From the outside, behind the dust covered metal green entrance door with a falling #98 in big black blocks in the center of vine-covered walls with a little lizard running for cover while a red headed one basks in the sun, it's hard to imagine the quiet storm that hovered over the Kallon compound, or The Compound as it is known by everyone in the neighborhood.  The Compound is many things to many people, but quiet is never its definition.  A community center of sort, it is always loud with visiting adults and children alike.  The children come because it is more comfortable than their place, where there is always something cooking or cool to drink, one of the few houses with a refrigerator that actually works.  Maybe above all else, five beautiful young ladies call it home.  As for the adults, they come because Pa Kallon is the oldest in the neighborhood and therefore the un-appointed leader at whose place all meetings take place.

            The alter: Marriages are arranged in The Compound, and when time comes, it's where a white sheet of cloth is wrapped around a young woman as she sits to the sound of drums, dancing feet, and warnings threats about not disgracing the family by not being a virgin when truth comes to be told.  With uncertainty about what lies ahead, she waits to be taken to her next and very likely permanent home because no matter how marriage life turns out, divorce is a ritual with no room in her life cycle. Maternity ward: pregnant women in labor crawl to The Compound where the eldest Mother Kallon plays midwife, and with her medicinal hands helps deliver that crying newborn. But sometimes, more often than any would like, that baby makes no sound when it is pushed out of the womb.  Funeral parlor: Death is in the air when that first sob is heard either from the room where a young cry was expected, or from the outside coming in. But when the cries are comforted with more cries, death is welcomed, showered before it is shrouded in all white, tied in three places (the neck, the arms, and the feet), and lifted on a wooden plank and carried to a six-feet-hole final resting place.

            In between birth and death, life is celebrated in The Compound. It is where fast is cut every evening for a whole month out of every year; a place where young couples come to have disputes settled, and young wives to have their bowls filled with ingredients they need to cook for that young husband who is having problems feeding himself and his young wife; definitely where that young husband comes for advice and guide to a mean of providing for his family. Every morning, heads of households make a stop at The Compound to say their good mornings before heading out to the heart of their once little village that now resembles one of those villages they see in moving picture boxes. And they call them cities.  They come with a lot of smiles--no matter what--and they are welcomed with smiles that are as bright as the West African afternoon sun.  They pay their respect and if time permits, break a piece from the French bread that is always lying on the table, pour a cup of tea from the flask, and chat a little with Pa Kallon or any of the Mother Kallon's present.  At night, the crowd still comes.  Whole families come to take their place in front of the television screen that extends the size of the wall.  'It's a film,'they would say, 'It's like going to the big cinema.' 'I wish my father had one in our house.''Father said he is going to get one when I get big.' During moon light story and evening play times, The Compound plays pavilion to the singing voices just as it does to the crying ones. Sang or talked, these voices swirl around the concrete walls before floating above the limits of the two-story main house and given to the pigeons that play on tin roofs, and they echo it in sweet songs before flying with it over the lagoon and into the waves of the Atlantic.  The Compound dwells music; music of distress, of joy, of disappointment, and celebration of all life's happenings. Because life is loud, The Compound is always loud.

            But on a mid May afternoon before the raining reason when the sun seems to be lower than ever, The Compound was uncharacteristically quiet.  On this day Pa Kallon did not go to the store like he does every morning seven days a week.  He sat under the shade of the little thatched hut in the east corner of The Compound.  With the nearby radio tuned to BBC he sat in his hammock talking softly with Kareba who sat across from him on one of the many chairs and benches lining the wall of the hut.  Away to the west end of The Compound, in front of a small two-room cottage, Ciray sat with her back to the leaking smoke that reeked out of one of the rooms.  She had an onion in hand and few others in a bowl in front of her.  Ciray hates everything about the onion. From the taste: the hot spicy taste that hardly lets go of your mouth once it comes in contact with it. The look: The shinning smooth face that reminds her of that menacing kid masquerade in an innocent childlike face, lovable to the kill. The feel: slippery, the way some of the skin hang on stubbornly to the bulb. But especially the fumes: the cruel invisible things that refuse to be anywhere but in her eyes, and relentlessly make tears roll down her cheeks.  If this was a world she had any saying in creating, just a minute in the seven days in took God, she would've made one minor change, and the onion would never have come to be.  But unfortunately for Ciray, if there is one ingredient Pa Kallon loves in his food more than all others it has to be the onion.  He simply cannot imagine eating rice with any sauce that doesn't have onions and plenty of it. He would say, 'Without onions, any sauce is just plain and tasteless.  It retains uncooked odor that makes it inedible.' A while back, Ciray was tired and tried to do something about it. She thought she could supplement eggplants for onion and no one would know the difference. She was wrong! One fistful and Pa Kallon knew something was missing and couldn't eat any further.  That afternoon, Ciray was right back in the kitchen cooking a whole other meal with the taunting voice of a frustrated hungry man in her ears.  Needless to say that never happened again.  No matter how fast tears roll down her cheek, Ciray—or any one of Pa Kallon's daughters or wives--never tried to pull a cheap trick like that again.

