A Long Way Gone_ Memoirs of a Boy Soldier - Ishmael Beah [91]
We sat down on one of the few decent benches in a small open area in the embassy and waited for our interview. A white woman stood behind a transparent glass window; her voice came through the speakers underneath it. “What is the purpose of your visit to the United States?” she asked, never looking up from the papers before her.
When it was our turn, the woman behind the glass already had our passports. She didn’t look at me; rather, she flipped through the pages of my new passport. I was very confused about why the window was set up in such a way that the human connection was lost between the interviewer and the interviewee.
“Speak into the microphone,” she said, and she continued, “What is the purpose of your visit to the United States?”
“For a conference,” I said.
“What is the conference about?”
“It is generally about issues affecting children around the world,” I explained.
“And where is this conference?”
“At the UN in New York City.”
“Do you have any guarantee that you will come back to your home country?” I was thinking, when she continued, “Do you have any property, a bank account that will guarantee your return?”
I frowned. Do you know anything about people’s lives in this country? I thought of asking her. If she could only look at me directly, perhaps she wouldn’t have asked the last two questions. No one my age in my country has a bank account or even dreams of having one, much less property to declare. Mr. Tamba told her that he was the CAW chaperon going on the trip with us and that he would make sure that we returned to Sierra Leone at the end of the conference.
The woman asked me the final question: “Do you know anyone in the United States?”
“No, I have never been anywhere out of this country, and this is actually my first time in this city,” I told her. She closed my passport and put it aside. “Come back at four-thirty.”
Outside, Dr. Tamba told us that we had gotten the visas and that he would pick up the passports and hold on to them until the day of our departure. It had finally begun to look as if we were going to travel, even though I had seen my passport only at a glance.
I held my suitcase in my right hand and was wearing brown traditional summer pants with zigzag thread patterns at the bottom and a T-shirt. My uncle was sitting on the verandah when I came from Allie’s room.
“I am on my way to the airport,” I said, smiling, as I knew my uncle was going to be sarcastic.
“Sure. Give me a call when you get to America. Well, I don’t have a phone, so call Aminata’s house and she can come and get me.” My uncle giggled.
“Okay, I will,” I said, giggling as well.
“Ah, children, come and say goodbye to your brother. I do not know where he is going, but he needs our blessings,” my uncle said. Matilda, Kona, and Sombo came to the verandah holding buckets in their hands. They were on their way to fetch water. They hugged me and wished me luck on my journey. My aunt came out of the kitchen smelling of smoke and hugged me. “Wherever you are going, you will need to smell like your home. This is my perfume to you.” She giggled and stepped back. My uncle stood up and hugged me, put his arm around my shoulder and said, “My good wishes are with you. So I will see you later for dinner, then.” He went back to sit in his chair on the verandah.
20
MY CONCEPTION OF NEW YORK CITY came from rap music. I envisioned it as a place where people shot each other on the street and got away with it; no one walked on the streets, rather people drove in their sports cars looking for nightclubs and for violence. I really wasn’t looking forward to being somewhere this crazy. I had had enough of that back home.
It was dark when the