AFRICAN IN AMERICA

By Wencelaus Muenyi

Published by use of African Technology | © 2013 Wencelaus Muenyi

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be given away to other people or resold without the author’s explicit written permission. If you would like to share this book with someone else, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or it was not purchased for your use only, we ask that you please purchase your own copy.

Some names of individuals have been changed in this book to protect their privacy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

In Hoc Singo Vinces

Read more about the author at: http://www.wenmuenyi.com

CONTENTS.

Dedication

Prologue

Maps

Chapter 1: The Past that Led to Me.

Chapter 2: Early Years.

Chapter 3: The Honeymoon is Over.

Chapter 4: It’s Okay Now… You’ll Be Fine!

Chapter 5: America is Unreal.

Chapter 6: The Beginning.

Chapter 7: The Next Three Years.

Chapter 8: People & Possessions.

Chapter 9: Finally Home!

Chapter 10: Middle School.

Chapter 11: Freshman Years, the Good Years.

Chapter 12: Florida, the Heartbreak Cure.

Chapter 13: Bigger… Nicer… Better!

Chapter 14: The Last Trip.

April 7th, 2013

April 8th, 2013

April 9th, 2013, 12:30 AM

April 9th, 2013, 9:00 AM

Eulogy

Getting There.

Home to Ndop.

Fresh Start to a Long Healing Process.

Bye-Bye, Dad.

Preparing Again for America

Chapter 15: Ultimate Freedom.

Chapter 16: Lingering Questions.

Island Chapters - Introduction.

Island Chapters: In the USA.

Chapter 1: Inappropriate Sense of Accomplishment.

Chapter 2: Never Alone.

Chapter 3: Discrimination and Learned Helplessness.

Chapter 4: No More Self-Control.

Chapter 5: Business Rules Happiness. Religion Rules Laws.

Island Chapters: In Africa.

Chapter 1: The Promised Land.

Chapter 2: Man-Made Conflict.

The End

About the Author.

Special Thank You

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my mother, Grace. There is nothing I can do that can effectively show her how much I love her. This book was originally written as a gift to her, but, in its development, evolved into much more. In working to give her this gift, she has unknowingly given another to me.

Still, my life, my every breath, and my ability to publish this book to share my story is all due to her determined fight against adversity and gender limitations in Cameroon; to her achievement in removing her children from Africa; to her unrelenting bravery and battles with cancer. Most people would have never been able to do what she did, especially with four children to care for. Her bravery is like none I’ve ever encountered. I prize her determination and for her living her life to the fullest in order to give us, my siblings and I, opportunities we otherwise would have never had.

Thank you, Mom. This is for you.

Love, with all my heart,

Wen.

PROLOGUE.

Africa.  Science tells us mankind originated from this land. It is home to some of the world’s greatest wonders and some of the earth’s most unique wildlife. Based solely on its natural resources – oil, diamonds, gold, cobalt, copper, silver, cacao beans, to name only a few of the more popular ones – Africa is the wealthiest continent on the globe. Yet, still many of its 55 recognized states are a generation or more behind what would be considered fully-developed or civilized. A nation as wealthy as Africa is not neglected because “God is cruel.” There is more to it than that.

Aside from these greater or lesser-known details, many people know nothing about the second largest continent on Earth. With the global community’s rushing from day to day, Africa gets easily forgotten. Interacting with someone with an African background happens more frequently than anyone in America seems to realize. For me, when I look at people going by, the question lingers: does anyone really know anything about what Africans have gone through? Does anyone really understand why these people left Africa to come to America in the first place?

Traveling from Africa to America is no easy task. One cannot simply hitch a ride across the Atlantic Ocean. Traveling that distance comes at great cost, both monetary and emotionally. It requires a passionate drive to begin, an almost fanatical obsession to achieve, and a heart of stone to traverse again if one wishes to visit those left behind.

I wrote this book to give people out in the world an idea of what it’s like to grow up in Africa and come to America with fresh eyes. I wrote it to tell a story that is rarely told, a story that needs to be heard, a story that can educate and enlighten. I wrote this book, above all, for the people in Cameroon, Africa – my people – and for the people in America who I’ve come to love; all of those people deserve to read a story like this from someone who understands the achievements and the failures of both countries.

Hope is all many Africans have left. They hope in God too much because they have no one else to hope in. The world has forgotten them, and their country has abandoned them to fight for themselves.

I wrote this book believing that, if I do not, no one will.

You’ll find that African in America is quite unconventional in its fashion. It’s not so much a book about my life as it is a book about perspective; it’s not so much a book on social concepts as it is a chronological progression of opinions.

I wish for you to get an idea of how children in Africa are brought up; I wish to show how similar African life is to many, if not most, other cultures around the world. Finally, I wish to explain to those who don’t know exactly why Africa is the way it is today, despite its riches. I’ve found in my interactions with people that there is much misconception going around regarding Africa. Living in America has solidified my notion that if there is any one thing that people could stand to know more about, Africa is it. The land that we all came from has become the land we all ignore. The world dares to pretend that what happens there does not drift across oceans and hemispheres as a shadow cast across humankind.

One fact cannot be ignored: Africa is a continent home to over one billion people. It has within its borders some of the brightest and hardest working people on this earth. Imagine: if only half of that population of 500 million were allowed to thrive, were allowed to live a life in which their knowledge and intelligence could be used for research and economic productivity, how much better the world would be today. Instead, many of Africa’s inhabitants struggle from day to day, working hard to barely survive. Africa is a continent full of great people who fight the never-ending battle to survive in a place where there are almost no guarantees, no motivators. There is almost no healthcare – millions are ill – but still the people move forward and demand life, hoping for a better tomorrow, and if not a better tomorrow for themselves, then one for their children, or their children’s children. In Africa hope is relentless. It is immortal.

This picture is not necessarily true of all of Africa. There are places in the continent where populations thrive, where economies are strong and innovation happens and people aren’t starving. Tourists travel across the globe to experience Africa’s unique landscape, wildlife, cities, cultures, and history. In Africa, there is much beauty and magnificence to be found for those who seek it.

Despite its size the world is a small place. It is filled with billions of human beings who, though separated by borders and oceans, are much alike. We all cry. We all laugh. We all bleed. Most importantly, we all dream. The more people learn about the world, the more we can relate to one other… and the better we will all be tomorrow and in generations to come.

Change begins with the person in the mirror. I hope reading this book will help you to understand how each of our mirrors look much the same, and that, in understanding, we will be able to walk alongside one another to be the change the world needs.

MAPS

Cameroon, Africa.

(Image © 2013 Wikipedia.org. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Cameroon_%28orthographic_projection%29.svg#file))

Approximate locations of Doula, Bamenda, and Ndop, Cameroon.

CHAPTER 1:

The Past that Led to Me.

“If you’re not doing something amazing, something someone else has never done before… you will never become someone great.”

November 12, 1993. My birthday. I was born Cameroonian in a very small town. Weighing over nine pounds, I was the biggest baby that that little hospital had ever seen; everyone had assumed my mother was carrying twins. Other than my astonishing size, I was birthed into a hereditary line that would be considered extraordinary for Americans, but one that is quite common in Africa. My mother was, quite literally, a princess of her native village. Her father, my grandfather, was true king, but was put into hiding from political leaders by his mother, for fear of him being trapped by the throne. When time came to crown him he was nowhere to be found and, therefore, his brother, my great uncle, became the seated leader.

My father, Moh, was a very influential person with Cameroon’s ruling political party. His influence with the right people helped him win votes and become mayor for the town in which I lived and grew up. In his political seat my father’s influence broadened even more, giving him an instrumental voice in the way the town was managed around us. My father’s second wife—legally, his first—had a big family and church connections that were central to my upbringing and worldview. My father, coming from a very religious Catholic home himself, made it a priority to have me baptized in the church as an infant. People have teased that I’m the Devil’s child; they are convinced that there are other powers at work within and around me.

Mine was a typical baptism—people clapped, hands were shaken, my parents were congratulated, prayers were sent up to the heavens, priests smiled down at me—and then I almost died. The instant the water touched my head I began crying vehemently. People have told me that to have an infant cry during its baptism is normal. However, I continued bawling on into the evening. I cried so hard I didn’t eat, I’d gasp for breath and send myself into a fit of tremors. My mother—bless her soul—rushed me to the hospital that night, certain I wasn’t going to make it. That crying fit led me to the cusp of life. I had experienced near-death before my first birthday. That experience—my baptism and those moments which immediately followed it—were only the start to the unusual problems which have defined my existence.

By the age of one I had experienced a number of bizarre situations and I had grown into an odd talent. I wonder sometimes if my baptism brought me the gift – or curse -- of foresight (specifically in regard to death for those close to me) and if that is why I had cried late into the night. This talent was suspected by my parents for a while but was not confirmed until one night at about one o’clock when I suddenly became the most inconsolable baby to exist. My mother, try as she might to feed me, soothe me, or coddle me, could not ease whatever pain was causing me to cry. But, as mothers usually do, and as her previous suspicions had suggested, she had a gut-feeling that there was something very wrong.

The next day someone came to our door. My father answered the door, certain that this was the bad news which had caused his son (and, subsequently, the rest of the family) a night’s worth of misery. It was a man, our neighbor, coming to announce that another of our neighbors had died during childbirth. ‘What time did it happen?’ my father asked. It happened just after midnight, around one o’clock.

That news, along with countless other occurrences beforehand, confirmed for my parents that I’d been allotted a special ability. (To this day I’m not sure what my ability was given to me for, as it has only brought me pain.)

Aside from my so-called gift, I played and laughed like any other child. I continued breastfeeding beyond two years of age, both as an excuse to be with my mother and because, as a young child, I simply loved breast milk. Halfway past my second birthday my mother could no longer indulge my homely tastes. She had been diagnosed with cancer. The treatments she would undergo would make her milk dangerous for me to consume. Little did I know it was the first of many steps down a road life drew which would try to take her away from me.

Wenceslaus Muenyi as a one year old.

Baby Wen and his father, Moh Triya Muenyi.

CHAPTER 2:

Early Years.

“My life is a dream, and so I will live the life I’ve always wanted,

regardless of any obstacle.”

Though we do love to have our fun, life in Africa is not as animated as most people think. I did not live with giraffes or tigers and I certainly did not entertain elephants. Where I lived the only animals I really interacted with were ones familiar to most people: dogs, cats, and other common domestic animals like that. Oh, and snakes… lots and lots of snakes.

I grew up in a house the size of a typical inner-city American home. But, because of the size of our family, there was not nearly enough space for everyone. I slept in bed with my father until I left the country. Someone else (who was not directly related to me and who I won’t name in this book) took possession of every other room in the house. When my father’s brother died, my father promised to take care of his children, my father’s nephews and my cousins. Our house, therefore, was anything but roomy. This lack of space became even more apparent when it was time to eat. A big house like that, with so many bodies and only one dinner table, made getting food difficult for me, the smallest person under the roof. Every meal was a battle—I was constantly wrestling my way in, fighting off other hands and trying to grab for things my little arms just couldn’t reach. I learned to despise eating. Between the fighting and the crowd and the noise, I didn’t find the experience of dining with my family all that gratifying. Instead of wasting my time and effort trying to get food, I ended up taking walks with my two best friends—twins from the neighborhood—until it was time to go to bed.

Every weekday morning involved two important tasks: school and morning prayers. In Cameroon, school was the definition of strict. Children in our community started school at a very young age (for example, my sister began attending before she was three). When a child hit schooling age the stern lifestyle began. We would wake up early in the morning to walk across town—cold, hot, rain or shine—to attend morning prayers at the church. In order to get to school on time (and praying that prayers didn’t take too long), we’d run back home after being dismissed, throw on our school uniforms, make sure we looked presentable, and then begin the trek to the school grounds to face the teachers.

The classroom was where the real battle started. In America, schoolyard bullies are the biggest common physical threat. In Africa, the teacher is. If you were late to class, rude to teachers, or did not dress properly, teachers would assure you remembered not to let it happen again. This was commonplace for me. I seemed to always be in trouble. The effects of being constantly beaten still make me clench my teeth when I hear a whip crack. I’m certain my back side is strong due entirely to the number of whippings I received!

Though school literally hurt for me, the education I received in Africa is etched into my mind more clearly than anything I’ve ever learned in any school in America. Ironically, I feel that the education in Africa, while much less advanced technically, is more effective simply because of the lack of technological advances which end up being handicaps for students in other, more modern places around the world. My only regret is that I wish I had been exposed to more Cameroonian education. Maybe now I would be smarter.

There were a lot of rules at school in Cameroon. The first and most important was that students could never talk back to their elders in, or even outside of, school; if they did, they’d promptly be beaten. The second most important rule was the dress code. We were always expected to look presentable. People there took pride in looking proper for school, as if learning were something to celebrate and important enough to dress for. It wasn’t like here in America. Today I see students coming to class in pajamas and house slippers, with their hair so sloppy it seems as if they couldn’t care less about their education. Dressing proper for school in my hometown meant you were well clothed, your hair was cut and trimmed, and, most of the time, you were wearing an ironed uniform. Now this was not mandatory in the sense that students would get in trouble if they failed to commit to their appearance daily. But, we had to watch out, because every once in a while the Head Master would come out from his office to check and make sure the students were following the dress code, or any other rule for that matter.

The Head Master looked terrifying. He wore a collared shirt buttoned-up tight around his big neck and a stern expression plastered on his face at all times. He held a thick cane in his right hand and walked down the hall slowly to make sure everyone saw him coming. Even before we saw him, we could tell by the sound of his shoes hitting the floor as they echoed down the corridor who it was. We called him the Black Arrow because he beat kids so badly, never flinching, we were convinced he enjoyed it.

Black Arrow always started his inspections in the first grade classes, making sure everyone was behaving as he saw fit. He walked down the aisles of every class, beating the kids who weren’t dressed or behaving appropriately. Whenever it came to me, I always knew I’d get a beating. I admit I was constantly in trouble, but Black Arrow’s beatings on me weren’t always because I did something wrong. I know that my father’s other wife told the Head Master to discipline me a little more strictly than the rest. When it came to the really badly behaved or dressed students, Black Arrow would call in the help of older, bigger students to hold the bad kid up in the air by his feet, so that Black Arrow could beat the bad out of him and not have to worry about holding the struggling child in place. This was the worst punishment anyone could get in primary school (Americans call it Elementary school)… except for the kids who actually enjoyed getting beaten. For those strange few, their alternative punishment was to stand outside and stare at the sun for ten minutes; if they looked away for longer than a second the teachers added more time to the clock.

These were cruel forms of punishment by most standards, but Cameroonian educators demanded respect and order, by force if necessary (which they felt was frequently the case). The trade-off for us students was that, when we weren’t being beaten, we were being very well educated. Our teachers were excellent educators; they taught well and were very knowledgeable. In Cameroon our studies focused on two main subjects: agriculture and math.

Agriculture was taught to us by a hands-on approach. Every student was required to bring a machete (we called it a cutlass) to school to use when we worked on the school’s farm. Working the farm was not an option: we were required to learn farm work. Sometimes we would go into the field and toil for hours in the hot weather, and Cameroon gets very hot. Aside from the heat, it was still not a particularly safe environment. As I mentioned before we had lots of snakes, and most snakes in that area are poisonous. There were a number of the slithering creatures who called our school farm their home. While working the fields it was common for one or another of us students to happen upon a nest of snake eggs. If the individual’s luck was bad enough a big snake would be there, too, and would pop out of the ground and… well, let’s just say it would suck to be that kid. I remember one time in particular when I was paired up with a girl and a snake popped out of the ground and lunged at her. Being only a child and terrified, I bolted away (snakes are scary, and what would I have been able to do, anyway?). I never saw that girl again. I’m certain she became very ill from the bite and died shortly after.

School in Africa was certainly not an easy road. But, if it were, I’m certain it wouldn’t have been as valuable of an education to me.

Aside from the dangers of our school, we kids did love to have our fun. There was actually quite a lot to do for entertainment, but, looking back, none of it was very safe. I remember me and my friends making bows and bottle cap-tipped arrows and playing hide and seek in the “forest.” We would hide behind trees and shoot each other with the arrows. The rules were like in real life: the person who ran out of arrows and got hit the most lost. None of the adults knew we played that game; it was very dangerous and we would often get wounds from the arrows. When an adult asked us about our injuries we’d never say where we really got them from, for fear we’d be forced to stop playing Bows and Arrows.