            The smoke in the kitchen made it all but possible to stay in the kitchen any longer than few minutes at a time. Outside, until she finished cutting the onions, her smoke irritated eyes just got worse.  But this is always the case, hence over the years Ciray has learned to not pay any attention to the tears except to wipe them off every now and then.  All the while, she puts together a masterpiece of ingredients that is never read from a cookbook but always come out perfect because it is a lesson learned from the heart at a very young age and over time has become hers just like it did women before her.  It is a tradition that extends generations and will continue to forge a way through generations to come. Today her mother is relaxing in the cool shade of the house knowing that she did her share, and now it was time for her lessons to pay off and a daughter given the chance to get her blessing by putting food under the family.  Tomorrow, Ciray will be under the shades waiting for another to pay back a debt that will never be fully paid but the effort will be expected and very much appreciated.

            But in May, the sun was hot, the fire was not catching well causing the wood to smoke more than usual, time was closing in and people were getting hungry waiting for news from the business district, or a meal from the kitchen.  That day would've been a nice day for Binti to come help. Ciray would've liked that a lot. As a matter of fact, she thought about it, almost expected it.  But Binti was too busy playing Chateau with her friends.  Oh, how Ciray would've liked to yank her away from that stupid game.  But even Ciray knew that would end in Pa Kallon yanking Ciray's hair out of her skull.  Binti was the 'spoiled brat'everyone wished they could teach a lesson but no one dared to look at her the wrong way.  'She is only 10,'Pa Kallon would say whenever one of the Mother Kallon's wanted to teach her a lesson taught only under heavy arms.  'Leave her alone. She has all the time in the world to learn.  Isn't that right, Grandmother?' Binti will nod so cute Pa Kallon wouldn't help but give her a hug and take her away from the reaching arms of so-called teachers.  That afternoon Ciray looked at Binti singing and hopping from one room to the other in a 'pointless'game of Chateau, and back at the thatched covered hut where her father seemed to be paying no attention to her nor the smoke or the fume ball she was forced to peel, slice, dice, and grind.  'I feel sorry for you,'Ciray said loud enough for Binti to hear.  Binti heard it and knew whom the comment was intended for, but she pretended she didn't hear a word. Her ears never register a thing she doesn't want to hear, but if she wants something from you, she hears you like a rabbit does gun shots.

            'Little cunning bastard!'Ciray finally said and faced the realization that yes it is hot, yes it is late, yes the wood is not catching fire proper, and yes she is having a hard time fitting all the disagreeable ingredients together, but she was going to do it herself and was not going to change a thing around The Compound.

            Hadja, AKA Mother Kallon #1, laid on her bed watching and counting the squares on her ceiling trying to pass the time by occupying her mind with something other than hope. She'd seen the way he looked last night and this morning before he put on his best and only suit and disappeared in the morning dew.  Nine months was a snap compared to the few hours she'd been waiting. Added to the few weeks and couple of months before that, eternity was not at all a practical impossibility.  Hadja tried to help her son every way possible, but for the first time, she realized this was something she couldn't help him with except through emotional support and prayers. And that she gave, and gave a lot of.  Seeing his young face grow old in the past couple of months made Hadja felt even older, and the hours between 6am and 1pm grew another decade on her face and much longer on her aging heart.  Now the day was finally here and she did not know how she was supposed to go through the next unknown minutes or hours that remained. Above everything, she had become totally incapable of thinking about anything else except him and his dream.  'If he doesn't get it,'she lamented, 'he would be devastated, heart broken.  What is he going to do then?  One thing I know for sure, I cannot care for a brokenhearted adult child. My son will grow wiry in front of my eyes and I will have to bury him knowing that I couldn't do anything to save him. My dear God you have to help me.  I beg you to come to my aid and the aid of a good child.  If you help him with this, I promise to fast five days in appreciation.' She robbed her face amen and became so quiet she almost fell asleep. But sleep was a pleasure her mind wouldn't let her enjoy.

            Outside, on the terrace in front of the veranda, Miriam, another Mother Kallon, was braiding her daughter's hair.  A little grease on the fingers, isolate a small section, comb out, 'ouch!''quit your whining”, divide into three, and braid.  One side was finished and the braids hung over Habibatu's right shoulder as Miriam commenced to pull down the other side of the head. Habibatu wanted to take a break and give her ass a well deserved rest, but she knew how Miriam hated to stop in the middle and be expected to finish later, so Habibatu remained seated shifting her weight around in an effort to rest her butt one cheek at a time. 'If you don't stop moving so much, I will stop!'Miriam scolded. Usually that is followed by a slap to the head. But this time Miriam held her hands back. Next time Habibatu may not be so lucky.

