*Fiction — April 29, 2021
Safe Land
Nwabufo came back years after he left for America. My mother said none of us had been born when he left. He told stories of the Americans, and their resemblance to each other. He said there are tall buildings, taller than the iroko trees here, with moving steps called escalators. That you would go hungry if you didn’t have (according to his word) a jab, that it is not like here where one folds their hands and waits for a neighbour to bring food. He said a rich man over there is comfortable with a daughter as his only child, and that they do not believe a girl has no value like our people do. People get married, buy a cat or dog and treat it like a child, they don’t envy their brothers for progressing and they don’t torture themselves with myths. It was a simple life they lived, with good hospitals and no door-to-door churches.
When asked of the man holding fire, he would laugh and say, it is a woman who stands for freedom.
American is heaven, he finished.
Most children in the village want to go to America. Some fathers want their sons to travel not to send back American dollars but to come back with beautiful tales like Nwabufo’s. Few had visited him to know what was needed for this voyage, and Nwabufo bluntly said that one might have a bad chi and get deported as soon as the plane lands. The story of Ekere’s deportation had reached the neighbouring villages; he was deported just a month after he left. Old teacher Uwadiegu, who teaches standard six in my school and was the first to go from the village, said he was deported because he didn’t have the features bequeathed to Americans. He could have cut his dreadlocks, like a thousand tails of dirty dogs, to look African American. “The dreadlocks are mostly for Jamaicans,” he said, “and those Americans couldn’t even pronounce my name properly. I should have changed the damn name before leaving!” he cried.
Most children in the village want to go to America. Some fathers want their sons to travel not to send back American dollars but to come back with beautiful tales like Nwabufo’s. Few had visited him to know what was needed for this voyage, and Nwabufo bluntly said that one might have a bad chi and get deported as soon as the plane lands. The story of Ekere’s deportation had reached the neighbouring villages; he was deported just a month after he left. Old teacher Uwadiegu, who teaches standard six in my school and was the first to go from the village, said he was deported because he didn’t have the features bequeathed to Americans. He could have cut his dreadlocks, like a thousand tails of dirty dogs, to look African American. “The dreadlocks are mostly for Jamaicans,” he said, “and those Americans couldn’t even pronounce my name properly. I should have changed the damn name before leaving!” he cried.
The former white priest in our parish, Father Grey, found it difficult to pronounce Igbo names, so he resorted to calling people by their baptismal name, which was usually English or Latin.
Teacher Uwadiegu had told us about Americans in morning assemblies. He vowed that God gave them all the knowledge of this world, and it was why they were different from us in all that they do. People, however, believe that it was karma that dealt with Ekere, since his plan before leaving was to dupe an American lady and run back with her money.
Nwabufo’s description of America is different from teacher Uwadiegu’s. It’s a photograph, a place where any normal human being would long to live, marry, have children and die. We won’t wait to grow up like Nwabufo before leaving for America; Dumdum says America will be flooded by the time we grow. We will leave by any means, now. I am fair; people call me white man wherever I go. From teacher Uwadiegu’s stories in the morning assemblies, it is a befitting feature of Americans. Dumdum is very fair; he narrowly escaped being albino. Nnaa is chocolate, so he’s bought bleaching cream and has started rubbing it on his buttocks. He wants to confirm that it works. He will buy more if it does, and he will use it until he becomes fair like me and Dumdum, so he can move around freely with us without having to fear being deported. The seller said Nnaa will be fair like me in six months if he uses it properly.
Nwabufo’s description of America is different from teacher Uwadiegu’s. It’s a photograph, a place where any normal human being would long to live, marry, have children and die. We won’t wait to grow up like Nwabufo before leaving for America; Dumdum says America will be flooded by the time we grow. We will leave by any means, now. I am fair; people call me white man wherever I go. From teacher Uwadiegu’s stories in the morning assemblies, it is a befitting feature of Americans. Dumdum is very fair; he narrowly escaped being albino. Nnaa is chocolate, so he’s bought bleaching cream and has started rubbing it on his buttocks. He wants to confirm that it works. He will buy more if it does, and he will use it until he becomes fair like me and Dumdum, so he can move around freely with us without having to fear being deported. The seller said Nnaa will be fair like me in six months if he uses it properly.
Our plan is to leave, hide on a ship. Whenever he visited, Okeh, my father’s friend who works in the Lagos Port, told me stories of Nigerians who left for Europe hiding on a ship. He called them stowaways. He said some are caught and jailed on arrival. We wouldn’t be jailed if caught. They would consider our age and adopt us, or even sponsor us in their schools. We will leave for Lagos Port when we make enough money from the rubbers we sell.
We trek to Big Bar and Restaurant in the nearest town when we leave for Block Rosary in the evening. Old Soja is the only bar owner in town who owns a TV. He plays Indian movies, Chinese movies, American movies, live matches, and sometimes he would play sweet
American songs and tell us to hop and nod our heads like an agama. At the end of each session, he would give the best dancer a soft drink.
We trek to Big Bar and Restaurant in the nearest town when we leave for Block Rosary in the evening. Old Soja is the only bar owner in town who owns a TV. He plays Indian movies, Chinese movies, American movies, live matches, and sometimes he would play sweet
American songs and tell us to hop and nod our heads like an agama. At the end of each session, he would give the best dancer a soft drink.