When we kids weren’t busy hurting ourselves with homemade aluminum-tipped arrows, we would be hurting ourselves playing soccer without shoes on. Soccer is a huge sport in my village and in all of Cameroon; it’s the main activity when there is nothing else to do. Ultimately, everyone who plays hopes to one day be good enough to play professionally like our hero— Samuel Eto. Unfortunately, I was a small kid: uncoordinated and slow. I was no match for the other kids. Like any sane person, I didn’t enjoy playing a sport I was no good at and in which I’d only get run down or kicked, so I stayed away from the soccer games. But, sometimes, I’d watch and cheer from the sidelines.

My twin-friends and I were always together whenever we had nothing to do, just like when we spent time walking outside during my family’s dinner time rush. We were a pretty damn close trio. Whenever we weren’t together, or whenever I couldn’t find them or spend time with them, I spent my time alone somewhere thinking to myself or doing one chore or another for my father.

My father owned a beverage store and every once in a while he would ask the whole family to come out and help him unload the delivery truck. Aside from those times at the store, I don’t remember seeing him or talking to him much; there were so many other people in the house all the time and he was always so busy that I didn’t get much one-on-one time with him. I clearly remember, though, him letting me help unload trucks at the store. Those were probably the best times I remember having with my dad. The only other occasions I remember being with him were when the whole family went out to the fields to harvest corn. Those were good times. I remember us riding the truck to the fields, carrying big bags of corn on our shoulders, and having a great time standing on top of a corn mountain on the ride back home.

As a young boy, in the early years of my life in Cameroon, my existence—from dinner to prayers to school to play—was demanding and tough, if not outright dangerous. But even with all that, my childhood in Cameroon was still nice enough for me to remember having some (really) great times.

Schoolhouse in Ndop, Cameroon.

Inside the Muenyi home (2013), unchanged since My departure in 2002.

CHAPTER 3:

The Honeymoon is Over.

“Success should never be something you will ‘try’ to achieve. Success is not an option.

Success is the only way of life. Otherwise, by definition, you will have failed.”

The years passed. By the time I turned eight the world seemed to suddenly make a turn for the worse. The happy times I had been enjoying came to a screeching halt; the emptiness left me feeling all was lost; the loneliness pushed me to the brink of ending my own life.

My mother’s cancer was worsening. She had to constantly leave me behind in order to seek treatment at the capital. Knowing what I know now, I can say with confidence that the hospital system in Cameroon had at that time some very old and obsolete pieces of medical machinery (I’m pretty sure they were using a Roll-a-dex instead of computer databases to store patients’ information). Those outdated facilities weren’t able to treat my mom adequately – they were actually burning her skin with every treatment! – and she had to figure something else out. My dad, who by that time was no longer Mayor, was still incredibly busy with various types of business that came his way. Prior to being mayor, my father ran a contracting business and a beverage business; as Mayor, he’d secured deals to build things the government wanted; after he left office, he continued to have orders coming in through his beverage company, contracts from the government to build schools around the country, and there were, of course, the other children of the household needing to be taken care of. I barely remember seeing my dad until nighttime, when I finally made it to bed and crawled in next to him to sleep. My full-blooded siblings—two older brothers, Valery (Val) and Francis, and my sister, Sylvie—were all in high school or college, which meant they left home every year to be educated. (Francis would actually end up going to America two years before Val, Sylvie, and I). Essentially, I lived in a home with twenty or more people who weren’t direct family members; they were either half-siblings or cousins, but all older than me. I didn’t connect with them, didn’t feel like family to them, and the feeling was mutual. The two times I remember spending with the kids in my family ended up in tragedy.

In one instance, Cousin Njohmuta and I were climbing a hill, looking for special fruits to eat. Not knowing I had really bad balance, he shoved me. I tumbled down the hill for quite a distance before a boulder met me in my face and stopped my decent. Needless to say, I lost a few teeth.

Another occasion left me with permanent mark. When I was five, I was hanging out with my cousin, Brutus (who always enjoyed tormenting me), when he told me that burning my forehead with a hot iron would give me magical powers. Even when he said, “Trust me, I know what I’m doing,” I should have taken precautions: Brutus had burned his own house down by leaving the room with a lit candle next to his bed.

In short, my extended family weren’t the most fun people to hang around. And my immediate family was simply not physically available, even though I know now that it wasn’t their fault for leaving me behind: my mother needed her treatments, my siblings needed to seek out an education for themselves, and my father had to make money to feed all the mouths in his house.

In spite of my familial issues, I was lucky to have two very close friends—twin brothers—who always had my back. They were always available to hang out with me or play our (usually dangerous) games; they always watched out for me when girls poked fun at me or did something mean, like pouring water inside my new shoes. These guys were even there with me when we ditched school during our lunch break to go steal fruit to eat, escapades which typically ended in us being chased by bees and someone having to distract the bees while the rest of us (usually not me because I was so slow) got away. They were the guys I would consider “bros” today, and, quite frankly, they essentially were my brothers. And for a while things were great. Me and my brothers would play and hang out and get into trouble together, just like real brothers did.

Then one day it all changed.

I would usually find them after school or during lunch. We would sit, talk, laugh, and plan out any antics for the day. But one unforgettable day they weren’t around. I thought maybe their parents had gone out of town unexpectedly, taking my friends with them. I assumed they would be back within a week. I waited patiently, lonely, feeling abandoned but with the knowledge that I would be reunited with my brothers soon. That knowledge gave me comfort.

As the next week came and then went, they still hadn’t returned. I went to their house looking for them. Their family still wasn’t there. I said to myself they were on an extra-long trip. I waited some more. Two weeks. Three weeks. After a month had passed, I finally figured out where my brothers had gone… and why.

My two friends had both unexplainably and unexpectedly passed away; their father, who had become like a father-figure to me, had hidden himself away, grieving; he didn’t have the heart to tell me. The news broke me. My two best friends, two guys who had made my life worth living, were gone. They had died from a mysterious cause no one could figure out. ‘Why had God been so cruel to them?’ I thought. ‘So cruel to me?’

A million explanations flew through my mind. I thought maybe they had contracted AIDS or had perhaps contracted some unexplainable sickness like it and died from it. While I was thinking about what kind of sickness could have stolen them from me, everyone else was thinking their father had given them up to the Meyoungo (American’s call them the Illuminati; they are people who claim to possess special enlightenment or knowledge). “He’s in Meyoungo” was a widely-used statement to justify why something unexpected and sudden might happen to a person’s loved ones. In Cameroon and Nigeria, Meyoungo are very commonly accused to when there is suspicion of the Devil’s work being involved in a tragedy. People are known to worship the Devil through the Meyoungo practice, thereby gaining wealth and so-called “happiness”. In Cameroon, to be allowed to join this secret society most people have to give up something they care dearly for, typically requiring the sacrifice of one’s children or spouse.

Regardless of the cause or whether or not the Meyoungo were involved, the fact remained that my two brothers were not with me anymore, and it was killing me inside.

Days came and went. I became incredibly depressed. As time went by my mom was all I really had to cling to, but even those moments were fleeting and few, as she was often absent for medical reasons. Though she was a busy woman, when I needed her she would make the time to take care of me. Even though she had to work hard to pay her medical bills she made sure to be there in the morning to make me breakfast before I went to school. That was enough to help me get through the days. Months after my friends died, I felt life was stabilizing and things weren’t going to get worse. After all, how could they?

Mom woke me early one morning to tell me she had to go away to get her treatment. She told me she would be back in two weeks. I thought nothing of it, as she usually went away for days at a time, but little did I know she was leaving me for an indefinite length of time. The morning she woke me, I was in a sleepy fog. I had barely opened my eyes when I was saying goodbye to her, not knowing I wouldn’t see her again for over a year and that her foggy shape that morning would be the last time I would see her in Africa. Had I known, I might have put in more effort in the farewell. But, also had I known, she might not have been able to pull herself away from me, her crying and brokenhearted little boy.

Two weeks went by and still she had not returned home. But, I was my usual patient and hopeful self, oblivious to the reality of her departure. I thought maybe her treatment was just taking a little longer than expected. A month later my mother called my dad’s cell phone. She wanted to talk to me, to say ‘hi’. I remember that conversation like it was yesterday. I sat there listening to my mother’s voice on the phone; when she talked to me all I wanted to know was when she was coming home. She knew she was all I had in that place, and it was not my home without her or my brothers and sisters. I waited, hoping for an “I’m on my way back today.” But, I didn’t get anything like that.

She told me she was in America; that she was not coming back to live in Cameroon. She said she had had to go there to get better treatments for her cancer.

I broke. My mother was not in my life anymore. My two best friends were gone. My brothers and sisters were away getting an education they hated. Who did I have left? My dad was there but he was not enough. I barely knew him. My dad, to me, was too busy to notice me. He was rarely home in the afternoons when I returned from school and I don’t remember if he was there in the mornings to say goodbye to me. When the family did spend time with him it wasn’t for very long and didn’t involve much conversation. He and I never really connected and I cannot say that our relationship has improved at all as I’ve grown. My single, most vivid memory with him was when we went to the supermarket to buy something and I saw a toy I really wanted. I had never had a toy of my own—I’d always had to share with any one or more of my step-brothers or step-sisters—so I begged him to buy this one toy for me, promising to keep it forever. He said no, that I did not need it, and proceeded to buy something he probably didn’t need either. The ‘no’ to my small request cut me deep. It angered me. It angered me enough to leave my father’s side and walk home, alone. I went the entire way crying because it seemed like everyone else before me received countless toys, and I, the youngest of all, received nothing.

From that day forward I didn’t ask for things. I made my own toys. I spent hours sitting alone, making toys to play with using clay I took from a stream up the road from my house. I made helicopters, motorcycles, and cars; anything I wanted. These toys were pretty cool. I felt accomplished. I used the toys I’d made and the time spent at the stream as a way to fill the big void I had in my heart. When I was too sad to sit there and make toys, I went on solitary trips up a small mountain nearby.

That small mountain a few blocks away from my house was my typical destination when I needed a moment of silence and a solitary place to myself to think and ponder my life’s purpose. Ascending the hill was scary. Poisonous plants and unrecognizable animals lived there; I didn’t know if they would kill me or not; sometimes I wished they would. The path up the hill became special to me, like family. I knew of the path because the church used to climb to the top of that mountain every year to pray and praise the Lord for our salvation. Using the same path, I went up to that place of worship after school. I would sit there, looking down at the town, watching all the people there and taking in the spectacle I called my homeland. It was a time of meditation.

As I sat alone my mind began to be overshadowed by very dark thoughts, thoughts that moved me from being depressed to being suicidal. (I’ve never told anyone else about these thoughts that I had up there on that mountain before this.) I’d look down at the town, the people and the countryside, and thought, ‘This is where I was born, this is where I will live, and this is where I will die.’ My life, though short, seemed to have been over in the same exact place where it had begun and, since it seemed to me that everyone who loved me was gone, I might as well not fool myself and spend my remaining few years waiting to die from the more likely causes: AIDS, Meyoungo, sickness, accident, or if I were lucky, old age.

I was about ready to put an end to my life. But something up there saved me, someone knew the when the perfect time would be to call me and give me hope again that everything would be alright.

The hill Wen ascended for church functions, to play, and to ponder life’s meaning.

A dirt road leading up the hill is visible on the lower edge of photo.

The town of Ndop, Cameroon, 2013.

CHAPTER 4:

It’s Okay Now… You’ll Be Fine!

“I will have the most fun possible for the short amount of time

I am here on this planet.”

It was a cold morning in the classroom. Attendance was being taken before we were given our pass or fail grades and sent back home. The teacher called on me. I was shocked to find out I’d failed Class 5. (Reading it in this book is probably the first time my mom will ever hear about it, but: yes, Mom! I failed!) Class 5 is not a very hard class; no one else in my family had ever failed it before.

Lucky for me it wouldn’t matter. I received a call later that morning which would change everything.

I was sitting in class, crying, because I didn’t know how I was going to tell my dad about the failed grade; I didn’t know how to explain to him what had happened that had caused me to fail. While I was bawling my aunt came in, interrupting the morning announcements. She’d walked down to the school from her house, holding a phone for me. In between sobs, I heard my teacher calling my name and telling me to step aside with my aunt. My aunt handed me the phone.

“Hello?” I said.

“Wen! Hi! How are you doing? It’s Mom.”

I immediately tried to calm myself. I stifled my tears and tried to talk without shaking, so she wouldn’t realize I was upset. I didn’t want to make her mad, or disappoint her.

She was calling to tell me that I would be coming to America to be with her soon. She was quick to add that I shouldn’t talk too much about it to other people. I was shocked. My life had changed in the blink of an eye! While my sister occasionally came back home for a few months at a time and took care of me like my mother had, no one could truly replace my mother; not in my heart and not in this world. I was so happy to hear the news that nothing else in the world mattered to me. Nothing at all. Not even my Class 5 failure.

It wasn’t until later that I learned that, when my mom had told my dad about having the kids brought to America, he asked her why he should give up his children, not knowing when or if he would see them again. Before my mom had a chance to answer, he softened up. He told her he understood; he knew his children would have a better life than he could give them. But he made a request: that I stay with him. He felt bad; I was the youngest and he’d hardly had time with me. Mother refused to leave me behind without my siblings, and so my dad never got to spend the time with me he’d wished for.

Coming to America from Africa was no easy process. The months following that phone call were filled with multiple trips to the capital to get the proper documents and medical tests done. It felt like, to come to America from Africa, you’d better not have been sick with even something as trivial as a cold for the last year. The authorities were serious about keeping America disease free! Medical tests are required and paperwork must be filled out correctly or else you’ll be denied your Visa.

We—Val, Sylvie, and I—were granted our Visas in August of 2002, but no one let us know that until months later. In November, around my birthday, we were told we would be traveling to America in under a month. We were set to leave Africa December 10th and arrive in the U.S. on the 12th. This meant no more school for me, so I was thrilled. All we did was say goodbye to everyone; we would buy whatever we needed when we got there. Saying farewell to people you’ve known, even if you don’t like them much, is far more difficult than most people think. Saying goodbye to them is hard on its own, but it’s even harder when you’re not sure you’ll ever return to see them again. Those kinds of goodbyes are the most difficult. We said goodbye to a lot of people during those last few days. But the person I really remember saying goodbye to was my granddad.

My granddad was a man who loved his children dearly and his grandchildren even more. My mom was his princess, and he always did everything he could to make sure she had the best future she could possibly have. My mother frequently told us the story of how one day her father had forgotten to pay her school fees and the school administrators beat her for it. When Granddad found out, he went to the school and yelled at the teachers to never touch his daughter again. In recollecting the relationship between my mom and her father, stories like that are common. He did things she didn’t like because he knew they were in her best interest, like taking my mother away from her grandma who was being too nice and spoiling her.

When time came to say goodbye to Granddad it was not easy for anyone. He had things to tell us before we left. He made it clear that we were not going to America to live the kind of lives we saw on TV, that we were not going there to party or any foolishness like that. We were going to America to have a future, he said, a better life, and that we shouldn’t ever forget it. He made it clear that, wherever we go, we should ask ourselves, ‘Why am I here? What did I come here to do?’, and then do it.

He turned to me and said, “I thought you said you were coming to stay with me this summer?”

I laughed. Being hopeful, and not understanding how difficult my promise would be to keep, I told him: “Don’t worry, Grandpa. I’ll be back to visit and stay with you next year’s summer.” He smiled, telling me I was just like my dad; I always knew what to say to make people happy.

At the end of our visit he prayed with us and over us, gave us each a kiss, and told us to say ‘hello’ to our mom, his daughter, for him when we saw her.