            Everyone seemed to be a little too tensed and way too tempered for the little children who did not know quite what was the big deal except that their brother left early that morning to go get something everybody calls a visa.  Now, their father is sitting home talking to Kareba instead of out in the store like he always does. The mothers are all walking around with sad drawn-out faces yelling at them for every little mistake. Even the card game going on under the guava tree lacked its usual screams. This is not their compound. And they just wanted their compound back. If they were angels like people think kids are, they would've been at God's feet asking for their compound back. But since that is either not true or they didn't know how to use their special angelic powers, they congregated to themselves and try to stay out of the way of the adults. Poor Habibatu, Miriam chose today to braid her hair. Already two streams of tears have left salty caked prints on her cheeks. That head is going to hurt for the next couple of days.

            The shades moved, the smoke caught blazing fire, the fumes were gone with the wind, Miriam's fingers were starting to hurt, most of Habibatu's head was done, and it was time for BBC world news.  Few braids later when the new problem in the kitchen became the heat instead of the smoke, and all the rooms were occupied in yet another game of Chateau, the entrance door swung opened.  Everyone stopped what they were doing.  Ciray left the sauce boiling on the fire and ran outside. Miriam held one braid in her hand, not braiding.  Habibatu cranked her neck up to look.  In the middle of the Chateau rooms, Binti stopped on one leg.  Pa Kallon and Kareba swallowed their sentences and snapped their attention to the entrance door.  The card players held their cards in hand and forgot about the two already played and laying on the table.

              Fughame walked through the door holding a small shopping bag in hand.  As if on queue, they all returned back to what they were doing.

            The vibe hit Fughame like the smell of rotten fish. 'Why is everyone looking so down?'she exclaimed.

            Her mother walking away from the shed near the kitchen looked at her and it dawned on Fughame right away.

            'Oh, he's not here?'she said. 'I guess you've not heard the news yet then.”
            'What are you talking about?'her mother, Mugane said.

            'He got it!'Fughame cheered.

            With that there was a group sigh that could more than be felt, could be heard all around The Compound.  Hadja came stumbling out of her room with no head wrap, one shoe in foot, another in hand pulling on her wrap-around.

            'Oh, oh, relax before you hurt yourself, I'm just playing.' Fughame laughed high and loud.  When the sound of her laughter echoed out, she realized hers was a lonely one in The Compound.

            Hadja, already standing on the edge of the veranda in front of the terrace, turned around and walked slowly back to her room.

            'What is wrong with you, you bastard,'Pa Kallon yelled from the hut.

            'Look what you did,'Mugane said referring to Hadja, 'you insensitive bastard.'

            'I'm sorry,'Fughame said faking contrition.

            'You should be,'Her mother Mugane said.  'Get out of my face before I hit you with this calabash.'

            She shrugged and walked inside passing by her sisters who at least looked like they thought it was funny. Inappropriate but still funny.

            'With those big ugly teeth you think everything is a laughing matter,'Miriam said as Fughame crossed the veranda into the lightly lit hallway and up the stairs.

            Ciray finally finished what turned out to be deep fried ocean snappers drown in a pot of fried onion and tomato sauce zest with chicken bouillon and a touch of those local peppers that make the head and face break out sweat just by thinking about them.  Before lowering the fire underneath the pot, she added few bay leaves for flavor, a half a section of cabbage for substance and to give her mother, Hadja, something to be happy about.  When it was all ready, Ciray served the rice in five different pans, and the sauce in another five.  She took one of each to Pa Kallon under the hut.  When Pa Kallon opened the covered pans in front of him and Kareba, he had no doubt who was in the kitchen.  Only Ciray knows how to make Pa Kallon salivate and realize the depth of his hunger by the mere sight of his food.

            'I'm going to have to marry that daughter of yours so I can have something like this on my table every day,'Kareba said.

            'Sorry, but you're too late for that,'Pa Kallon said.  'Mamady and his brothers were just here the other day with their kola nuts for her.'

            'Oh, really?!'Kareba was visibly surprised.  'I thought her and my Amani were getting along pretty well.'

            'Well, you know kids nowadays, all they want to do is fool around.  Her elder sister, Fughame is ready...and Habibatu should be in couple of years.'

            'What does Ciray have to say about that?'

            'What kind of question is that, Kareba,'Pa Kallon could not believe his friend would ask something so irrelevant. 

Yes, it was stressful for them to sit there worrying about him. But they had no idea what he went through that day, the day before, before that and before that and before, before that.  When he thinks about it, he realizes it was no light weight on his young shoulders either.  The day before had been the longest twenty-four hours of his teenage life.  And no teenager deserves to live under such emotional stress.  Not even for twenty-four hours.  But he was also well aware of the fact that many people his age and beyond would've loved to trade places with him. So he did not complain, though he had every right to.

