down next to Neni, and took her hands. “I will support you,” she said. “Whatever you decide to do, you will have my full support.”
Neni nodded, and bowed her head.
“You don’t have
to ever worry about me judging you.”
For a moment Neni sat in silence, her head still bowed. “A lot of mothers where I come from,” she said softly, raising her head, “they send their children to live with other people. They want them to be raised by relatives who have more money.”
“Hmm.”
“Sometimes these mothers and fathers are poor and other times they are married and living together and have enough to feed their children, but they want their children to grow up in the house of rich people.”
“Does this usually work out well?”
“The relatives treat the children well sometimes; other times they treat them badly, but the mothers let their children remain there. I did not understand why.” She took a deep breath and leaned back on the couch, her hands crossed over her belly, her eyes on the floor.
“What are you thinking?” Natasha asked her.
“Maybe I’m becoming another person.”
“Mmm-hmm. And what do you think of this new person you’re becoming?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let me put this another way: Are you happy with who you’re becoming?”
Neni’s eyes welled up with tears, but she didn’t cry. She looked toward the window and blinked back her tears.
Fifty-four
GONE WERE THE MOMENTS OF TENDER EMBRACES IN THE KITCHEN, MINUTES of stolen passion in the bathroom while the children slept. They were now in two separate universes, each certain of his or her rightness and the other’s senselessness. Unwilling to fully embrace the new person she was becoming—it seemed so futile, considering the final decision wasn’t hers to make—she could do nothing but engage in fraught conversations about their future, which ended in accusations from her and rage from him. We’re going back home, he would say, and that is the end of that. How can you do this to us? she would screech. How can you be so selfish? If she spoke while he was eating, he would push away his food and jump into a rant about how she had been sold the stupid nonsense about America being the greatest country in the world. Guess what, he would say to her in mock instruction, America is not all that; this country is full of lies and people who like to hear lies. If you want to know the truth I’ll tell you the truth: This country no longer has room for people like us. Anyone who has no sense can believe the lies and stay here forever, hoping that things will get better for them one day and they will be happy. As for me, I won’t live my life in the hope that someday I will magically become happy. I refuse to!
Their worst fight happened four days before his court appearance, after she said to him, while he was groaning in pain on the living room floor, that his best chance at getting his back pain healed was to stay in New York, where the doctors were better than the ones in Limbe. She had spoken mindlessly as she massaged his back, thinking nothing of how a man in pain and four days away from standing before an immigration judge would react.
“Shut up,” he said to her between his groans.
A day later, she would look back and realize that she should have said nothing after this warning. But she did not consider doing so then: Her battle to help her husband recognize the folly of his conviction had not yet been won.
“Why are you so stubborn?” she said. “You know the doctors here can find a cure—”
He pushed her off his back and stood up, glaring at her as he tried to massage his own shoulders.
“I’m just saying—”
“Did you hear me say you should shut up?”
“This pain is never going to go away if—”
She didn’t see the slap coming. She merely found herself stumbling backward and falling on the floor from the force and shock of it, her cheek burning as if someone had rubbed hot tar on it. He was standing over her, his fists clenched, screaming in the ugliest voice she’d ever heard. He was calling her useless and idiot and stupid and a selfish woman who would be happy to see her husband die in pain all so she could live in New York. She jumped up, her cheek still throbbing.
“Did you just hit me?” she shrieked, her hand on her left cheek. “Did you hit me?”
“Yes,” he said, his eyes wide open. “And you dare open your mouth one more time, I’ll hit you again!”
“Then hit me again!”
He turned around to walk away but she pulled him back by his shirt. He tried to shove her away but she wouldn’t let him go, standing in his way and shouting in his face as her tears came down. “That’s why you brought me to America, eh? To kill me and send my corpse back to Limbe. Go ahead and hit me, Jende … I’m begging you, hit me again!”
She pushed him with her palms, squealing like one of Ma Jonga’s pigs moments before its slaughter. Why don’t you just go ahead and kill me, she demanded. Why not? Hit me and kill me right now!
“Don’t you make me hit you again,” he growled as he pushed her hands away and clenched his fist. “I’m warning you.”
“Oh, no, please hit me,” she said. “Raise your hand and hit me again! America has beaten you and you don’t know what to do and now you think hitting me will make it better. Please, go ahead and hit—”
So he did. He hit her hard. One vicious slap on her cheek. Then another. And another. And a deafening one right over her ear. They landed on her face even before she was done asking for them. She squealed, stunned and pained; she fell on the ground wailing.
“I’m dying, oh! I’m dead, oh!”
Liomi ran out of the bedroom. He saw his mother balled in a corner and his father standing over her, his hand raised and about to descend.
“Go back to the bedroom right now,” his father barked.
The boy stood speechless, motionless, powerless.
“I say get back in the room right now before I box your face into pieces!” his father barked again.
“Mama …”
“If you don’t—!”
Liomi burst into tears and ran back to the bedroom.
Someone knocked on the door.
“Is everything all right?” a man asked from outside.
Neni quieted her sobs.
Jende opened the door.
“Yes, sir,” Jende told the elderly neighbor, pushing his sweaty face through a small crack in the door. “Everything is all right, thank you, sir.”
“What about the woman?” the neighbor asked. “I thought I heard her screaming.”
“I’m okay,” Neni answered from the floor, her voice as counterfeit as a dollar bill made on checkered paper.
The man left.
Jende put on his shoes and left, too, slamming the door behind him. No other neighbors came. If they heard something, they did nothing. No police came to the apartment to question Jende about domestic abuse or encourage Neni to file charges. The thought of filing charges against him received no deliberation in her mind, even though she knew it was something wives in America did when their husbands beat them. Such a thing was unimaginable to her; she could never do anything like that to her husband. If he beat her a second time she was going to ask Winston to talk to him. If he did it a third time she was going to call Ma Jonga. Between his cousin and his mother he would be brought back to his senses. A marital dispute wasn’t something to get the police involved in—it was a private family matter.
After twenty minutes of crying on the floor she stood up and went into the bedroom, wiping her tears with the hem of her dress. Liomi was sitting on their bed, whimpering. She hugged him and cried with him, both of them too scared to talk. They slept together on the big bed, Liomi taking the place of his father, Timba in the middle. Neni Jonga fell asleep with tears running into her pillow, convinced her husband had beaten her not because he didn’t love her but because he was lost and could find no way out of the misery that had become his life.
Jende slept alone on the living room floor, partly in rage, partly for his back.
The next morning she woke up before him, as she often did, and made his breakfast, which he ate before heading off to work.
When he returned fourteen hours
later he had a bouquet of red roses for her and a new video game for Liomi, who took it and thanked him without looking in his eyes because he was still scared of his father after what he’d seen him do to his mother.
“I will do everything I can to make you happy in Cameroon,” Jende promised Neni. “We will have a very good life there.”
Neni turned her face away.
He tried to pull her into his arms.
She resisted.
He went down on his knees and held her feet. “Please,” he said, looking up at her face, “forgive me.”
She forgave him. What else was she supposed to do?
Three days later, he stood before the immigration judge.
“My client would like to request voluntary departure, Your Honor,” Bubakar said to the judge.
“Does your client understand what rights he is forfeiting?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
The judge flipped through the papers in front of him and looked up at Jende. “Mr. Jonga, you understand that if I grant your request for voluntary departure, you have to leave the country before one hundred and twenty days?”
“I do, Your Honor,” Jende responded.
The judge asked the attorney for ICE if she had any objection to his granting voluntary departure to the defendant. She said no.