The day we left was a sad one. Our flight departed late in the night, so we had to leave home in the early morning to make it to the airport on time. Dad drove. He told us we had a few stops to make before the airport. We stopped first to visit my aunt—my favorite aunt on earth!—to say goodbye to her and her family, then at three other houses before finally arriving at the airport. The ride in the car gave us time to prepare for leaving Africa for good. Once we checked into the airport, Dad started to cry. He couldn’t stop. My sister cried with him. My older brother, Val, was not as emotional, but I wonder about the reason for his dry eyes. I think he felt too cool to cry. I was young and too amazed by the concept of an airplane to feel bad about leaving my sad life behind. I couldn’t believe a thing as big as an airplane could jump across a whole ocean. (I called flying “jumping”, imagining that a plane leapt into the air and just stayed up there long enough to go to different places).

Finally it came time to go. We had to board. I gave my dad a huge hug and said a final goodbye to him, realizing I would never again sleep beside him. I was so tired from the rollercoaster of emotions—the anxiety of multiple farewells, the amazement of going to America, and the long car ride filled with even more anxiety—that, when we got into the airplane, I dead tired.

The plane was uncomfortably full. I looked around me. I didn’t have anywhere to lay my head. I was sitting between Sylvie and Val. I was afraid of my older brother. He used to force me to shower (I hated to shower), but, in light of the conditions on the airplane, I knew he would be the most comfortable place for me to sleep. I had no choice. I had my older sister intervene, to ask him if I could lean on him to sleep. She laughed at me, but asked Val anyway. He shook his head at me and said, “Sure.”

The next morning we landed in Europe; Paris, France, to be exact. For the first time ever in my life I was cold, truly cold; as soon as I walked out the plane I was freezing. It was wintertime in France and America. I’d never known a winter could be that cold! I didn’t even own clothes warm enough for the winters that places outside of Cameroon experienced. I worried about where I might find such things. We weren’t in France long and left after a few hours’ waiting. Our flight across the ocean was pretty fun. We watched Stuart Little on the plane (imagine—televisions on an airplane!) and arrived in Atlanta many hours later.

I’d made it across the Atlantic Ocean without a hitch, but within minutes of arriving in the States I’d nearly ruined everything.

Us after finally making it to Minnesota.

First time getting to the apartment.

CHAPTER 5:

America is Unreal.

“I left Cameroon, but Cameroon never left me”

Atlanta airport is one of the largest and busiest airports in the world, and for good reason: it’s a key destination for those travelling abroad in all directions – from Canada to South America, from Los Angeles to Europe, from Africa to the United States, and more. Now imagine how this could look for a kid my age coming from a place where the town population was less than the enrollment of most U.S. universities (about 30,000), and where there were no buildings larger than a single story high. What a shock Atlanta International Airport was indeed!

There are a lot of factors which played into the potential disaster that was my arrival to Atlanta. I was incredibly tired (jet lagged) and, on top of that, I was floating on a cloud of wonder: there were so many lights and sights and sounds around me, and there were more people in one place than I had ever seen in my entire life. I was dumbfounded. The world slowed down as I walked through the terminals, eyes wide. When I finally snapped back to reality I was in a train car… but Val and Sylvie were not. While I was busy trying to figure out what kind of machine I had just stepped into (later finding it was the airport terminal train), they had let go of my hand and told me to follow them. The doors of the train began to close as I stood there looking at my siblings; they called for me to come out from there. Since I had never been in a train before and the doors were closing miraculously by themselves, I was reluctant to step out under the assumption that I would be crushed. As the doors shut; I stood there paralyzed, realizing I was stuck on a train that was taking me to who-knew-where and that I might never see my family again. Ever. I’d come all this way, to a land I had only dreamt about, filled with a people I’d never met, with no way to get home (I did not even know where home was), and now I was being separated from my family!

As the train inched away from the platform, I began to cry at the thought of never seeing my mom again, never returning home to her, and possibly dying alone in this big, strange city. That was when a man came up to me and asked me where my parents were, where I was headed. All I remember was that he was a tall, white man with a little facial hair wearing a bluish colored uniform. I did speak a bit of English (thank you, excellent Cameroonian education!) so, when the man asked me where I was going, I only really had one answer for him – ‘Ms. Donna’.  Ms. Donna was my mother’s best friend. She was the only woman I knew my mom was going to see in America, and the only bit of information I had about where I was going. So when asked where I was going, I told him just that. Lucky for me, Atlanta wasn’t my final stop in America; and, doubly lucky for me, I had, and still do have, a strong Cameroonian accent. When I said ‘Ms. Donna’, it sounded a lot like ‘Minnesota’.

Twenty minutes after my arrival in Atlanta and I’d already made trouble for myself. My adventure in America had nearly ended before it had gotten started, and the kind man in the blue security guard uniform had been my salvation. He took my hand and guided me to the terminal gate where travelers were gathered to go to Minnesota. We found my brother and sister there, ready to go, no doubt anxious of my whereabouts. I was overjoyed to see my sister and angry brother there waiting for me. Sylvie hugged me like she would never let me go again, like she had not seen me in years. Val… well, he was mad and scolded me. But I didn’t take it too hard. I knew he was just as happy to see me as Sylvie was, and I also knew there was no way he would’ve left the airport without me—our mother would have murdered him.

Now that we were all back together and I had stopped my crying, we got onto the plane and made the final flight to Minnesota—the state we would call home for the next few years.

Our plane experienced some delays and arrived late in Minneapolis. Our mom was freaking out. It was the first time any of us had traveled on a plane before. She had been waiting, worrying that we hadn’t made the connection from France. As we exited the plane, my mom saw us and was immediately relieved, but she knew instantly that I had been crying. She hadn’t seen me for years but, as mother’s do, she knew how to read me. (I’m certain the dried streaks on my face left behind by my tears tipped her off a bit, too.)

When we first arrived in Minneapolis, I was wearing nothing but a light shirt and some jeans I had been given by my cousins back in Africa. Now, remember it was December, in Minnesota, and if you’ve never been to The North Star State, you may not understand exactly how cold it can get. That kind of cold was a sensation I really had never experienced before and I didn’t know what to do about it. As we were leaving the airport, my new grandma, Barb, who basically became my adoptive grandmother, wrapped me in a giant jacket while giving me a big hug and told me “Welcome to America!” She was the first white person who I’d ever really talked to (not counting the security officer who rescued me from the train). Up through today, no friend has ever matched the amount of love she had given and continues to give me.

Grandma Barb drove us to our new home by way of Downtown Saint Paul. She wanted us to see the city. It was amazing; I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. There were so many lights on the street and in buildings and on cars; the whole world seemed to glitter. There were big, safe, and elegant bridges that weren’t made out of rope, and buildings so tall I couldn’t see their tops even with my face smashed up against the car window. America was even more beautiful than it had looked in the movies we’d endlessly watched back home, more amazing than those movies that made us dream and admire this country that had only a few weeks ago felt so unreal and beyond reach. But, now, I had reached it. Those movies had suddenly become my reality and, honestly, for the first two weeks I thought I was dreaming.

America truly is unreal. Unfortunately, it seems that only the people who had to work hard to get here or those who had to give up on their life somewhere else can truly understand what I say when I say that America is a God-given dream, a symbol of hope to those who have lost it all. This country is a glimmer of light which allows people to see a brighter future for themselves… this country, America, is simply brilliant.

The day after our arrival I woke up in an apartment considered to be very small by American standards. But, to me, it felt roomier than the White House. The apartment was a two-bedroom unit; there were five of us (Mom, Val, Francis, Sylvie, and me). We slept two to a bed and the last person on the couch. Having someone sleep on the couch was actually against the rules. My mom had to hide me from the apartment owners so they didn’t kick us out and onto the street.

Most people in America would’ve looked at the apartment and noticed all the bad things that it had—like peeling paint, loud occupants, and a less than ideal neighborhood—but, since I did not have such luxuries back home, I saw only the good things about it. We had TV that was not in Arabic; we had a flushing toilet that I was allowed to use; we had food in the refrigerator that I could eat whenever I wanted; we had it all and then some! In my head, life couldn’t get any more perfect.

That is, until I experienced an American Christmas for the first time.

Though I’d had Christmases before, Christmas was not nearly as incredible in Africa as it was in Minnesota. When I woke up the morning of December 25th in my new home, I got my first glimpse of snow. It had started snowing the night before, but at that time it had been too dark for me to see anything. In movies I’d seen, snow was this amazing flurry of things that fell from the sky. In Cameroon, I’d never experienced such a thing as snow, so the first time I saw it I was about ready to eat it. My mom was quick to discourage me from doing that. She told me it was dirty. Well, so was the water I drank in Cameroon! I thought.

After seeing the snow, the day continued to get better. For the first time ever, Black Santa had come to my house! Ms. Donna came over with her friends with a big bag of gifts. I had never received anything more than a fake watch from my aunt during Christmastime, so imagine my surprise when my new American friends told me almost all those gifts were mine!

I remember the overwhelming joy I felt opening those toys—my toys. For years I had never owned a toy I could call mine, other than the ones I had to make for myself out of gummy stream clay. But now… now I had more than one and all to myself! I felt like crying, but crying was not the right thing to do. I was so grateful, so thankful that I didn’t know what to say or how to feel. I’d gone my whole life without toys to call my own; I’d not received, felt cast aside, then had to watch as other kids enjoyed the toys they’d gotten. Then, my first few days in America, my first American Christmas, for the first time at the age of eight, I finally got the bounty I’d longed for. I didn’t have to share them to bigger kids who would break them, or take them from me. They were all mine, and I was beginning to feel like a real kid again.

When we finished opening presents the whole family—Ms. Donna and her friends included—gathered around the table for dinner. I looked around and couldn’t believe my luck; it truly was the very first time in my life that my mother, siblings, and I had all been able to sit down and have a meal, the five of us, together. Christmastime in the Muenyi household in Cameroon involved lots of preparing of food, cooking, and loud partying. There, most of the adults went to a night club on Christmas Eve while some of the married women stayed home to cook dinner for the next day. The kids went out with their friends to play and to have fun, so they didn’t play much of an active role in preparing for Christmas festivities. It was Christmas, but disjointed and incomplete; nothing like my American Christmas.

In my new American home Christmas was so much different, and not only because of the toys. That unforgettable December holiday, my entire family – my mother, my siblings, and all my new American friends and family – spent time together cooking before dinner and, after eating, sat around talking. Together. I remember looking at my mother, just being happy that God had brought me back to her for another Christmas dinner.

When I’d first seen her on my initial arrival to Minnesota, I was too amazed by everything around me to realize how much I had truly missed her. I honestly didn’t think I would ever see her again; the longer I went without her, the more my hope diminished of our reunion. Christmas dinner in Minnesota in 2002 was the first time I remember actually relaxing and enjoying time together with my mother; there were no other problems to distract us from enjoying each other’s’ company.

Finally, I was reunited with someone who truly and infallibly loved me. Finally, I was with the one person on the whole Earth who looked at me with those warm, loving eyes, like there was nothing more important or beautiful than me.

Finally, I was home.

Wen, 9, first time on a computer during Christmas dinner.

Wen, 11, on Christmas, a few years after arriving in America.

CHAPTER 6:

The Beginning.

“The beauty of this earth is endless, but the real beauty lies in the hearts of the people I have had the pleasure of meeting.”

After having a great time over Christmas, it was time to get serious. Time had come to prepare for school in America. The thought was all at once terrifying and exciting, but for me to even step foot in a classroom was like going through the immigration process all over again: tests, paperwork, and immunizations. I first had to be tested on my current knowledge so that the administrators could determine which grade level I fit into; they couldn’t (or, rather, didn’t want to) simply go by my age, especially since my education up until that point had been in Africa. And, as anyone who is originally from Africa can attest, children who move to America from that continent or others which are similarly less developed are thought of as dumber than American kids—something that, I’ve found, is not always established in truth or experience, but rather in stereotype and cultural assumption.

I undoubtedly shocked the administrators when I successfully passed all their tests for required knowledge for children in my age group; according to their tests I already knew everything I was supposed to know at my age. And, though I excelled in math, it soon became apparent that that little boast I could claim on my test scores was not enough for them. Even after getting better-than-average scores for my age group the authorities still wanted to hold me back. They felt I would be better off in second grade, with children younger than me. Fortunately my mom did not share their opinion and had the wits and wisdom about her to argue.

Now, typically, school authorities make the assumption that African parents aren’t up to par on their English. In those situations, of course, the parents really never fight back. How my mom caught them off guard! When the administrators suggested I be put into the second grade class, my dear, sweet mother yelled at them for half an hour, asking them what grounds they really had to hold me back from being with my own age group. She rebuked them in her accented yet perfectly-spoken English that, since I was born in November, I was already behind by a year, and how dare they say that they wanted to put a nine-year-old boy who had excelled in his entrance exams into the second grade! I remember being proud of my mother and frightened at the same time, watching her scream at those school officials. I thought to myself as I watched the debate go on, ‘They’ll never let me in school, now.’

When the administrators realized who they were dealing with (and realized that my mother wasn’t going to give up), they gave in and put me into the third grade where I belonged. As we were leaving, I remember my mom leaning over and telling me, “In America, you’re a black person. They think you’re stupid. If I did not yell they would not hear me.” At the time, I was still just a child, new to the workings of the United States of America. I didn’t give much thought to what my mom told me about being black. I didn’t understand what she was saying to me. Weren’t people just… people?

My first day was January fifth. Dressing for it was the hardest part. Minnesota had gotten a few inches of fresh snow that morning and I didn’t yet have any good winter clothes to wear. My mom wasn’t making enough money yet to be able to buy me proper winter shoes; she gave me her own boots so my feet wouldn’t freeze and her own jacket so my body wouldn’t freeze, and that’s really all she could do. Our family had received some clothes which were roughly my size from our church’s clothing center, D.A.P.C. and I proudly wore them to class that day, and many others after that. So, I wasn’t completely without a wardrobe but, still, those donated clothes weren’t really enough to tackle a Minnesota winter.

The first day of school was so nice. They served us a delicious breakfast filled with sugary things—like pancakes and fruit in syrup and chocolate milk—which my distant homeland didn’t have much of. Unfortunately, since I was still adapting to the food, certain things did not get along with my stomach.

I was a major curiosity to my classmates. Everyone asked me questions, where I was from, what was my family like, and all those other things kids ask when they don’t know someone. Since I was a bit of a loner growing up, I wasn’t prone to talking a lot (at least yet), but I did love all the attention I was getting; I answered as many questions as I could and sat there, relishing my situation. The teachers told my mom I was the happiest kid they’d ever seen. How true that was! I was just so glad to have teachers I didn’t have to be afraid of. Whenever I did something wrong I prepared myself for a beating which didn’t come. The teachers always said it was okay as long as I apologized. No beatings? What a wonder! Finally I could leave behind any fears I had and simply concentrate on learning.

Every morning I was happy to go back. This school was so different and so much more wonderful than my school in Africa. We had water fountains everywhere that I could drink from; we had delicious free breakfasts and lunches served to us that were not from some lady with a pot sitting outside the school; best of all, I had my mom there saying ‘bye’ to me every day before I left! She always made sure to be there to say goodbye to me, regardless of the hard, 60-hour workweeks she faced to take care of all of us. And all that while on chemotherapy! I knew my mom was working hard and that she was suffering much at the expense of her labor and her sickness. It never ceased to amaze me, even at that young age, knowing how hard she always tried to be next to me in the morning to wish me a good day at school.

As for my studies, I was doing great. The teachers all liked me. I was the smartest kid in class throughout my third grade year (take that, administrators!). One teacher, Mr. Palmer, helped me to learn normal English, instead of the Pidgin English of Cameroon. Mr. Palmer was the absolute nicest teacher at that school. He knew I had a hard time learning proper English, so he made his best effort to learn Pidgin so he could speak to me more easily. Not only that, but he played games with me and spent real quality time with me. It didn’t take long for me to feel comfortable in school and talk to him about myself and where I had come from.

Making friends in Minnesota was much easier than it was in Cameroon. I made friends with a few girls, even—maybe because I had an innocent smile or they found my strong accent intriguing—and everyone was very nice. During recess we had a playground to go to. It didn’t take long for me to figure out how fun a Minnesota winter could be, because my classmates and I even got to sled down the hills when they were covered in snow.

The school year went by quickly. I made many American friends. I made good grades. My mother was here. My siblings were here. I had my family and we were all together. Everything was as good as it could possibly be. I was in heaven.