            The I-20 came in the post office on Wednesday. Up till this day he still vividly remembers how ecstatic he was when he looked into their little rectangular PO Box and saw the white manila envelope squeezed into the small rectangular tunnel-like metal space.  So excited but still his heart shook a bit.  First he worried about getting a reply, now that the reply was here, the real worries began.  The type of stress that can cause a heart attack and a stroke in one massive blow. They were temporary but intense and meant the difference between a breakdown and a break dance.  What if it's a rejections letter?  he allowed his mind to ponder, or just another form to fill out in the long list of official documents that asked for everything from his high school transcript to his father's bank statement.  The bank statement had been responsible for the most delay because the balance was thought to not be enough to support a student for four years of studies.  Little did they know that account is home to just a fraction of what Pa Kallon is really worth, used to store just enough of Pa Kallon's worth for official business and to deposit and withdraw from when traveling to Asia on purchasing trips.  To further complicate matters, all these documents required not just Pa Kallon's signature, but the bank director's and a judge's.  The bank director's was easy because he would sign a document saying Pa Kallon owns a million dollars even if all he has in his account is a dollar. On the other hand, getting a judge to sign it is yet another story. 

            As Yabe slowly peeled the clued edge from the envelope, his excitement melted into questions as hope gave way to pessimism.  Maybe now they want to know how much my mother makes.  She doesn't even work. Will that be a problem?  Women dying to work….  Who in their right mind would want to work if they don't have to?  Confused people.  But I still want to go see how they do it.  Off went the seal.  He slowly took the top paper out.  He skipped the dear Mr. Kallon, did not even see it.  The first word that registered was 'congratulations.'And that was all he needed. You can't be congratulated on a rejection, he surmised.  The rest were just details he was not going to worry about. Not yet anyway.  When he looked at the second sheet to the place that said 'start date: August 31, 1995”, he laughed more like a yell, slammed the little box door shut and ran out.

            'I'm out of here!'He shouted to the gentleman that was busy in front of one of the boxes.  He thought Yabe meant out of here as in out of the post office and all the heat that bounces off the metal brown boxes.  Little did he know that ‘out of here' meant out of that city, that country, that continent, and all the words that describe it and its inhabitants.  Yabe was on his way to another world, the world he had pictured in his head all those times at the movies and in the papers, and from countless stories told by travelers who hardly tell the truth.  But Yabe didn't know this, and could hardly fathom their stories to be anything short of gospel.  Accordingly, to him, he was going to the land of flying houses and money trees, where females ask you to 'fuck harder'and add please at the end.  He was on his way to that land where he can learn wizardry and how to make sure your empire becomes the only empire that never falls.

            Even before the plane, Yabe was flying.

            Outside, he saw nothing.  He didn't even see Mody in the corner selling newspapers.  He usually talked a little with Mody while he flipped through the highly censored but highly informational newspaper.  From all the conversation he had with Yabe, Mody knew today was the day Yabe had been waiting for all those times. He always bought mangoes from the kids across the street.  Fresh yellow mangoes just like Hadja like them. That afternoon in May all Yabe saw was the future, and it didn't include Mody or the mangoes. He could already see himself strolling down the streets under big glass buildings that form jazz in a skyline of a city.  That was the future Yabe was heading for and if anything, he knew it was going to be a glittering one.

            That was on Wednesday.  Friday, Yabe was ready again to go see those people that hide behind thick glass windows asking you to speak louder and almost always send you home mad at yourself for wanting to leave your home so bad, and at them for not letting you do so.

            It is said that it is not everyday that the hamattan wind blows from west to east, but sometimes it does, and does so right in people's face as they run to the seaside in search of fresh fish fishermen bring at the end of the day. Yabe knew that getting up at 5am was no routine for him, but with the slightest effort--no thanks to an alarm clock-- on that Friday morning he was up on the dot.  An hour later the over excited inquisitive taxi driver with swollen eyes and coffee tainted breath dropped him off in front of the big blue and white building in the heart of the business district.

            The last time Yabe was at that building was a Monday and seven in the morning seemed a little late because, although the sign on the door read 'offices open at 9am”, he still had to take his place behind a line of about a dozen, people.  On this Friday however, Yabe aimed to be there before those dozen people. So, he arrived at 6am.  Unfortunately for him, it seemed others thought the same.  Though there an hour earlier than previous, Yabe was on time for the same position in what looked like the same line as before. He thought that was funny. The thought that some sleep the night out there crossed his mind.  He smiled, gave the driver a crisp 1000 franc bill and stepped out of the dust filled cigarette tainted interior of the yellow Renault 12.

            'Good Luck,'said the driver.

            'Thanks,'Yabe said and closed the door behind him.