We sit on the ground at the entrance of the bar with other children who have come from neighbouring villages. Each movie has its characteristics. Indians speak their language and dance at intervals. Chinese speak their language and fight with sticks. Americans speak English and fight with guns. It was on our second week of going to Big Bar and Restaurant that Old Soja played an American movie, and we learned that the first thing to do is to indeed change our names like teacher Uwadiegu had said. It took us days to decide on names. I changed mine to May. Dumdum, Sicamo; and Nnaa, Pod. We called ourselves our new names whenever we were together. Later, we practiced how to talk through our noses.
Stories of people who travel to America inside the belly of a fish is the talk all over the village now. The fish swallows them and vomits them at the American shore. A fisherman is said to have travelled to America when he sailed out to fish and did not return. They found his boat intact with his fishing net in it. The fellow fishermen searched for him in the river but could not find him. Another fisherman claimed to have seen the fish that transported him. He said the fish swam all the way from America to the river. No one else saw this fish except the fisherman who narrated the story. He said that when he saw the fish, he didn’t want to travel to America in its belly only because he hadn’t yet buried his dead father. He brought out a ring and told us the fish had vomited it on the river bank. He said it belonged to the man the fish had transported, that he had left it in the fish’s belly and it had brought the ring back. He said the fish comes twice a year, in the dry season and the rainy season. There is a wide rumour that this fish descends from the lineage of the one that swallowed Jonah.
Stories of people who travel to America inside the belly of a fish is the talk all over the village now. The fish swallows them and vomits them at the American shore. A fisherman is said to have travelled to America when he sailed out to fish and did not return. They found his boat intact with his fishing net in it. The fellow fishermen searched for him in the river but could not find him. Another fisherman claimed to have seen the fish that transported him. He said the fish swam all the way from America to the river. No one else saw this fish except the fisherman who narrated the story. He said that when he saw the fish, he didn’t want to travel to America in its belly only because he hadn’t yet buried his dead father. He brought out a ring and told us the fish had vomited it on the river bank. He said it belonged to the man the fish had transported, that he had left it in the fish’s belly and it had brought the ring back. He said the fish comes twice a year, in the dry season and the rainy season. There is a wide rumour that this fish descends from the lineage of the one that swallowed Jonah.
We would leave for school in the morning and instead, trek to the town where the river was, and join hundreds of people, with their goats and raffia mats, waiting for the fish. We trek to the town that has the river for three weeks without seeing the fish. The fisherman who seemed to know much said the fish went to fight a war in a nearby African country and had been transporting the refugees to America. He said it will come back to the river one day. Every day, people offer sacrifices to the river god to bring back the fish. We pray on our own and continue to await the arrival of the fish. Travelling by fish will save us the risks of hiding on a ship.
The stories of people flying to America started circulating when people stopped talking about the fish. It was in Big Bar and Restaurant that we first heard them. A man who came to drink told the stories. He said a certain Dibia prepares charms for people to fly over there in a bird form. He said cocaine sellers and human organ sellers go to the Dibia, who prepares charms for them. He turns them into Eagles, and they fly to America, and turn back into humans once they get there. He said many people go to the Dibia for charms when they confirm the story is true. He said he knows parents who fled with their children and a beggar who did the same. He said those who don’t want to fly because of their fear of the Atlantic Ocean are those who hide on a ship, risking their life.
The stories of people flying to America started circulating when people stopped talking about the fish. It was in Big Bar and Restaurant that we first heard them. A man who came to drink told the stories. He said a certain Dibia prepares charms for people to fly over there in a bird form. He said cocaine sellers and human organ sellers go to the Dibia, who prepares charms for them. He turns them into Eagles, and they fly to America, and turn back into humans once they get there. He said many people go to the Dibia for charms when they confirm the story is true. He said he knows parents who fled with their children and a beggar who did the same. He said those who don’t want to fly because of their fear of the Atlantic Ocean are those who hide on a ship, risking their life.
We agreed we would fly to America if the fish did not come by the end of the year. We would locate the Dibia when we were ready.
We will gel our hair so the Americans won’t know we are Africans. We will pack it or leave it resting on our shoulders. We will not tell our parents when we depart, we will only leave a letter. If we stay here, we will die young from an unknown disease, like many children who have died. We don’t have a hospital in the village. The clinic built by the government has no drugs. Paracetamol is the drug for every sickness. We will loiter in the street when we get to America, like the displaced children here who roam the village and harbour hopes of getting adopted by a rich family. Someday, when we grow, we will bring our parents over to the safe land.
We will gel our hair so the Americans won’t know we are Africans. We will pack it or leave it resting on our shoulders. We will not tell our parents when we depart, we will only leave a letter. If we stay here, we will die young from an unknown disease, like many children who have died. We don’t have a hospital in the village. The clinic built by the government has no drugs. Paracetamol is the drug for every sickness. We will loiter in the street when we get to America, like the displaced children here who roam the village and harbour hopes of getting adopted by a rich family. Someday, when we grow, we will bring our parents over to the safe land.
Originally published in No Tokens Issue No. 9. View full issue & more.