Then summer vacation came. It was a big surprise to me when I discovered how I was going to be spending it.

That summer of 2008 was when my white grandparents—and— invited me to their lake house in Ohio for a week. I didn’t know what a lake house was. But I enjoyed spending time with my grandparents, so I was excited to go and see something different.

Again I had to get on a plane. My mom kissed me as I boarded the short flight to Ohio as an unaccompanied minor. The flight itself was uneventful and when I arrived at my destination, I sat in the airport waiting for my grandmother to come pick me up. She hadn’t come for me after nearly half an hour of waiting; I started getting worried. Had I gone to the wrong place? Was I supposed to go somewhere else? Had I been abandoned?

My fears settled when, after a few minutes more, Grandma Barb showed up. I was happy to see her, but a little unsure as to why she had taken so long to come get me. As young children often do, after a few moments I had forgotten about the whole thing. Grandma was kind enough to explain her tardiness to me once we were both loaded into the car. She told me that, since she was white and I was black, when she’d asked the airport attendants if there were any kids on the flight they didn’t think she was referring to me; they didn’t expect a white woman to be picking up a black kid. She’d had to call my mother to make sure she’d written down the right flight, or to make sure that I’d even been on the plane at all! Once my mom verified that I was indeed on the flight, she asked the airport attendants again, this time mentioning that I was black. Ah-ha! The mystery was solved, and Grandma had finally been pointed in the right direction to come get me.

Despite the mishap at the airport, I was excited to see another part of America. Lakeside Ohio is a gated community on the coastline of Lake Erie filled with some of the friendliest people in America. When we pulled up to my grandparents’ house, I was shocked.

Granddad Richard was there waiting. He had arranged a few wooden alphabet blocks to read “Welcome Cami and Wen” on top of the TV (my cousin Cami was also supposed to be coming); Granddad was missing another ‘w’ block and it ended up spelling ‘Welcome Cami and en’, but the effort made me feel really special. What a thrill to have a sign made in my name! After saying ‘hello’ and exchanging various hugs and kisses, I was directed to my very own room. To this day, I don’t think they understand how excited I was about the prospect of my own living space. For the first time in my life I had my own bed, and, while it was small, it was all to myself; a glorious room in a beautiful house that I didn’t have to share with anyone else. I was overjoyed but kept my cool when they took me out to walk around town and show me Lakeside. I didn’t want to embarrass them; not after all they’d done for me. When we returned to the cottage we had a big dinner with corn (I love corn!) and afterward some of my grandparents’ friends came over to introduce themselves. They visited for a little while but, after such an eventful day, I was ready to crash. As soon as the visitors departed and my grandparents tucked me into my very own bed. Though I was excited to wake up the next morning and do something fun in a town I’d never been to before, my adrenaline for the day had been depleted and I fell asleep in the blink of an eye.

I awoke with my first full day at Lakeside wide-open before me, full of possibilities. As I emerged from my room the first person to greet me was Granddad, who was sitting at the table reading the newspaper. He invited me to grab some breakfast and sit with him. As we ate together he told me a little about the town, showed me some pictures, and then explained that today he would be taking me out on a boat. Was I ever excited about that! When Grandma finally woke up (she was usually the last one up) and showered, she and I road our bikes up a hill. Even though I knew how to ride a bicycle, I’d never owned one of my own. Lucky for me, Granddad had a few spares in his shop which he allowed me to use so I could freely cruise around town like one of the cool kids. This was the first time I had a bike to use as I wished (and one that was actually my size).

At the top of the hill there was a place where I could sign up to take day classes to learn fun skills, like painting, drawing, or other types of crafts, for only one dollar. I had my sights set on the painting class right away. I’d never before painted anything. The possibility of dipping a brush in one color of paint or another and swiping it across my canvas to create an image I had in my mind excited me. And, for only one dollar, there was no way I was going to pass up the opportunity!

When I received confirmation on which of the painting classes I would be in, I was eager to get back home, eager to go out on a boat for my first time. When we returned to the house, Granddad was fueling and polishing his 1933 Ford (a.k.a. the Gangster car). I had never seen an old car like that before, so I was thrilled to get in and take a drive down to the beach.

My grandparents’ boat was a beauty. It was a wooden Lyman from the 1950s, painted white on the sides with shiny, lacquered wood on top. It had a matching flag on the front and a red canvas cover over the cockpit… it was so much fun! Granddad would speed along the water and make sharp turns, flinging spray everywhere. I watched the waves behind us churn into white froth as we flew across Lake Erie. Despite all the fun we were having, the sun was hot and we were quickly tiring. It was only a few hours of fun on the lake before we returned home.

I had no restraints the rest of the day; I was free. My grandparents said I could go out anywhere I wanted to – I could take walks or ride my bike or go take more classes at the community center– but I had to be back by nine o’clock in the evening (which is still light out in Ohio in the summertime). I chose to walk down to the dock behind the house. I looked out over the water and watched the people playing in their boats and splashing around in their swimsuits. Since I didn’t know anyone around the lake, I sat there only for a few hours before going home.

The rest of my trip at Lakeside was all about the same. It was seven days’ chock full of memories in pure, delightful summer sunshine on a beautiful lake with my beautiful bike and my lovely bedroom and my fantastic grandparents. I had my share of adventure at that house and I will never forget any of it. Lakeside was the first place I’d ever felt freedom and happiness deep down into the core of my being. Yes, I was happy in Minnesota with my mother and my siblings. Yes, having American friends in my wonderful American school made me happy. Even Mr. Palmer was a source of happiness. But, there, at Lakeside… that was bliss. My grandparents knew precisely how to nourish my young, free-spirited nature; they allowed me to go where I wanted to go, putting only minor responsibilities on me like being home before nine and telling them where I was going to be during the day. They gave me a bicycle so I could look (and feel) cool and have fun around town. They were proud to introduce me to their friends, and even introduced me to one of the neighborhood kids so that I would have someone my age to play with. I left that lake house so incredibly thankful. To this day, I still can’t put my true gratitude into adequate words.

Never before had I felt so free, not only physically, but emotionally and spiritually free, too; freedom from want, from worry, from the pressure of schedules or obligations. The experience I had there has followed me into adulthood. I’ll never forget what true happiness feels like. And all because a kind white couple decided to have a little black grandson like me.

Wooden blocks set on top of My grandparents’ television to

welcome him to Lakeside, Ohio for the first time.

Wen working on some craft in his granddad’s shop.

CHAPTER 7:

The Next Three Years.

“Let’s spend some time together and I’ll open your eyes to a world you might never have known was there.”

Like that speedboat on Lake Erie, the next three years went by with unexpected speed leaving a flash of memories behind it.

My mother, now not only infiltrated by one but two types of cancer, held her wig tightly to her head as she ran from job to job. Val and Sylvie, who were attending local college, rushed up from bed in the early light of day to catch the bus in order to make it on time to their various classes. My other brother, Francis, was busy with high school; his Nintendo console occupied any of his free time. And me? I was still delighting in the attention I got in my own house. As I progressed from grade to grade, my teachers became successively less nice than when I’d first arrived to America. But, despite their increasing sternness, they were still good educators and pretty awesome in their own right.

The summer after my initial visit to my grandparents’ home, I returned once again to Lakeside. The difference was that, now, I was ten; I had hit double digits over the winter and that meant an entirely new level of fun and adventure was opened up to me.

Being ten meant I could enroll into a week-long program called MGM, Middle Grade Ministries. The year before I had been disappointed about not meeting the age requirements for MGM, and had long since (at least, long for a nine-year-old) awaited the day when I would return to Lakeside to partake of the educational ministry and enjoy the fellowship of new friends my age who loved God and Jesus as much as I did. I attended MGM classes daily; air volleyball, contests, Frisbee matches, and other indoor activities filled my week. And it was at MGM that I met my very first American best friend.

Noah was a year older than me and a very cool dude (from my perspective he seemed the coolest of the bunch). So, in order to get into his good graces and to lift my cool factor just a smidgen, I lied when I introduced myself and told him I was just as old as he. My ruse worked! For the rest of the week we sat next to each other and told jokes and had fun. He was a very friendly guy. It didn’t hurt that his sister was pretty and, consequently, my first crush. Noah and I spent a lot of time together that week, even outside of MGM classes. I met his family and—gosh!—were they wonderful people. They were so nice to me; just easy to talk to and so warm and welcoming. Noah and his family helped me remember that, despite the things I’d dealt with in my past (mostly with my own family) there are great people on this earth who can make you happier just by associating with them.

Like the previous summer, the weeklong stay at my grandparents’ house whizzed by and, before I knew it, I was leaving Lakeside and my new best friend behind. I wouldn’t return for another year, but my home and family in Minnesota had enough going on to keep me busy until then.

Back home, my mother’s hard work was finally paying off: she’d saved enough money to buy us a new house with enough rooms so that we could each have our own. My siblings and I relished the thought of having our own private space and, even though we were grateful for the one-bedroom apartment we’d first come to when arriving in America, we were ready to move on to something more spacious. Besides that, it was tiring to hide me from the apartment owners all the time.

We thought finding the perfect home for our family would be an easy task, but it didn’t take long for us to realize that the search for the perfect house is a search that never seems to end. We spent hours upon countless hours driving around the city, looking at different houses, scheduling appointments with realtors, and researching and learning about the different neighborhoods. What a task! After a few months of this non-stop searching, we found a really nice place in our price range which was nearby, in West Saint Paul.

The house seemed to have everything we wanted: it was affordable, had the right number of bedrooms, and was located in a relatively nice, safe neighborhood. We were in love. As a family we decided it was the one for us. My mother swiftly put in an offer to the realtor as the rest of us mentally and emotionally prepared ourselves for moving out of our apartment and into our dream home.

It was at this point that I was reminded how God speaks to us in mysterious (and sometimes frustrating) ways. With our family, God spoke to us by cancelling our plans for this so-called dream home. After putting in the offer on the home we found out, quite by accident, that the current owners were in the middle of a modification: they had ripped out the straight staircase and had installed a winding (and ugly) metal staircase in its place. Because we hadn’t been notified of the planned changes at the time it was being shown to us or at the time my mother put in an offer, the realtor and the sellers were in breach of contract. When my mother confronted the lady realtor and told her she wanted out of the agreement, the realtor became angry and argued that we were bound to the sales contract. After hours of arguing and nearly calling in lawyers to settle the dispute, the realtor agreed to break the deal and let us walk away from the home. We were disappointed in the dishonesty of the realtor; we had our hearts set on moving into that house, but there was no way my mother would agree to a house with an ugly, metal staircase and who-knows-what-else wrong with it. Mom’s thinking was that, if the realtor wasn’t going to disclose the current modifications on the home, what else on the home had been modified, what else we hadn’t been told about, and had there been modifications without the proper building permits? (Without the proper permits registered with certain government offices, we could have ended up in a big heap of trouble if ever we needed to do modifications of our own, or sell the house in the future.)

While my mother understood all these little things about home buying, we kids couldn’t understand what the big deal was. We thought we’d just have to live with a winding stair and, even though we didn’t like the stair, we did like the rest of the house. On top of everything we were eager to move! So I asked our mother why she did that, why had she pulled out of the sale so quickly and over such a small thing?

“That house was not meant for us,” she said. “God knows where we belong. He made sure to show me the problems before I bought the house.”

My mom made me understand that the change in plans was a sign from God telling her that there is a house out there for us, but that one was not it.

The events which followed made all the strange circumstances come together with pristine clarity.

When summertime arrived a few months later we were still living in our one bedroom apartment. It was the summer my mother took me to the store and bought me a bike, a shiny new bike—red with black flames—that I could keep with me all year-round and ride whenever I wanted. (Except when it snowed, of course.) Yes, things were going well and, though we had no house, we were still content living in our cramped apartment.

Then one night I had a dream about my grandfather, my mom’s dad; we were having a conversation. In the dream, my granddad gave me a message to pass along to my mother, then stood up as he looked at me. With that encouraging smile of his, he turned around and walked away from me toward a room too dark for me to see into. Before he entered the room he turned around one more time to look at me. He smiled, almost in tears, and then disappeared into the darkness. I woke from the dream a little confused, but didn’t put much weight on it. I quickly went back to sleep next to my mother, whom I shared a bed with.

The next day, after everyone had gotten up, Sylvie and I went out job hunting (we did everything together). We were gone most of the day. When we returned home that afternoon, we found mom standing in the kitchen crying and yelling into the house phone, speaking in Bahbah (the language of our village). We watched her; by the time she got off the phone she was still crying. Scared and confused, we asked her what was wrong. She told us that was our uncle, her brother, on the phone, and that he was calling from Africa to let us know our granddad had passed away. She had been told before that my grandfather did not want to be buried unless his daughter, my mom, was at his funeral to say goodbye to him one last time. My mother had to figure out how to get to Cameroon and bury her dad.

It was then that I recalled the dream I’d had the previous night. I realized I was the last person to “talk” to Granddad. He had given me a message for my mother; had told me things he wanted me to always remember. As I watched my mother sobbing in the kitchen, I knew now was the time for me to pass the information given me by my grandfather onto her. I waited until later that night, when I would have a moment with her alone to tell her what I knew. She was still very sad, but I told her about the dream, about everything that happened in my dream, and told her what granddad had told me. She hadn’t forgotten about my abilities and visions about people dying; she remembered the incident back in Africa when I was an infant and wouldn’t stop crying. She also knew that my grandfather was aware of my ability, so it made perfect sense the he would come to me in a dream to talk to me before passing away.

Flying to Cameroon at that time, for an immediate fare, cost upwards of $2,000. We understood now why we weren’t meant to have that house which we had wanted to badly. Had my mother spent all her savings on purchasing a home she wouldn’t have had anything left to afford airfare to Africa. My grandfather’s dying wishes would have gone unfulfilled. And, in our culture, that was unforgiveable.

My mom believes God knows everything; she believes He tries to point us in the right direction, guiding us with little hints like he did with the circumstances surrounding that dream house of ours in South Saint Paul. But, unlike many people, my mother never overlooks anything that happens to her. Because of her faith she was able to keep her eyes open and see things for what they were: messages from God. She prays, she believes, she loves, and she works very, very hard. My mom is quite amazing; her faith is incredible. God has never failed her in the ways that truly matter. That He protected her from spending all her money on a house, therefore leaving funds available to her to fulfill her father’s wishes, is a good example of how God is always thinking ahead for her and guiding her to make the right choices.

Lakeside Ohio from the boat view

Wen sitting with one of the cool cat that ever lived, Kaboodle

CHAPTER 8:

People & Possessions.

“At the point when your possessions start to control you,

you have lost your life.”

By using the money from her savings account, my mom was able to afford to purchase airfare to Cameroon in order to lay her father to rest. She had to leave us kids at home in America—there was no way she could afford tickets for us all, nor did she want us to miss out on school—but she did spend a little extra money to buy a few things for friends and family who she would be visiting.

A three-stop flight, bouncing from Minneapolis to Atlanta, then from Atlanta to France, and from France to finally arrive in Cameroon, is the most typical and quickest route from America to home. It was a long trip and, when she got off the plane in Africa, she was very tired. Her brother was there at the airport with a car, awaiting her arrival, and she was driven the rest of the way with some good company despite the hazardous and unsafe road conditions.

Family matters in Cameroon are quite serious. My mother barely got any rest from her flight before she went right to work, doing everything her father had told me to tell her to do to prepare him for burial and for his funeral ceremony. In between all her tasks (and there were many!) she would call us to see how we were doing. We could tell from her voice that she was extremely stressed. So, after we spoke to her on the phone the first time, the four of us vowed to stay out of trouble and behave while she was away.

It was two weeks before my mother returned home. It was easy to tell she’d been in Cameroon because, first, she’d lost a lot of weight, which is common for people who return to my country after being away for a while; second, her skin had darkened from the intense African sun.