            The two young men in highly faded blue uniforms were already seated at heir post on two stools in front of the building. To their right, the wall railed a line of ten men, and a woman about Hadja's age.  As he walked to the back of the line, Yabe opened the folder he held.  The green shinning cover of the passport was still there, and inside was a picture of a smiling Yabe. The small envelope that was tucked beside the passport still had in it the two recently taken passport photos staring at each other wondering who was going to be chosen for the space on the back of the passport where the visa might be stamped.  He looked at the signed I-20 and slid his finger across its surface as if too fragile for strong touching, wiped what seemed to be dirt but turned out to be ink.  On the other side of the folder he had more papers he thought he wouldn't need but brought along just in case they decided to surprise him again about some papers they never mentioned before.  Now in line, with everything in check, he adjusted his suit over his shoulders, and looked over the crowd of people barely keeping themselves from falling asleep.  Some had given up on standing, and sat on the ledge of the building.

            'Move away from the building,'one of the guards yelled just when Yabe thought he too could sit along the ledge.  Now he along with the rest that were sitting had to get up and stand at least a foot away from the building.

            Pretty soon the passing cars became more frequent and the passengers more observant of the line that was then over forty people long and continued around the building.  The day became brighter as the sun beamed up above the horizon and along with it the temperature went on an upward mobility. Sweat formed on their foreheads and rolled down their arm, the middle of their backs, but still they kept their cool. Dressed in their best suits with papers in hand and in their heads stories a passport to a lifetime of opportunities.  Yabe shared stories with few and came to the conclusion that of many standing there, his road had been the shortest and less rugged.  Mohammed, for example, a gentleman he beat to the line by only a step, came from what sounded like a successful business of buying provisions at wholesales and selling them in a small store he'd made out of a shipping container at the busy intersection of South Corner and Niger.  Business was going well for Mohamed, and he was even considering enlarging the makeshift store.  That was until the America bug struck him.  He sold the store to his cousin and embarked on a dream to go make it better in America.  That was over two years ago and now that cousin was the one supporting and helping finance his running-around.  As of that Friday, Mohammed had had four different identities, four different passports, tried at three different embassies in three different countries. He'd been denied a visa flat out three times, told to come back eight times and spent more money than he ever thought he had.  Friday, he believed, was going to be different. It will be the day he gets his visa because he had all the paper works current and was sure to be granted that B-2 visa for a visit that would spell three months, but years would come and go and he would still be moving from one odd job to the other, taken advantage of by managers who love to sing the three letters acronyms--INS--but shit in their pants when the ‘N' is switched to a ‘R'.  He will ache for four dollars an hour in blistering cold and muscle aching routines, and when the sun rises he'd coiled in the corner of a two bedroom apartment occupied by six to eight people.  Every now and then, he'd take pictures in front of tall buildings and inside fancy hotels and offices claiming to be his daily hangouts if not his work or residence.  The dollars saved over months would be wrapped around those pictures and shipped with stories far from his reality, but become the motivation for another unsuspecting young man hungry to leave friends and family for a place that is never as it is from a distance. continue>

When the woman came with her infant babied tied to her back, a two gallon calabash on her head, and a bucket of bowls and spoons submerged in water hanging on one arm, Yabe bought a bowl of pap from her. Down the corridor he bought half a loaf of French bread from a thirteen year old vendor, and had breakfast four hours after he woke up.  The time on his wristwatch said 9:30am but nothing seemed to change beside the white people that came and disappeared into the building, paying the waiting natives little to no attention.  On his first try, he'd wondered why the sign read 'offices open at 9am”, but still the first person in line was still in the same place he was at the beginning of the day.  But he was patient, or forced to be patient, until that first person was invited inside the building sometime around 11am.  On Friday, he expected the same and therefore didn't border with mere gap between what is promised and what is delivered.

The abruptness of the cold interior almost gave Yabe a fever.  The metal detectors where now behind him, the Marine standing attention behind the dark glass was behind too, especially the rude guards who asked him to remove his belt and touched him everywhere looking for some concealed weapon he never had.  Led to a small waiting room, he saw more chairs.  He was ordered to sit on the one next to the guy he stood behind in the line outside.

            With every person that walked up to one of two small glass windows, Yabe moved up a seat, and another person came in from outside.  After few such changes in seats he found himself standing across from a tall pot-belly man with black bushy hair that could not be natural. He pushed the image to the back of his mind behind a mouth full of smile.

'Yabane Kallon?'the man asked as if a trivia question.

            'Yes, sir,'Yabe responded, knowing damn well that man did not even have the decency to pronounce his name right even though he's been in that country for years.

            'So, you want to go to America, uh?'

            'Yes, sir.'

            'For what.'

            'To go to school, sir.'

            'What's wrong with the schools here?  You have a very nice university right here.  One of the best in Africa.  And it's free!'

            'I know sir, but...”
            'You want to go to America, anyway. Right?'

            'No, sir.'

            'No? Then why are you here?'

            'I don't want to go to America just for the sake of going, sir. The university here is very good but they don't offer the program I want.'

            'Oh, yeah? What would that be?'he asked looking at the papers in front of him.

            'Business administration with emphasis on information systems.'

            'You know exactly what you want to do don't you?'

            'Yes, sir,'Yabe smiled.

            'But you know school is not free in America.  Matter of fact, it's very expensive.  Who's going to support you while you're going to school there?'

            'Right there sir,'Yabe said pointing to the papers in front of the man, 'the affidavit.  My father is going to pay for all my expenses.'

            'I see.  What does he do? Your father?'

            'He is a business man.'

            'I see.  So you want to be like your father?'

            'Yes, sir.'

            'He didn't study in America, did he?'

            'No sir.  But if I am given the opportunity to go, I will learn and use my education to further his business and my country.'

            'How long you suppose this is going to take?'

            'Four years.'

            'What if you are not finished in four years?'

            'I will, sir.'

            'Then, what?  You want to stay in America and work.'

            'No, sir.  I am going to return as soon as I am done.'

            The man started flipping through the papers handed to him. One after the other, he looked through them, punched something in the computer he had sitting to the side.  He left Yabe standing there and disappeared in the back room.  Yabe stood with his heart pounding, palm sweating, his mouth caked and thirsting for water, but couldn't think of anything but papers, visa, America…red stamp?  He wanted to sit down to keep himself from falling because he thought he would faint, but there were no chairs by the little glass window, and going back to his seat was out of the question.  The man was gone but few minutes, but to Yabe, it seemed like hours.  As minutes became an eternity in which his fate was to be decided upon, he couldn't calm his mind, so he decided to eavesdrop on the conversation going on at the other window between Mohammed and a lady.  That conversation was going all wrong.  Too much talking, Yabe would say, if you have to talk a lot, you might as well leave and return another day.  Yabe knew enough to know that Mohammed was not going to walk out there with a promise to come get his visa-stamped passport the next day. Thinking back to his own unfinished matter, he hoped he wouldn't face the same fate, because you never know with these people.  No matter how promising it looks at the window, going in the back might unearth things that can change the whole outcome. So to be on the safe side, under his breath, he recited every helpful souras he could think of. He was reciting the one that promise to rid your surroundings of all evil when he saw the man returning. By the time the man made it to the window, Mohammed picked up his papers and walked out the office on the brink of tears. Yabe didn't see him leave.

            And Yabe thought he was going to cry.  Which he almost did, but on a very different stroke: Tears of joy.

            Yabe walked out of that embassy on air, smiling and laughing to no one in particular. The guards sitting outside didn't mind him, didn't think he was crazy.  The expression on Yabe's face is one they see many times a day sitting outside on their stool post.  People that feel insulted by them when going inside, sometimes come out and give them a hug for no reason, and money for their 'good work”.  So they called Yabe mister, congratulated and asked him to not forget them when he goes to America.  Yabe forgot how he felt when they told him he couldn't sit, couldn't come closer than 20 feet near the door, he reached in his pocket and the money he had in that pocket, he divided among the two guards.  Those still standing in line celebrated for Yabe, congratulated him and asked him all sorts of questions they thought would help them get his same result. To see the joy among them, and Yabe vibrating within himself with joy, you won't be wrong if you thought someone had won the lottery.   This was the ultimate lottery; better than winning a million dollars, because a visa to America meant opportunity, opportunity to make millions of dollars, live the best live, with all the best of things, in the best country in the world. Yabe barely tore himself from their hugs and questions, walked around the beggars that line the building hoping to catch people too happy to pay attention to what they give as alms.  When he finally climbed inside a taxi, he was out of money he didn't know he had. But he was too excited to think about that. The driver congratulated Yabe without asking why he seemed so happy.  He didn't have to ask him.  He knew the look. 'So when are you leaving,'the driver asked. 'Soon, very soon,'Yabe replied.

            When he stepped out of the taxi, Yabe wanted to play a cruel joke with his family's hearts. He walked through the gate to The Compound with a frown, shoulders hunched, feet dragging, slowly. With no dead people, no headstones, The Compound was a graveyard.  Breathing was suspended, pulses gone, in The Compound, life stopped for that instant. When Yabe looked up at his family, the eyes under the roof, the hut, under the sun frozen in time, under the guava tree, he couldn't do it, he couldn't play such a cruel game with them, not even for a minutes; his smile came in a flood, he yelled and jumped up in the air. When he landed, The Compound exploded in screams. 'He got it!''He got it!'They came from everywhere, even the neighbors, all dancing and thanking the lord.  Improvisational songs were sang, a dance circle formed around Yabe. They took off their head wraps and waved them over his head, wrapped him in them, dancing, singing, crying and laughing deep smiles. Hadja danced away from the circle, and went around The Compound thanking the Lord with every step she took.  She might've looked crazy, but to think so couldn't be further from the truth. She was on the verge of insanity waiting for news, and anything but what she got would've pushed her over the edge.  To see Yabe back in The Compound with news that he got the visa, well, Hadja could not be further from the pit of insanity.