We were happy to see her and gather around to hear what had happened in Cameroon. The stories were many and too long to go over in this book in detail, but, all in all, the trip was a success. She told us she’d barely had time to sit down because everyone was relying on her to get things organized for the funeral; handfuls of people were calling for her at the same time, she could barely rest or eat. The family went through with Grandfather’s burial without too much trouble, but the fighting began when time came to divide his property: his land, animals, houses, et cetera. The fighting was mainly between my mother and another person (whom I won’t mention by name). While my mom didn’t really care about having any of the property herself, she also didn’t want her father’s things to be ruined or disrespected; this particular person was known to treat their possessions poorly. My mother eventually won the argument—resulting in my grandfather’s only son receiving all my grandfather’s property—but the resolution did not occur without leaving some scars behind.

After everything was said and done—after the funeral had concluded and after the dividing of Grandfather’s possessions had been settled—my mother prepared to return to America. It was some work to get a ride to get back to the airport. Our mother ended up arguing with our father because he did not want to give her a ride back in the car which she had left for him; it was a car she’d purchased in America with her own money a long time ago. She’d shipped it to Africa for her family to use and now Moh (our father) wasn’t letting her use it. She was running out of time and soon gave up, hiring a series of taxis and buses to take her where she needed to go.

In addition to all the stories, our mom had brought food back with her. It is impossible to go back to my country and not bring back some of the special and native foods they have there. Before she’d left for Africa, my siblings and I had written out lists of the food we missed, of the things we wished for her to bring back to us. She had to do some searching, but my mother didn’t fail us: she’d found everything we’d wanted.

One thing in particular which she brought back with her was a delicious vegetable called cocked eru; it tastes something like spinach. Unfortunately, eru also looks very similar to a particular leaf on America’s illegal drug list. Because she had it in her carry-on bags, my mother got double- and triple-checked by the United States’ FAA and TSA Security Guards. At first glance, a bag of eru looks like a bag of marijuana, but it smells a lot different and the texture is very different. Still, my mother had to do a lot of explaining until the authorities eventually let her keep it, though they were still a little apprehensive. The bag of eru had caused her some amount of trouble, but she’d done well. The fruits of her labor were that we were able to sit around the table, talking and hearing our mother’s stories, relishing in having her with us again and being able to enjoy native Cameroonian food and be reminded of home, together.

It’s sad how possessions can tear a people apart, like how greed and desire for my grandfather’s property drove a wedge between those individuals arguing over it. I wonder sometimes if there are still some hard feelings between my grandfather’s loved ones in Cameroon. I wonder often if he would have been disappointed in them fighting over his things instead of remembering his love and the love he taught them to share.

But, it’s wonderful, still, how some possessions—like a little troublesome eru or a special supper shared—can also bring a people, a family, together with an even tighter bond.

Cooked African eru.

(Image © 2013, Afro Fusion Cuisine, Wauwatosa, WI.

http://www.learnafricancuisine.com/senegalsenegal-thieboudienne-recipe/eru-royal/)

CHAPTER 9:

Finally Home!

“Pain in the past easily translates to lessons for the future.”

The time following my mother’s return from Africa was a productive one. Even though it started off with all of us gaining a few pounds from the food she’d brought back from our home country (and it was well worth it!), we picked right up where things had left off before she’d left: searching for a new home.

As is the case sometimes when in the elegance of God’s plans, we found the right home in a fraction of the time we thought we would need. It was a really great house for us and God had planned it down to a tee, even making the price on the home surprisingly low. Even for being located in a rough neighborhood, the home and neighborhood were still an improvement from where we currently lived. After some paperwork and waiting for the sale to go through, only a few months had passed before we were packing our things to move in and begin a new life in our new home. We had three bedrooms, just enough space so that, if someone slept on the couch and I shared a room, things would fit just right. And that’s how it worked out.

During all this excitement, our mom had been additionally blessed with a reduction in her workload. She scored a full-time job at the biggest university in the state as an employee in the Health Research Database department. Still, with the one job, just as she did when she had two, Mother worked tirelessly at it, docking hours in order to make the money to make due on the new mortgage payments.

Moving to a new neighborhood was not the only change for me. I was to begin the sixth grade at Longfellow Elementary, my final year of classes before heading off to middle school. Sixth grade was a year of blunders and stumbles for me in my social and emotional growth. It was the year in which I learned the art of blame, otherwise known as the “blame game”.

Since the day I’d first started in an American school up through fifth grade, I had easily cruised through coursework because of my excellent education in Africa; I had already learned in Africa everything being taught in my American classes and that put me at the front of the class.

But sixth grade was different. Topics were being taught by different teachers instead of a single teacher for all subjects, even though it was on the same campus. The coursework was more challenging. We were being treated less like children and given more responsibilities; the adults were slowly trying to teach us how to be grown up. It was a little confusing and a lot frustrating. I didn’t do well with the changes.

My Math and English courses were taught by the different teachers. I was already really bad at English. The English teacher I had was mean to me about my lack of skill in that area and I didn’t make it easier on  myself by believing that every mistake I made was my teacher’s fault and not my own. Blaming someone else for my own shortcomings wasn’t the way I was raised. Back in Africa, I had been taught to take responsibility for my actions. In America, though, such failures were handled differently. I was learning the “blame game” from the kids I began to associate myself with at Longfellow.

Fitting in when you’re a foreigner is not very easy and nobody likes being singled out and ridiculed for something they cannot control. It’s a very lonesome way to go about life, especially at a young age. In order to fit in I purposely changed the way I acted, and the way I changed was determined by the kids I hung out with and what they told me was “cool”. I thought being cool was being irresponsible: not caring about school and my assignments, talking during class, ignoring other kids that weren’t up to my standards. I believed I was supposed to hook up with girls, drink, smoke, and fight—all things I instinctively didn’t want to do, all things I hadn’t been raised to do, but things I did anyway because I was desperate to blend in.

Along with my social problems, I was inevitably growing older. My body started having issues that it hadn’t had before. One particularly embarrassing day my gym teacher pulled me aside from class:

“Wen,” he said, “I’m just telling you this because I like you and I don’t want you to get made fun of… but you smell really bad. You should have your parents pick you up some deodorant or something.”

I didn’t know what deodorant was. American kids knew because they grew up seeing their parents using it, or watched TV commercials for deodorant. But no one ever gave me the memo! I had no idea what deodorant was, but apparently I needed it. I went home and had to ask Francis what deodorant was. He showed me what it looked like and I immediately told my mom I needed to get me some.

But it seemed like the negative experiences never stopped coming my way. Aside from having to handle jokes about being African, and then jokes about the way I smelled, I started getting teased about the way I talked and dressed. That I talked differently hadn’t occurred to me before because, to me, all Americans sounded different. But, to them, I was the different one and, because I sounded un-American, I was targeted for ridicule. My accent wasn’t the only reason: people made fun of me because I’m naturally a really fast talker. The most hurtful thing was that the insults came from kids I considered my friends! It changed the way I thought about friendships. Before I thought friends were people like Noah and his family up in Lakeville: kind people who made you feel good about yourself. But, in sixth grade, I began to believe that friends treated one another with meanness, insincerity, and sarcasm. In sixth grade, the people I called my friends were the guys that were “cool,” but they used me as their punching bag and person to go to when they needed something—and I let them do it.

The end of the school year meant the entire class would be celebrating our victory, our “graduation”; the class was scheduled to go on a camping trip up in northern Minnesota. The trip would last a week and it cost a little over $90 for those on the free and reduced school lunch programs, which, for our community, included most of the students, counting myself. But, for me, even the lowered price was too high for my mom’s budget. We are scraping by as it is, she said. I was sorely disappointed; I didn’t want to miss out on the fun or, worse, be ridiculed because I didn’t go on the trip. But, just when I needed it, another stroke of luck hit me and I was suddenly able to go. The trip was a great time overall—we did lots of activities and got to be outside almost all day—but, sadly, I had a little problem there, too.

At camp each student was required to serve food to the other students at least once during the trip. My class consisted mostly of black kids, the rest of the camp was not—we were definitely the minority. When it was my class’ turn to serve food to a line of kids, one white student came up to us and said, “Serve me my food, niggers!” He said it in front of his friends and they all thought it was funny, so they laughed and walked away. The ironic thing about the situation was that the kid said it straight to the guy in our class (one of my so-called “friends”) who didn’t mind getting in trouble, didn’t mind a good fight, and was always happier when someone else started the trouble. The kid who did the taunting had unknowingly sent out his own death wish to my classmate. After the comment was made, my friend smiled, served the kid his food, and, at the same time, told the kid “we” (our class) would find him after we were done. I didn’t go along with my “friend” and his plans but some of my other classmates did. It turned out that the kid who called us ‘niggers’ got a very bad beating. To drive the point home even further, my friends waited until the kid and his group were out doing something. They then went to their cabin and stole all their snacks and junk food. When I walked into our room later I saw all my black classmates sitting on their beds, eating junk food like nothing had happened. Later they explained to me what they had done. I truly felt bad for the other kids. Even though what he said was very wrong, I knew that beating him up for it wouldn’t help to change his mind about black people. It was my first true experience with the violence associated with racial discrimination.

When I returned home from camp I looked as dark as night. As my mom was picking me up from the school parking lot, where the bus dropped us off, she immediately commented on how dark I looked and about the weight I’d lost in only five days. I told her I hadn’t eaten much; I hated the food there, I said, and had spent a lot of time outside. Before we started for home, she left me at the car and went to talk with Mr. Palmer. I didn’t know what they were talking about, but found out later that she was thanking him: he was the reason I was able to go on the trip. Apparently, Mr. Palmer really wanted me to go with them up north—he thought it would be a great experience for me. Knowing we couldn’t fully afford the ticket price, he had offered to pay for half of it. I was able to go on that trip because of his generosity. It was an act of kindness that I’ve never forgotten.

Sixth grade flew by for me. I ended it a different person than I had started out as. My time at Longfellow was short, and the American summers I’d enjoyed so far had been educational, if not interesting. Those years held for me humiliating and depressing memories, memories and humiliations from which I have learned and grown. I’d been made fun of by my peers, bullied by my friends, knowingly changed my personality, found out my body was against me, and learned the nature of hatefulness and the brutality that differences can sometimes cause to rise up within people. Still, despite the hardships, I feel like I learned what I was supposed to learn and saw what I was meant to see. I left that school the way I should have left it: changed.

Playing with a cell phone, and my friend playing PlayStation in sixth grade year.

Me and “Elvis” when he came to Lakeside.

CHAPTER 10:

Middle School.

“Being young, your mind is limitless.

But, as you get older, the limits begin growing on you.”

Seventh grade meant middle school, an opportunity to refresh my image and restart myself. My first day there I felt like a new man. The school was Murray Junior High, located in Saint Paul, and was well known for being a safe campus and having great teachers—two things I found firsthand to be precisely true. My brother had attended Murray and had nothing but good things to say about his experiences there; I was excited to be able to follow in his footsteps, to be a big man, and to leave the hardships of elementary school behind me.

Moving from room to room throughout the day and getting adjusted to the responsibilities of my own timekeeping and the logistics of handling a locker all seemed pretty simple to me. I lucked out with Mrs. Crowley as the bright and shining light of every morning in homeroom. I couldn’t have asked for a better place to start and prep my mind for the next two years of my educational career. Our first day, Mrs. Crowley went around the room from student to student—there were only a few of us—wanting to know a little about us, and wanting us to get to know each other. I remember that first homeroom group being composed of a rainbow of students who didn’t seem very similar at all; I had my subtle doubts about how things would go. But, much to my pleasure and amazement, by the end of our two years together at Murray we would all be great friends; we would follow each other into high school, continuing to share our experiences and the pains of growing up into and beyond high school graduation.

Homeroom, like any classroom does, had the clown (Carter B.), the ghetto stars (whose names I can’t recall), the one girl who had a talent for motivating (Cyrie), and the guy who was always trying to be a part of the excitement (me).

Starting off, I pulled out a few tricks from my experiences in elementary school which, I hoped, would help me fit in. First, I took to heart the advice from my old gym teacher and made sure to douse myself daily in deodorant. I hoped the stuff would solve most of my problems; I knew smelling bad wouldn’t be a great start for trying to make friends, much less for spurring conversation with girls. Sadly, the deodorant I had purchased didn’t work well with my body type and I ended up still giving off an odor that other kids found unpleasant. During that era of my life, jeans and baggy clothes were the going style and, luckily, my brother and my mom’s best friend’s son had a few pairs of old jeans they were willing to donate to my cause. I didn’t mind hand-me-downs and made do with what I had, even though the shirts I wore were not even close to my size and, on top of that, had inconspicuous rips and holes in them. Still, they weren’t shabby and I was better off wearing them than facing the consequences of not following fashion protocol at all. I found that as long as I didn’t fuss, nobody seemed to notice, so I did my best not to care.

Shoes were a whole other issue. Like many pre-teen boys my age I was growing fast and my selection of footwear was constantly trying to keep up. My mother, I knew, couldn’t afford to get me new shoes all the time, so I would either gratefully accept my older brother’s unused pairs when he got the notion to gift them to me, covertly borrow his shoes without asking, or purchase pairs of my own at nearby discount and thrift stores. At the end of the day, though I was not the best dressed kid in school with my hand-me-down clothes and my variegated (and often borrowed) footwear collection, I was happy to at least have some choices at my disposal.

Even four years after coming from Africa, I hadn’t yet adjusted to the heavy grease that hung heavily in my stomach from the American foods served at public schools. Everything still tasted greasy and hung heavily in my stomach. I had a really hard time adapting to the American diet. In Cameroon, most of our foods were locally grown, carefully prepared, and extremely healthy (with the exception of desserts). Our meals were composed mostly of greens and vegetables with a minimal portion of meat thrown in, which is why my family had such strong immune systems when we first arrived in the States. In America, the foods weren’t anything like that. The first time I ate pizza I threw up. Cereal, though, was one of the best things ever invented (ice cream, peanuts, and popcorn being the others). Those foods weren’t entirely new to me; Cameroon had those luxuries, too, but, because they were so rare, it was a nice change that America had them available to eat whenever I wished.

Candy was one of my big addictions. I loved candy, even in Cameroon, and when I came here the delightful little sweets were so much more accessible and a lot cheaper—a winning situation. The year I arrived in America my mother took me to a dentist, my second dental visit in all my life. I had eighteen cavities. Americans don’t really seem to appreciate good dentistry; they don’t understand that dental care is a service not readily available in many countries, including Africa. My first dental visit in Cameroon involved an extraction; I had a cavity so bad that having it filled wasn’t even an option. I remember the removal process being so painful, that I went home whimpering and spitting out blood along the way. Now, in America, with eighteen cavities on my hands, I was jolted into a frightful stupor; the traumatizing memory of the pain from my Cameroonian dentist paralyzed me. Thankfully my mom—who was always by my side—suffered with me and held my hand through a fit of procedures which, in the end, brought my teeth back from the brink of disaster.

School-served breakfasts and lunches were, simply put, buffets of bad choices. Though the school district was attended mostly by children of families with drastically limited incomes and, therefore, the children were on either free or reduced-cost lunch programs, I still couldn’t believe what the kids were willingly eating, what the schools were serving us. The chicken patties looked nothing like chicken; the hamburgers were dark, off-colored discs wedged between two flavorless pieces of bread, and I can’t even begin to describe the vision that was what they called ‘meatloaf’. It was the worst food I’d ever seen. I was and still am under the impression that we were served food meant for criminals and inmates in the prison system. Perhaps the food was meant to motivate us to strive for better.

Aside from Mrs. Crowley, the teachers at Murray were all pretty cool and friendly while still demanding the best from us. I had two teachers who never gave me slack at all, but they ended up earning my admiration and respect and being my favorites, two of the ones who drew out of me the best that I could be. Those two were my English Language Learners (ELL) teachers. They knew from experience that their students could learn English; they believed we could do better than we thought we could. There was no room for pity or laziness; they pushed us and taught us with the conviction that we were just as smart and as capable as any other student. At first I hated them because they weren’t easy (kids always like things easy) and they reminded me of my hard-nosed teachers in Cameroon (minus the beatings) who were relentless in their methods. They were hard, they were demanding, and they didn’t let us forget it. I finally began to appreciate their drive for perfection when I achieved a great score on a test—best in class—and the teacher made sure to congratulate me. Before then, I hadn’t realized how bright I was, and I learned a lot in the two years of ELL I had. I wouldn’t have realized my scholastic abilities had they not pushed me and believed in me the way they did. And, for that, I am forever indebted.

Social life at Murray Junior High was not much easier than it had been in elementary school. Due to my inescapable circumstances—dress and hygiene; ultimately, money—I couldn’t position myself at the social status I had hoped for. I had people I could talk to, but, like in elementary school, my network of companions found it more entertaining to tease me when we were around others and then befriend me when we were alone. But, despite the maliciousness of some of my companions, I did have fortune enough to meet three of my longest lasting friends: Zack, a small, funny Asian kid who wasn’t shy about talking to me on the bus; his older brother, Bobbi, who was aloof at first, yet kind and brotherly to me in the end; and, lastly, a fellow named Fred.

While I learned the art of blame at Longfellow, middle school cleared the path for me to find, understand, and work at what I loved: technology. It was a time when cellular phones were really becoming a huge part of everyday life. I began looking more and more into cell phones with the help of my sister, who loved me so much that she funded most of my passion for cell phones for the first part of my middle school career. I remember having the coolest phone in school, an old Motorola with a QWERTY keyboard you could slide open. It was the first time since being in America that I felt uniquely special; everyone was asking me about the phone and my social status suddenly elevated. I was finally cool. Having the Motorola phone led me to another which I had to work really hard to afford: a Nokia N95 8GB with Symbian technology. At the time, that model was still up there in rank and the coolest out on the market, but it was priced highly at $600 so I had a lot of work to do to earn to the money to purchase it. No help from big sister this time. It took me two months to save up enough cash, but I finally was able to buy the N95. With WiFi, 8 gigabytes of memory, and a dual-directional sliding cover, man, was it state of the art! With that piece of technology in my hands, I was most definitely the coolest guy in school, or at least felt like it. People wanted to have a look at my expensive technological handset. From that instant, cell phones became a somewhat easily accessible passion and hobby which eventually developed into something much more.

Middle school was a season of sports, of which my favorite was soccer. I loved playing soccer. In Africa I had watched with awe as other kids played and now—finally!—I was big and fast enough to join in the fun. My team was called the Black Hawks; we were really good and won almost every game. Playing for the Black Hawks was not cheap, though, what with the cost of uniforms, cleats, transportation to games, and (not to mention) the time involved, but, as always, my mom wanted me to be happy and she worked hard to make sure I could participate. At the end of that period in my life, the cost of me playing soccer totaled in the thousands of dollars. The game was difficult but I learned to enjoy sports, where once I had shied away from them due to my size. My athleticism from that period has followed me into adulthood and, once again, I have my mother to thank for it.

The Black Hawks always had great practices and great games, but always had an even better time just hanging out together. The team was really close, like brothers almost; we had a lot of fun messing around, going out to eat, and, at the end of the year, having a party at a friend’s house to celebrate the season. Playing soccer in America was the epitome of fun, but within those fun times was one of the very few instances at Murray where I experienced racial discrimination directed specifically at me.

The incident occurred after we won a match. While we were meeting with the other team on the field to thank them for the good game, one kid suddenly came up to me. He spat on his hand, grabbed mine, and shook it forcefully. I was too grossed out to think much of it; I wasn’t really sure what he was trying to tell me by doing something like that. I was the only black person on the team, and when I told my mom about what that boy had done during the handshakes she was very upset. She was angry that the one sport that should be the least discriminatory sport in the world because it was so popular worldwide would have those types of attitudes in it. She made her anger known to the Black Hawks coach. Our team ended up having to sit through lessons on diversity and racial sensitivity. I griped a little about the class, but my mom told me that if no one complained the problem would never stop, so I learned to accept my suffering and move on

The last big thing that happened in middle school was when my mom gave me “the talk.” Now, most people, depending on their ethnicity, will think of different things when I say “the talk.” For some teens “the talk” is about relationships or growing older or sex or any of the above. But, as an African in America, the talk is nothing less than complicated. “The talk” is about watching your back. It is about protecting yourself. It is this: never aggravate anyone; if you are walking out of a store, walk out alone so if something is stolen you do not get arrested; do not talk back or fight with a cop, always answer respectfully; do not be too trusting, especially to non-blacks; and people will stab you in the back to get ahead. This talk gets much worse and more depressing than this, but those were the points which have really stuck with me over the years.

With the excitement of my new technological gains, being a Black Hawk, and having a slight increase in my “cool” factor, the two years of middle school went quick by as a flash. The glow and glory of high school was on the horizon and, as I was getting ready to leave my eighth grade classes for the final time, I reflected on the things I had learned while at Murray. There were many experiences which impacted me—from my homeroom teacher to my new friends to my newfound love of technology—but, above all, the most important lesson I learned was from that unfortunate incident at soccer practice. I walked away from the soccer field understanding that I shouldn’t be shocked when something racist happens to me; it happens to everyone and I shouldn’t make a big deal out of it. This is one major point my mom and I will disagree on. I am very subtle in the way I handle situations; I do not believe getting mad and making a fuss will solve the problem. I feel like if you act like it does not bother you, then people will stop. They’re looking for a reaction and, by reacting, a person can only drive on the anger and unfounded hate.

Despite the hard lessons, I was growing up. Nothing could stop that. I was done with middle school. I was ready to move on to the big leagues: high school. I started at Murray Junior High as a lost, socially awkward boy, and felt I was, for the most part, coming out exactly the same way (with only a couple of improvements). How hard could high school be, anyway?

Me walking the cat also sometimes called  “The cat formerly known as Pearl”

Me ready to go to my first all white party in Delaware

CHAPTER 11:

Freshman Years. The Good Years.

“Freshmen year is the year reality hits you and you start

making new plans.”

I had the same hope going into high school that I’d had for middle school: that it was another chance at a new beginning for me. I was excited, full of hope, and wishing for the best. My older brother, Francis, had also attended my school—Como Senior High—through 2005. When I began in 2008, I was more than thrilled to once again fill his shoes. My mom had a habit of telling me to be more like my brother, so going to the same high school as him seemed like another great step in the right direction.

Como was a very popular school and, back when my brother attended it was high on the national ranking. Unfortunately, by the time I arrived on the scene that was no longer the case. Though it was the same campus, the school I knew as Como was not the same school Francis had attended; the student body was much less focused on education and much more focused on social status and making friends. Once again, human nature kicked in and I had to learn to survive by adapting to my environment.

The first day at Como was unnerving. Being a first generation immigrant from Africa, I had no reference point from which to gauge my adolescence; therefore, I learned about how to survive high school from watching television. I didn’t know what to expect on the walk between my house and the bus stop and, as I stood at the bus stop, I realized I was the only freshman there. Awkwardness set in. I stood alone, off to the side, watching the other students and hoping not to be noticed. The bus came. I got on and faced my next problem: where to sit. There was an obvious unspoken hierarchy to bus seating, so I looked nervously left and right, standing in the aisle in a quiet panic. Finally, after what seemed ages, I spotted a familiar face. My buddy, Fred, was on the bus, too; he was sitting alone so I took point and sat with him. My first hurdle had been successfully cleared. During the ride Fred and I chatted a little, sharing our worries and concerns about our new venture quietly between ourselves as the bus bumped along toward our destination. Once we arrived at school, we went in, picked up our class schedules, and went our separate ways. It’s hard to accurately remember what happened the rest of the day. It was a confusing blur filled with moments of nervousness, vast seas of freshman confusion, and prayers—lots of prayers—which pleaded to God that I wouldn’t embarrass myself or get in the way of a hot-headed senior.

The first weeks drifted by fairly easily. I didn't make any huge mistakes, I was not bullied… and there was a dance coming up. The Homecoming Dance was scheduled for the third week of school. It would be my first opportunity to go to a dance not held during school hours. I could even bring a date if I had one. But I didn’t. I was too busy feeling my way around, trying to find my place; I didn’t have time to get a date so soon! Besides, I was on alert: from what I’d heard from TV shows and people I’d talked to, Homecoming Week (the week before the dance was held) was five days of freshman torturing. I prepared myself, took precautions. When walking the hallways, I’d always be with a friend; I didn’t use the bathrooms alone; I made sure to stay out of people’s way. I made it through Homecoming Week without a scratch. I privately celebrated my victory and prepared myself for the next glorious stage: my first high school dance. I contemplated who I might dance with (who might dance with me?) and if it would be as much fun as I was hoping. With all the questions bouncing around in my head, my hopefulness turned to doubt, which eventually turned to fear, and I, in effect, psyched myself out of going. I went to bed that night realizing I’d missed my first real socializing opportunity of high school. I was worried at first, but soon realized it was no big deal. There would be more opportunities to come.

My life was complicated. In regard to school, freshmen year was not that distinct from any of the previous educational re-starts I’d had: I made a lot of friends, had a lot of good classes, and found a place to fit in. It was all good stuff. The real issue with freshmen year happened outside of school.

That year my mom’s health was not doing well and her work wasn’t making things easy on her. She was still doing data entry work at the largest university in Minnesota, where she had been for the past five years. By that time, she was the most knowledgeable staff member in the office. She was so expert at her craft that the management team started having her train new employees, something that was not part of her job description. Training took a lot of effort and time; she would work long hours taking care of her own tasks only to have to stay longer to help others learn theirs. Being a strong believer in the separation of church and state, my mom did her best not to bring her work problems home with her. But, still, we could all tell the new responsibilities were taking a toll on her health. Working there, even doing the extra stuff, was fine with her. She had no complaints. Until one day it all changed.

A new job was posted. It was a lead department position and, with her background, seniority, and overall knowledge, it was a spot my mom rightfully deserved. She fit all the qualifications listed; she felt she was a shoe-in for the job. My mom applied. Weeks passed. Then one day she found out that the qualifications—the ones which she had fit—had been lowered. Then she discovered the position was no longer available. It turned out that the department she worked in had found someone under-qualified for the position, with less experience, and gave the job to her. How could that be? How could an employee, chosen as best-of-the-best in her department, chosen even to train new employees, be passed over for someone less qualified? My mom’s only conclusion was that the other person had gotten the position because she was white.

Mom, angry and disappointed, didn’t tell my siblings and me about what had happened until a few weeks later, when she had made up her mind that she didn’t belong with the company anymore. She had ceaselessly prayed about it, about the situation and about the circumstances, and felt like that it was God’s way of telling her to find something else.

Months passed. The end of my freshman year was rapidly approaching and mom still didn’t have a new job. Though she kept looking, she was now considering starting a business of her own. All this took place toward the end of my freshmen year.

When school was let out for the summer my mom gave me another talk. The Black Man talk. She made sure to tell me, as I remember it: “You are a black man in a white man’s world. Don’t you dare forget that. If you do what your white friends do, don’t expect to survive. If you are not great at what you do, don’t expect to survive. The only way for you to get anywhere in this country is by either being the smartest in your group and making your own way, or being incredibly good at sports or media and making your own way. Either way, you have to work very, very hard.” In my head what she told me translated into: ‘Wen school is not the way to do it. Get great at something and do it fast.’ I tossed the discussion in my mind. I thought of my mom. She had many degrees, a number of years of experience, and a great work ethic. I felt that if she couldn’t survive in the business world, how could I expect to be any different? That talk was the reason why for my next three years in high school I looked out for only myself.

At the same time I found myself helping my mom with her new business. She had going to people’s homes, people who were in need, and taking care of them. This business, at the time, was orchestrated from our basement. She had the business phone installed next to my computer so that I could answer it for her and take messages. My mom worked so hard, the least I felt I could do for her was to be her secretary. So, other than the usual week in Lakeside with my grandparents and with friends who didn’t care about my awkwardness but who only cared about me as a person, I spent most of my freshmen summer helping my mother with her new business.

I ended freshmen year with a lot on my plate. I started rethinking my life’s strategy. That was when I decided school really wasn’t the way to go. I committed, subconsciously, to myself; I told myself that if I really wanted to make my dreams come true I couldn’t do it by turning in papers for classes; I had to learn something and being great at it. I had yet to decide what that magical thing was, but I had an idea.

My room in high school after becoming a blogger.

Me and one of my best friend’s laying out and getting tan.

CHAPTER 12:

Florida, the Heartbreak Cure.

“Parents who completely shelter their children from the world are, first, setting them up to fail, and, second, from growing and having the life experience they need to be a great person in the future.”

After a year of doing successful in-home service, my mom’s business changed completely after her meeting with an old friend. They talked and the discussion made my mom reconsider which direction she wanted to take her company and, soon, she’d decided to go from in-home caregiving to relocation services, to assist people in need from a group home to assisted living communities or low-income housing. Mom’s business was now to relocate those people who were not completely disabled and were still partly independent from living in group homes intended for the completely dependent.

At the same time my mom’s business was shifting gears, my brothers were doing equally well. Val, the eldest, had just finished college and had plans for attending medical school; Francis was just about done with school and would be going to college to obtain an engineering degree. Sylvie had married, moved to Delaware, had a baby girl, Zina, and was working toward finishing school. I was left to my own devices; man of the house.

The first two years in high school were so similar that it all seems like one long and blurred memory, but, of them, sophomore year was the least significant. I was not performing well in school and it was adversely affecting me at home. The summer after my sophomore year I spent with my sister in Florida, where she went to enjoy the hot tropical weather.

Junior year began a change in me, even though it started out like any other. School was going as usual and I was getting along just fine with everyone. I was a much less awkward kid by this time, having adjusted myself—finally—to American ways, and so I got along with a few different cliques within the school. My two closest friends were Swai and Kumbi, two guys who I did everything with. We spent a lot of time out at my house, doing homework together and such, and, on weekends, we would go to movies. Throughout high school I had a job as a tech editor, and I used my wages to fund our escapades to the mall or when we went out to eat. It was a great time, just the three of us.

And then there was Lynn.

She was a girl I’d known in middle school. I remembered being in eighth grade drama class with her. She gave the best hugs. Back then I had looked forward to seeing her every day. Now, in high school, we stopped occasionally to talk in the hallways and, once we traded phone numbers the texting started. At the time I thought nothing of it; I didn’t think I had a chance of getting together with her, first, because I was not very good at talking to girls, and, second, she had a boyfriend. Seeing my obvious trouble with girls, Swai came to the rescue. He told me if a girl with a boyfriend hit on you it meant she didn’t care much about her boyfriend. He encouraged me text her back, even going as far as to tell me what to say and what not to say, what to do and not to do. Swai was the reason Lynn and I ever dated in the first place.

Weeks after trading phone numbers, Lynn and I were texting. Constantly. It seemed we were stuck to each other (at least by phone) like white on rice. Through it all, though, she kept hold of her boyfriend, so I soon began to feel guilty and uncomfortable about us texting. But I liked her and continued on, with Swai’s encouragement, of course.

One day after school I asked Lynn for a hug goodbye. I was shocked when she said no, and had no idea her boyfriend was standing behind me. I angrily walked away from her and refused to talk to her all night or the next day. Soon she sent a message to me on Facebook telling me she’d broken up with her boyfriend. In my head I was cheering, but Swai told me to calm down; he said I should pretend not to care; he was trying to teach me the tricks of the dating game. A week after receiving that Facebook message, Lynn and I started talking again. We planned a date to the movies, my very first. It was not easy, especially with my buddies on the other side of me (yes, they had to come, too) whispering that I needed to make a move on her, and how exactly to do it. I was stuck in the middle of a nervous, sweaty-handed onslaught, sitting between this amazing girl and my buddies, who kept telling me that if I didn’t make a move, I’m a girl. Needless to say, I didn’t really get to watch any of the movie.

Fast forward one month. Lynn and I were officially dating and I was madly in love. Seventeen years old and already I couldn’t imagine being with anyone else. Looking back now, I think when a person is young and still trying to understand the world their emotions are new and sensitive and ten times as powerful as they are in adulthood, which is why the first love is always the deepest. With this girl I was ready to stop dating cold turkey. I was ready to go on vacations with her. I was ready to give up my best friends for her… and I did.