            It's so hard being an African father. You have to exercise emotional control even when you feel like jumping with both hands in the air, screaming on top of your lungs. With all the celebration, Pa Kallon forced himself to stay calm under his hut. He looked at them, and every inch of his body wanted to run and join the circle, hugged and kissed his son, but his position got the best of him. He remained seated, smiling at them, thinking of what was to come.  When he finally got his son to himself, he still had to contain his emotions and act nonchalant about the whole deal. 'So,'he said carefully, 'How are you feeling?'

            'Relieved.  Happy.  Worried. Confused.  I don't know.  But it's nice to get that off my shoulders.'

            'You are really excited, aren't you?'

            'Oughf,'Yabe sighed. 'You don't know Father, I feel like I've lost twenty pounds.'

            'I am for you too.' Although Yabe might have you believe otherwise, Pa Kallon really meant that. He was indeed happy to see his only son happy.  That is, the only son that seemed to be heading somewhere compared to his two grown sons that quit school and don't look like they were going to amount to much.  They refuse to grow up and be responsible, he would sometimes say to their mothers, but they are not getting any younger.  Pa Kallon always tell them you don't lose your young head in place of a new one, you have to nurture it to the old and wise one you hope to have one day.  They'd look at him and put on serious faces like he is getting through to them, but inside they laugh at him.  Pa Kallon always thought Yabe was different from his brothers; he was younger but wiser, the only one that came home with report cards that read 'first in class'or 'second in class”.  Pa Kallon did not quite know what the report cards meant but he knew they were good because everyone was happy for his son and all the other parents thought he was the smartest kid among all the neighborhood children. Among all the kids in neighborhood, Yabe was the first that could read and write letters they get and send to relatives all over the world. Yabe was every teacher's favorite student, and those teachers sometimes used to stop by just to congratulate Pa Kallon on being the father to such a model student.  And Pa Kallon always passed these teachers some money for their troubles and courage for teaching when they get paid hardly anything in return.  Yabe's brothers, on the other hand, were the ones the teacher complained about, the ones that repeated every class at least twice; repeated so much that by the time they quit altogether they shared a class with Yabe, three years their junior.  Even when Pa Kallon wondered why they gave up on school all together, he knew the real reason was because they couldn't bear to sit in the same class with their little brother and possibly trailing behind him.  Pa Kallon knew even he wouldn't do that.  But how come pride didn't make them work harder in the first place when they knew their little brother was catching up to them?  Ok, now that they quit school, how come they can't seem to take anything else serious?  Sure school is good, but you don't need school to be successful in this world.  Pa Kallon didn't go to school but he is the wealthiest among his friends, known around the city, if not the country.  Pa Kallon knew those two sons look like him physically but he wondered at times where they came from. He wondered how come they are so different from him when it comes to that inner push, the inner push that got Pa Kallon where he is today, the inner push that makes him capable of going overseas when he can't even sign his name properly.

            Pa Kallon sat thinking about all that, and actually meant it when he said he was happy to see that only son leave him, leave him to the mercy of those two 'rotten' ones.  He didn't want to mess things up for his son, but all along he'd secretly wished it wouldn't go through. He'd wished the white man will let his son down gently and send him back to his father where he belongs for him to pick up his son's broken pieces and put them together like a master carpenter and make him realize that his real calling was right here in the company of his father and all his family.

             'What am I going to do now?'Pa Kallon said gravely.

            'Father, I'm going to be back before you realize I'm gone,'Yabe said quickly because he saw the question coming a mile away.

            'Well, are you back?' They both laughed.  'Who is supposed to help around the store now?'

            'My brothers are already doing that.'

            'If you leave me to them, by the time you come back I won't even own this house.  Do you want that on your conscience?'

            'Stop talking like that, Father.'

            'How else do you want me to talk?  You will rather go running off in lord knows where instead of staying here and helping me take care of your mothers and siblings.'

            'Father, that's why I'm going.  When I go there and learn the way they do business around the world, we are going to make this business bigger than you ever imagined.'

            'What are you saying?  I let you go to school here when I never spent a day in school.  Not even a single day, but I go to Bangkok and Hong Kong, and I do fine.  You already have the advantage over me, why can't you be satisfied with that.'

            'Because the world is changing,'Yabe sounded irritated though he didn't mean to.  'Getting these junks from Asia is not going to do it for long.'