Swai and Kumbi, along with other friends I’d had, slowly grew resentful and angry toward me for spending more time with her than I did with them. They stopped wanting to hang out; some started talking behind my back. Only one friend understood what I was going through; only he had the guts to warn me of my impending doom. My friend Bobbi, who I’d initially met in junior high and was a little older (and wiser) than me, warned me not to be so blind, that I shouldn’t already be planning out my life with this girl. He admitted his concern but also left me alone enough to make my own decision about it; he told me that he wouldn’t stop me from dating Lynn even though he knew I would end up hurt, that he just wanted me to know he would always be there if I needed someone to talk to. Bobbi was and still is a true friend. He was absolutely right about Lynn and about everything else he’d told me back then.

Before the close of the school year, in the spring, my first love would end. After taking Lynn out to one of the most expensive dinners I will ever pay for, she asked if she could go to the museum with another guy. I trusted her—she’d asked me for permission, after all!—and I told her I didn’t mind. The following day she told me something that broke my heart: she said she’d gone on a date with a guy from one of my classes who had recently tried befriending me. Like a man falling off a cliff, I grabbed for air, reached for anything and did everything I could do to stay with her. We dated for another long and grueling week before finally breaking it off. Me being a techie, and with Facebook and cell phones being commonplace, you are not broken up until the relationship has gone what is called “Facebook official”; the way Lynn announced our situation was plain cold: she borrowed my phone so she could use it to change her Facebook relationship status to “single”. Even if I were not a techie guy it would’ve hurt. You simply do not wound a man using his own phone. That’s pretty low.

After that I was completely heartbroken. I couldn’t talk without choking on my tongue. Eating was something I just did not want to do. A week later I was in Florida with Sylvie, and being far away from Lynn and Minnesota made me feel a lot better. My sister has always been able to see through my emotional curtains; she knew I was coming to Florida because I needed a break from everything related to Lynn. She allowed me to come to her place in Florida, risking the wrath of my mom, who wasn’t happy that I’d left a few days before spring break even began and, thus, missed out on valuable school time.  But, my sister has always been doing whatever she can to make me happy. She was willing to take the risk for me; she knew I needed it.

So, junior year ended with heartbreak and, as hurtful as it was, I think that was what my life needed. Like my mother does, I believe every experience, no matter how insignificant or small it may seem, is part of God’s plan for us to grow into the people we are meant to be in the future. The experience with Lynn changed me completely and, even considering the pain, I am glad I went through it.

My granddad surprising me by flying back to MN for my graduation,

I was so happy and speechless to see him there.

One of my best friends in my dorm. I taped

him to my bed so he would go to sleep. Love you bro!

CHAPTER 13:

Bigger… Nicer… Better!

“Educate yourself the best you can; use the public educational system as a supplement to enhance the knowledge you’ve gained on your own.”

When you are hurt and huddled into a useless heap on the ground, you can either lay there with no hope of standing back up or you can decide for yourself to stand up stronger than before. I chose to do the latter. The emotional experience of my first love and the ensuing heartache made a world of difference in the way I saw myself after returning from Florida.

In 2011, my mom was doing so well with her business that summer that she upgraded to a new, roomier house in a safer community. It was during that move that I truly realized how much work and toil my mom went through to make her family, not only comfortable, but at home.

Even though it was out of her budget, my mom ended up choosing a house I really liked. I wasn’t interested in any of the other houses we’d looked at—none of them called to me, none of them felt like home. After she decided to buy the house my mom’s business suddenly became even busier. The government in Minnesota was getting ready to shut down due to our senators’ inability to come to a decision on the state budget. Mom had a lot of preparations to do before that happened. She asked me to do some things for her and, because I had a new appreciation for all her hard work, I didn’t ask questions. I just did it. She gave me her car keys, gave me instructions, and I did it. If she needed me to move something to the new house, if she needed me to answer phones, if she needed me to get an oil change on the car, it didn’t matter: I’d do it.

The saying, “see it to believe it,” fits when talking about how hard of a worker my mother is. Her dedication can only truly be appreciated if you go shopping with her, especially if you’re going out to buy her something nice for herself. When we got the big house, Mom and I went out to buy her a new bed. It was supposed to be a treat for her; she worked so hard to make us kids comfortable that I wanted to make sure she got something that made her comfortable, too. But the shopping experience didn’t start off well. First, no one in the store came to help us. When a saleswoman finally noticed we were standing around, waiting, she approached and asked what we were looking for. She showed us some nice but very cheap beds, obviously not expecting us to spend much if we spent anything at all. My mom wasn’t happy about this; she was always aware of when people made assumptions about her. I could tell Mom was getting upset, so I jumped in and told the saleswoman that we wanted something bigger, nicer, better. The lady got the idea. She showed us a really good one—one I thought would be perfect—and she didn’t forget to mention that there was a built-in drawer where my mom could keep her firearm (I laughed at when she said it, but the saleswoman didn’t seem to notice). The lady finally came to the point in her pitch where she asked my mom to decide whether she wanted a soft mattress or a firm one. Seeing some confusion on my mom’s face, the saleswoman proceeded to ask my mom if she knew the difference.

“When I go to bed,” my mother said, “I do not worry about how soft or firm my bed is. I worry about if they [my kids] can eat tomorrow and if I am doing everything I can to give them a chance at a great future. I would sleep on the floor if I needed to.”

I sighed. The saleswoman looked confused and a little ashamed.

We bought the bed with a soft mattress and left the store.

Things like that come out of my mom’s mouth all the time. Those words leave me, and sometimes people around us, feeling guilty. Even though the saleswoman had no idea about our situation, I knew that my mom had been sick for a number of years, that her cancer never went away, but that I had never seen her cry over herself. When my mom is weak, when she’s sick or tired, she keeps going and doesn’t let her children see her stumble. She’s an exceedingly strong woman. She remembers life in Africa; she remembers the kind of houses we lived in and the kinds of clothes we wore (or didn’t wear), and the kinds of things we had to go without. Sleeping on the floor is nothing to her. On top of that, America is a powerful, new place, full of new rules and discriminating people, of undeserving people who don’t appreciate what they have and blame others for it. I think my mom believes that, if she gives up, her children will have lost some hope of surviving in this harsh world, even a harsh world in America.

After everything happened—the new house, the new appreciation for my mother, the mattress, and the completion of our move—I felt I’d emerged from the summer as a young man. I started searching for happiness from within my own self rather than from a girl. I started exercising and working out to get in shape; I believed (and still believe) that you must look good to feel good; to me, looking good meant being physically fit and liking what I see in the mirror. Even though I hadn’t graduated from high school yet, I had started my own business. I felt I knew something others didn’t, and it turns out I was right. When senior year came around not only was I a new man, a better man, but I also started at a new school: East Ridge High. I was “the new guy”, coming late in the game with a fresh beginning and a whole new head on my shoulders. My new guy name was originally “the black guy with beats”, but as people grew to know me and respect me, they simply learned to call me Wen. It was only a few weeks before I knew enough people there to feel right at home.

East Ridge educated a lot of students from many different areas. It seemed nobody came from the same places and, because of that broad and untapped knowledge filtering through hundreds of different backgrounds, I quickly became the “go to” guy for information on anything, from upcoming parties to something to do on a Friday night, to the ins and outs of the newest cell phones and who had what type of device. As a result, I got some of my own partying done, as should everyone their senior year of high school.

I was not that focused on my grades. To me, because of what I’d gleaned from my mother’s wisdom and her personal experiences, I felt that, while a “classroom” education is very important, getting all my education from books and homework was not my priority. I believe the education you acquire on your own—from people and from doing things outside the classroom—sticks with you more than those things you get from testing and books and a classroom smart board.

Even without spectacular grades, I still graduated high school and earned my diploma. I was now ready for college, ready to start another four years of formal education. After all she’d been through, my mother never would have let me live had I not gone through with college. (In fact, I’m enrolled in school now, as this book is being written.) After some thought, I decided on a place: Florida, the birthplace of my renewal. I made preparations to begin my college experience in sunny, warm, and snowless weather. I decided to attend college near where Sylvie lived, so she could help me with any coursework or social barriers I might run into. Also, I chose to be near my sister because it would relieve my mom from worrying about me and, hopefully, allow her to relax a little more. Though I’m still young, I finally realize I am my mother’s baby: I am and have been the most demanding person she has had to deal with. Still, I know she’s happy with the way I am turning out.

My future is currently very bright. My own business, though small, is doing well. I am halfway through college at the University of West Florida learning Computer Science and Marketing, and expect to graduate May of 2014. After that, I plan to return to Africa, to show my family and the people there who I still love how different America is, how incredibly hard it is and how equally wonderful and beautiful.

Looking back, I cannot believe I transformed from a hopeful, awkward and depressed kid to the person I am today. Life in the United States is the best thing anyone can ask for. It really is the land of hope, possibilities, options, and, most of all, happiness. Though some people will always discriminate, though some circumstances and personalities cannot be avoided, there still is nowhere in America that is as bad as certain places in Africa. Coming here gave me hope when I was five and still does now that I’m in college. I look at my future as something that’s all but a guaranteed success.

One day I will return to Cameroon to change as much as I can for the people who live there. But, first, I need to focus on my goals and accomplish what needs to be accomplished here, in my second home: America.

The last picture I have of my dad and I

My mom and dad back in the 80s

CHAPTER 14:

The Last Trip.

“Family. There is no one in this world who can replace them.

Leaving your family behind and never going back is like leaving a part of yourself to be lost forever.”

Though it had been over ten years, I never thought it would be so soon before I had to return home to Cameroon. Both the trip itself and the reason for it left my heart empty of any joy: on April 9th, 2013, my father, a healthy man of 67 years who had raised over twenty children, died suddenly from unknown causes. Of the many broken hearts that day, mine was one of them. In addition to the pain of loss, a cloud of guilt and regret hung about me the day I found out and in the weeks following. The days leading up to the announcement of his passing are a blur, filled with all the little things in life that seem to do just that: fill, but not empower, supply, but not satisfy.

April 7th, 2013.

I was at school. A call came in on my cell from Cameroon. I knew who it was.

I didn’t answer.

I hadn’t spoken to my father in months and had no true interest in talking to him. We were not angry with one another, so to speak, but we did live in different worlds, both figuratively and literally. Whenever we had conversations he simply couldn’t understand me—what I was talking about, how I was feeling, the things I was experiencing—and the conversation always ended with an awkward air between us right before, or, if I were at home in Minnesota, my father would ask to speak with my older brother. I’d hand over the phone to Francis, frustrated, and leave the room to do something to get my mind off of my irritation. The request was inevitable and I always expected it, but it still left me slightly embittered and unsure about my father’s love for me. This anger I held toward him had existed for years and for a multitude of reasons.

But, by the time this particular call came in, I was old enough to I decide for myself if I wanted to have a conversation or not. Even when my older sister told me he was in the hospital and encouraged me to speak with him, I hesitated, and ultimately refused.

April 8th, 2013.

My spiritual talent for sensing death came into play again as a strange feeling swept over me the next day. My thoughts focused on my father. I felt uneasy about him, about not talking to him. I immediately called my sister in Florida; even though I already had it, I asked her for his number. I planned to get an international phone card after my classes and give him a call so he could hear my voice and we could talk a little bit.

On my first call to Cameroon the network was down; the line never connected. The second time it connected but rang and rang and no one ever picked up. I tried a third time while walking back to my dorm from the library around 12 midnight. As I dialed I realized it was still too early in Cameroon (around 6:30 am); I wouldn’t be able to talk much to my father even if he did answer. I didn’t complete the call and reluctantly resolved to talk to him early the next day.

April 9th, 2013, 12:30am.

I crawled beneath my covers. My day’s early start plus the mental anxiety about my father had exhausted me. As usual, my phone was resting on the window sill next to my bed. As I was getting comfortable under my sheets my phone rang. I glanced over. It was from my dad’s number. Aggravation set in.

My cellular service provider does not have good reception in Pensacola. On top of that, my phone doesn’t work at all while I’m in my dorm. Had I answered, my father would not have heard me talking; he would have had a conversation with silence and static, maybe the occasional, incomprehensible word from his son. I lay there, contemplating, listening to the phone ring. I could have gone out of the building to talk, but I was really tired, and now I was grumpy. I had resigned earlier to call him when I woke up in the morning before I went to class. I stood behind that decision.

I didn’t answer the phone.

April 9th, 2013, 9:00am.

My first class wasn’t until 1:00pm. I woke up feeling awkward. The day felt unexplainably weird. I had no motivation to do anything. My sour mood caused me to forget about calling my dad back. My head pounded severely; the pain medication I took didn’t help. I trudged through the morning and made my way to my math class that afternoon. I sat there, unable to pay attention, which was highly unusual for me. The day just felt wrong and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why.

After class I called up my best friend, Robar, and met him at McDonalds for a late lunch. While we were having our usual worldly conversations I received a call from my sister’s husband. I answered. He pled with me to come over as soon as possible, trying his best not to tell me what the fuss was about. I kept pressing him, and he finally told me.

“Wen,” he said, “your father passed away today. Your sister needs you. She is on the floor crying and you need to come here, fast.”

I hung up the phone. I was having difficulty processing what I’d just been told. Robar asked what was wrong. I calmly told him my father just passed away and that I needed a ride to my sister’s house. Like a great friend, he didn’t ask any questions—he just took me, as quickly as he could.

I walked into the house, still in disbelief. Sylvie was crying uncontrollably, screaming to God, asking him why he had given her father a cruel and undeserved fate. Her wild grieving did little to convince me of the truth: that I did not have a father anymore. My logical mind took over. I told her things to try to get her to calm down, but she just couldn’t stop crying. I, on the other hand, had yet to shed even a single tear.

I stayed there for a little while trying to comfort and calm my sister but, eventually, I had to return to my own home, my dorm room. Even as I left her house, I still hadn’t processed that I had no dad to talk to anymore. I just kept thinking that he hadn’t yet given me his annual advice, he hadn’t yet given me his own version of “the talk,” he hadn’t yet seen me come home again. That none of those things would ever happen left me feeling numb inside.

It would be over a month of scheduling, planning, and organizing before my family and I would be in Cameroon for the funeral.

Eulogy.

Dear Dad,

Most kids have good memories of them and their father playing around or going on field trips. The few memories I had of us have all faded away, taking you, my dad, with them.

I cannot think of any trips I took with you or any laughs we shared. What I do remember is that we shared the same bed when I was eight years old until I was nine, when my mom left for the USA. I know we shared the same birth month, and that your birthday is one day before mine. I know we shared the same aspirations for greatness.

You were very kind, always putting everyone and everything ahead of  yourself. Even when you were sick, you sought to help the people you loved. You left this earth with a smile, knowing you’d stayed true to your principles.

Though I'm now left without a father, in reality you will always be with me, somewhere in my heart, waiting for the day when we will meet again and make new memories.

Until then, Dad, you won't be forgotten.

Love, Your Son,

Wen Muenyi.

“I know we shared the same birth month… I know we shared the same aspirations for greatness.”

Photograph of My father’s Marketing & Business book.

Wen currently studies Marketing at the University of West Florida.

Getting There.

We—my mother, Francis, Sylvie, and I—went through the grueling process of getting all seven required shots and vaccinations completed so that we could travel to Cameroon. We put up with the aggravation of obtaining emergency traveling documents through the appropriate United States government offices. Finally, after what seemed forever, May 20, 2013, arrived, the day we would board a plane to Africa to see the family we’d left behind and put Dad to rest.

Mom left for Cameroon ahead of us to make sure things were set up properly for the services; she wanted to make sure nothing would go wrong. Despite the hardship, she, once again, went above and beyond to take all the responsibility for those duties so that we, her children, wouldn’t have to worry even more than we already were. Also, because she was more familiar with the culture, she could make sure nobody got angry at us for forgetting some minute detail. (Man—how I love my mom!)

Before getting on her flight, Mom told us that she had spoken to my dad’s other wife. She said that my dad had told his assistant (who was also his nephew), that if he died they were to leave his body in the mortuary for however long it took for his family in America to return home. Even if it took a year, he didn’t care. He wanted us at his funeral.

From what people have told me, it seems my father was somehow aware of his impending death. Right before going to sleep for the last time, he told his nephew to clean his bed area, that his family was coming to see him. Apparently, those were the last words he spoke to anyone.

Sylvie, Francis, and I waited in the airport to get on our long series of flights from Minneapolis, Minnesota, to Doula, Cameroon. We would meet Valery in New York’s La Guardia airport and then together we would fly to Africa.