            'Junks?  Is that what my business is to you?  These junks built this roof over your head, put rice under you three times a day, put cloths on your back, and shoes in your feet.  It is these junks that is sending you to this wonderful place you are so excited about.  Junks?  Can junks do that for you?'

            'I'm sorry.  I don't mean it that way.'And he didn't.  'You have to trust me.  Everything I'm going to learn there I plan to bring here and put to use.  Father, it's about time we start depending on ourselves for some of our basic needs.'

            'Is that what they taught you in that school?  That we are not dependent on ourselves?  No one helped me get any of these,'he said waving his hand in the air to show all his possessions accumulated in The Compound and beyond.  'I am not dependent on anyone but myself. I get what I work for...My son, don't let any overblown teacher tell you otherwise; we are self-sufficient.  We trade with the white man, that's all.  Whatever he gets from us we give willingly.  We won't accept it if we think we are better off without the trade.'

            'I understand that, but what you think fair is far from what really is.  What I'm saying is that the trade is unbalanced even before you sit at the table.  They create situations in which we are forced to accept inadequacies as fair, because we don't know any better.   Take this for example:  Before you go to China to get a ship load of rice, do you know that we have some of the best soil in the whole world?  We have some of the most fertile soil in this world and for as much rice as we eat don't you think we should be able to produce more than we are currently doing?  What I'm saying is that we can grow it to serve ourselves, so much we can ship them our surpluses.  The plaited jewelry you get from the Arab world comes from the gold we mine right here within our borders. Our land is rich in gold. We have some of the best jewelers the world has ever known.  Why do we have to ship it there for close to nothing just for them to turn around and sell it to us at unaffordable prices?  This Ovaltine we buy every morning at ridiculous prices is made with the cocoa we grow right here. Do you know how much they make us sell the cocoa to them for? Basically nothing.  Don't you see we can be doing so much better than we are?  You have to believe me.  The best way to defeat somebody that has already defeated you is to learn from him--you told me so yourself.

            Pa Kallon shook his head.  'If that is the case, if anyone can do it, I know you will.  I know you will make me and all your family proud.  Just don't forget where you come from, you hear me?  Before you do anything ask yourself this: ‘is this taking me a step closer to realizing my goal?' If the answer is no, my son run away from that and never look back. Don't look back because you envy, not because you are curious, not out of necessity.  Whatever you need, know that I will provide.  Until you come back and make us ‘dependent on ourselves' know that you don't have to worry about anything.  The junk will take care of you in the meantime.'

            Pa Kallon continued, 'You are going far; your mothers or I won't be there to put you back in line when you start to deviate, but let me tell you this, my son: always remember where you come from. Remember this place.'Once again he swept the place with his arm, but slowly this time.  'This is more than a house, and the town more than a group of people living together. This is your home. This is where you are from, never forget that.  No matter how long or how far you go remember that having a long name doesn't mean you are a giant.  Never forget who you are.  You can live there in America for 100 years, but the day you start thinking you are an American, you've lost it.  That will be the day your tree will have to stand without the support of its root.  And I don't need to tell you the faith of a rootless tree.  I don't talk much, maybe I should, but I figured you were always going to be here and it would never be too late to talk to you. Now look at you, about to leave to only God knows where. I might never have the chance to tell you when you're wrongs, correct you when you stray.  I guess the best I can do now is give you my words to take with you and hope you will keep them close.  When you go there know that you are a bird, a bird in flight. You will always need a branch to rest your soul upon.  Keep that in mind.  I didn't get to be here today by forgetting where I come from. 

            'Also you are going to be by yourself in a strange land with strange people.  Some of them might treat you bad, yet others might welcome you with open arms.  To these people, treat them like family.  If someone welcome you like a son, treat him like you would me, if they welcome you as a brother treat them like you would any of your brothers or sisters here.  Know that I am not getting younger.  My vision is not like it used to be.  Yaberhanie, you have to come help me because I'm afraid your brothers will drag me in the gutter if you don't rush back.'

            'Don't worry, Father, I will be back.  And you will never regret a thing.'

            'Eat with me today,'said Pa Kallon as he opened the rice just brought in by Ciray.  He couldn't eat earlier.  He was just going to try to be hospitable to Kareba and share his meal with him.  But the news of Ciray being given to someone else made Kareba lost his appetite. So Pa Kallon had the rice taken in for later. 

            'Mother Ciray, you sure know how to do magic in the kitchen.'Pa Kallon said.

            Ciray smiled, bowed her head in thanks.

            'Please get us some water to wash our hands,'Pa Kallon said to Ciray.

            'I will get it,'Yabe said, getting up to his feet.  Even on this, his day, he will never let his older sister get water for him to wash his hands.  He is the male and may one day be the head of the house, but age will always be age and Yabe can never let himself forget that those older than him deserve his outmost respect.         End

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