After a short layover in Brussels, we’d arrived. We felt different than we had been going to America—older, wiser, and more knowledgeable about the world—but it appeared as if nothing in Cameroon had changed since we’d left it ten years before. People were a little older, and there were some new young faces, but that was it.

Our home, Cameroon, had frozen in time.

The airport looked exactly the same as it had a decade prior. The weather was (expectedly) humid and hot and there were people everywhere trying to sell us things so they could make a little money for groceries. The truly interesting part came when we arrived in Customs and they were preparing to receive us. This was where being an American citizen really made a difference. Francis and I strolled into Customs feeling good; we had no problems at all entering the country as we flashed our blue American passports. However, Valery and Sylvie, who were both still flying with their old, green Cameroonian passports, were held back. They weren’t legally recognized as Americans and that meant that—even though they were our relatives and had been on the same flight as Francis and I—the airport authorities felt at liberty to do whatever they pleased to them, especially since they’d been out of the country for so long.

(Now, one thing about Cameroon is certain: the country functions on bribery. If you want something, you have to pay someone for it. It works this way up and down Cameroon’s social and political ladders, from the common man all the way up to the President, who leaves no one questioning that he loves and welcomes bribes from whoever is rich enough to please him.)

So, Valery and Sylvie were, like suspicious cattle, being pushed and prodded left and right about their coming back into the country. The Customs agents were not in the mood to let them in. Until, that is, we spoke the language they were looking for. A five-minute talk and a quick bribe later, my brother and sister were accepted into the country, safely past the scrutiny of the Customs agents. As a group, we let out a sigh of relief: we were cleared to go home.

Thanks to my sister’s in-law’s political connections, we were picked up at the airport by the town’s mayor to make sure we were safe and nothing [else] went gone wrong. The mayor took us to a house were we had dinner and were able to meet with the country’s most beloved citizen and political leader, Mr. Fru Ndi (or, as everyone in the country knows him, The Chairman) right before he took a quick business trip to Germany. Not only was The Chairman a powerful political figure, but he was also Sylvie’s father-in-law and something like one might imaging a 70-year-old President Barack Obama to be.

As we waited at the dining table, Mr. Fru Ndi came walking in very calmly, laughing as he talked on his phone to someone about how incompetent the country’s president was. He sat down, cracked a few jokes, and proceeded to tell us he would lend his car and driver to us to take us to our home in the village of Ndop. He added in a small warning: he told us to have money ready because everyone would see the car, recognize that it was his, and come to it asking for donations. He told us he was known for his generosity, and we, while riding in his car, needed to be ready to give out money so that the people could buy themselves some necessities. We felt it was the least we could do and prepared ourselves for the onslaught.

That said, we were on our way out the door to Bemenada and then we would drive back home. If you’ve ever driven in Miami, Florida, you know it’s like driving next to people who aren’t quite sure what the rules of the road are. Driving in Cameroon was much worse than that. There was no logic I could muster to explain what was happening on the roadways. Cars were on both the right and left sides, heading towards on-coming traffic; there were no lanes; there were no lights; there were seemingly no rules to the road at all save one: pray to survive. Pray really, really hard.

The six hour drive was one of the scariest rides I have ever been on in my life. The potholes were massive and every one we drove over had me worried that we had either crashed or lost a wheel. After an hour of diligently watching the driver, and appreciating just how good he was at his trade, I was able to settle down enough to pop in some ear buds and listen to music on my iPhone—songs like Wings by Macklemore or some Lupe to relax me—all the way until we arrived in Bamenda around 2:00 AM. Once there, we didn’t waste any time getting to bed.

The night was long, filled with tossing and turning and sounds and smells I was no longer accustomed to. The room was filled with bug and had no air conditioning, making the night uncomfortably hot and humid. But, even after everything, it was better than I expected and I was able to get enough rest to prepare me for the next day.

Home to Ndop.

I woke up at 6:00 AM to the sound of Sylvie talking on my phone. Since I was on roaming service the fees were steep: two dollars per minute and fifteen dollars per megabyte of  data. I winced at the thought of the bill. My sister certainly wasn’t doing us any favors or saving us any money. Still, her calls were justified: we were struggling to find where our mom was because she hadn’t called us when we’d arrived and we didn’t have a direct number to reach her.

We sat around the room, waiting. Finally, at two in the afternoon, Mom called and told us to meet her at her best friend’s house in the shopping center nearby.

Going through Bamenda was like a rehash of the previous day: it felt like nothing had changed at all in ten years, simply because nothing truly had changed. (Cameroon is, and will always be—thanks to our dear leadership—stuck in the 1970s.) Our time spent there was quick, but not quick enough. The shopping center could be a scary place if one goes there dressed nicely and in a car full of things brought from America. Some people in Bemenda are well-known thieves who are ready to rob and willing to leave their victims hurt, if the thieving found it necessary.

Nonetheless, our mother met us in Bamenda we were on our way to my hometown of Ndop. I didn’t know how to feel about it. I had been gone for a decade and didn’t exactly remember much about the family I had who were still living there. I knew the trip was going to be a huge test of my long-term memory.

We pulled up to the house with rushes of emotion flowing through us: anxiety, fear, worry, joy, expectation. It was the home in which my father—our father—had raised us and dozens of other kids.  While we were welcomed with tears, they weren’t exactly the good kind. Our family members were as conflicted as we were: very happy to see us but also very sad for the circumstances which forced our reunion.

The first person to greet us was my aunt, who was also the mother of one of my best friends. She was crying like nothing I had ever seen before in my life, and she kept saying “God de take Moh from us! (God has taken your dad from us) Oh!”(We speak Pidgin English in my town.)

We walked into the living room. Memories flooded my mind. It was like looking at old photographs, except I was there, and things were real. Nothing had changed. Literally. Almost a decade since I was gone and not even the chairs had moved an inch.

Every one of my family were in the house waiting for us. Even some non-relatives were there: kids (or, older teenagers who used to be kids) from around the neighborhood who said they had been my elementary school friends. As my siblings and I greeted everyone, I noticed a figure sitting on the main couch. It was my father’s first wife, our second mom; we called her ‘Big Mami Regular’. The first thing she said to me was “Wen, I am glad to see you back at home again and very happy to see that you decided to finally start eating food. We have missed you being around here dearly. Welcome home, son.” It was a special moment.

Most people would not be able to understand the concept of growing up in a house where your father had two wives at the same time, but this was normal to me. I really didn’t mind having two moms. Big Mami had always been there for me when my birth mother was busy working or getting the medical treatments she needed. Big Mami loved all of us as if we were her own. My sister was treated exactly like her other daughters; Big Mami even named her Sylvie. (Ironically, my birth mother didn’t name any of her own children, not even me. I was named by a Catholic priest; Wenceslaus is Polish from a king: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Good_King_Wenceslaus.)

After talking to all the family I needed a break. I pulled myself away from the group and went to the back of the house where my cousins and uncles were relaxing. They were quick to say ‘hi’ when they saw me; they made jokes that my head had not gotten any smaller despite the time that had passed since I’d gone to America. They’d made fun of me as a kid for having the biggest head of any child they knew, and for having an oddly shaped head at that. It seemed they remembered the jokes all too clearly. Their joking, though, broke the ice. I laughed along with them. Being home finally started actually feeling more like home.

After the laughter subsided, they all clapped me on the back, saying how happy they were to see me and how I had gotten so big in such a short period of time. I didn’t remind them that it had been a decade.

Mary Ben, one of my cousins, was there, too, but I didn’t remember her. She and I sat and talked. As she told me how much she had missed me, I stared at her, racking my brain, unable to recall anything about her: who she was or why she was important to me. According to her, we had had lots of fun together when we were children. She told me we used to be close and play around the town all the time. A thin blanket of guilt swept over me. I didn’t remember a thing. She asked me about America, if I was having fun there. Before I could even answer her anxiety got the best of her: she asked me what she needed to do to go to America.

“Wen,” she said, nearly begging. “Please take me with you when you leave. I don’t want to be here anymore. Life in Cameroon is hell and I am tired of it all.”

My blanket of guilt grew heavier. The look in her eyes told me just how serious she was. She was tearful, and I asked her what made her hate Cameroon so much, though I already knew. I hadn’t forgotten the hopelessness I’d experienced as a young boy there in that little town. ”Everything,” she said. She went on to explain how she hated the fact that you had to bribe your way to get anywhere, how you had to rely on everyone to help you, how you’re most likely not going to get anywhere in life even if you are the smartest person in the room, in the town, in the entire country. She was burdened with the same desperation that I’d felt when I was still a boy; the same desperation that had, at times, made me suicidal. I asked her, half joking and trying to make light of the situation, “If going to America is so important to you then how much is your soul worth to you?” I paused to look at her. “Would you give up your soul for a chance to live in America, for a chance to leave Cameroon and everything that involves leaving here?” Obviously, my idea of fun was not hers. I almost cried at her answer. With a serious and sad face, and without hesitating a moment, she said, “Yes. I would do all of that if that means not having to live this life we are condemned to live anymore.”

I said nothing more. I knew she really wanted to come to America, but the reality was very simple: the U.S. Government was already limiting the number of people selected to come from abroad. The saddest thing to me was that the people who needed it the most—the people in Africa—seemed to get the least attention, and the people who were already living a high quality of life—the Europeans—got priority to immigrate to the United States. This meant it was very unlikely that Mary Ben would ever get her wish granted. It depressed me to think about her situation, so I excused myself and walked away from her to ponder it more deeply in private.

As I walked, the sight of my favorite tree—the old mango tree which had fed my father’s household when we didn’t have money to buy groceries—lightened my mood. I recalled conversations with Francis about the unsanitary location of the tree: right near the latrine. We’d often discussed the possibility that the mango tree had pulled in fecal nutrients to grow its fruit and how, in turn, we would eat it. Despite the less than beautiful origins of the tree’s fruit, it was great seeing that old friend again and recalling the memories of when I used to climb it in search of lunch. Now, as I approached it, there were four or five children hiding beneath and on its limbs, trying to get at some mangos. The kids weren’t part of the family, but looked very hungry so I told them that it was fine if they climbed the tree and got whatever fruit they wanted from it. Despite my encouragement they were afraid of being in trouble; the group quickly dismounted and ran away. I watched them go and smiled at the thought that, still and after all this time, this tree was feeding little kids like it had once fed me.

I walked around a bit more. I saw a group of about a dozen young people about my age who said they were all my childhood friends. Now, all this sounded a bit too strange to me.  While I could barely remember anything about the first nine years of my life, I did know quite clearly that I wasn’t the kind of kid that had many friends. I’d spent much of my childhood around adults because I never really fit in with my schoolmates; the only friends I had were either family or adults. These people couldn’t possibly be my childhood friends. I decided to inquire in more detail the circumstances of our friendships. One of them responded by saying, “I used to beat you up very well in primary school.” I went wide-eyed, but at least it made sense. They all wanted something from me, now that I was an American, but as a child they were the ones who had made fun of me, bullied me, beat me up, chased me, and all other matter of ill-mannered behavior. That they suddenly decided I was a person worth befriending made me very angry. My initial urge was to get revenge and punch a few of them in the face, but, really, I’m not the vengeful type. Besides, I was there to bury my father and not start more conflicts (or reestablish old ones) with people who didn’t matter to my current existence. So, I played nice: I sat there and answered all their questions and adhered to their requests. They all wanted to know what America was like, what had I brought back for them, how could help I them out once I returned to Minnesota? After these less-than-delightful conversations were through I left them to their own devices. I was tired of all my fake friends and needed some sleep.

I returned to the house. After a little more talking with some family members, my mother, siblings and I were swept away to where we would be staying for the duration of our trip—the Catholic Church Hotel (it was really a convent, but they had rooms for out-of-towners to stay in, so many of the townsfolk called it a hotel). Considering the location, the rooms were nice. We each got our own single bed to sleep on and running (albeit, cold) water to bathe in. It didn’t take us long to wind down and get to bed. There was no doubt in any of our minds that we would need a lot of energy for the next day.

Old mango tree (center), behind the house in Ndop.

Even grown, I still enjoy a good tree climb.

Wearing my fraternity (Sigma Chi) headphones at the airport

Me and the cousin that pushed me down a mountain

This is my home!

Finally realizing my dad is no more.

Fresh Start to a Long Healing Process.

While the previous day had been fun (minus the interrogation by my so-called friends), everything was going as I had imagined it would: busily, anxiously, and somewhat awkwardly. We had fun with family, saw everyone, laughed a lot, and talked about everything and anything under the sun.

While we were still at the hotel getting ready to leave for the day, my mom’s best friend, Mary, showed up. She’d arrived the day before to be a support to Mom and to help in any way she could. As we stood around visiting for a few minutes, Mary told us what people had been gossiping about: according to her, the Muenyi kids returning from America was the hot topic. They—the people around town—were under the impression that we had returned with bags of money, that in America we washed our hands with beer (a major commodity in Africa), and wiped our hands dry with even more cash. Their assumptions came from the fact that we were able to pay for our dad to be kept in the mortuary for over two months; paying for something like that was almost unheard of. While the cost of keeping him in the mortuary was high (even for Americans!), we really had no choice in the matter. It was my dad’s last wish that, when he died, he was not to be buried until all his children returned home to see him. From the time of his passing to the time we could get to Africa, we had to finish the school year, get all our emergency travel documents in order and get the necessary medical shots and clearances.  The people in Cameroon simply didn’t understand the process and were jabbering on preconceived notions! Despite how frustrating it was to hear how people were talking about the circumstances, the news also made us worry that some dishonorable individuals would try to break into our hotel rooms and take our things. Needless to say, we locked our belongings up tightly before we left the convent that morning.

As we stepped out into the open air, I mentally prepared myself: it was the day we would be driving to the city to pick up my father. We would be bringing him home to sleep in his house one last night before taking him to his final resting place.

It would be a long day.

Traditions are important in Cameroon. The funeral process is a big deal and my father’s was no exception. Everyone wanted to go and, as a result, a long line of cars awaited us as we exited the hotel.

Once we got in our car, we were off. No time to waste: the trip would take three hours on bumpy, dangerous roadways. It wasn’t enough that our guts were twisted from our emotions alone, but the giant potholes and single-lane, half-finished roads added to our misery.

We stopped only once to say hello to my grandmother (my mother’s mother) and more cousins. They were all at the back of the house, cooking food for us to eat on our return trip from the mortuary. I didn’t recognize any of them; not my grandmother or any of my cousins. I just said hi to everyone at the house and went about my business, trying to be polite but also trying to fight the knot in the pit of my stomach. After about ten minutes of visiting we got back in the car and continued on to the mortuary.

When we arrived it was time to get into serious mode, which has always been difficult for me. Everyone had worked themselves up into a torrent of emotion as we pulled up to the building; then, by the time we emerged, we were all very sad and most of us were crying, even some of the men. I shook hands with my dad’s best friend, Mr. Fred, who was standing outside the building, and asked him how he was doing with everything. He and my dad had been friends for many years, before my siblings and I had even been born, and, while I didn’t recognize many of the people I saw on that trip, I had always remembered Mr. Fred: he was the man who was always sitting in front of my house with his sunglasses on pretending to be awake.

After greeting Mr. Fred, we went inside. It was my family’s responsibility to go in to see my dad before anyone else. As we entered, the priest asked me to come in first, ahead of my family, and alone. He pulled me aside and asked if I remembered him. I did not. He said he was my dad’s good friend. He remembered me being around whenever my father had visited him, so he wanted to say hi and give me a picture he had taken of me when I was a child. He went on to tell a story of a particular day when he had come to visit my father.

It was when I was very little. The priest had arrived at our house just in time to see my dad coming back from the farm. My dad walked in, me right behind him, and took off his very smelly work boots. He sat down to talk to the priest. It wasn’t long before they both realized that I had taken my dad’s shoes and put them on. Seeing me tromping around in those oversized shoes made them laugh. He smiled as he told me how I’d admired my father so much, how I had wanted to do everything he did, all the way down to wearing his boots.

I felt very strange after hearing the story. I didn’t remember looking up to my dad at all. But, it was still nice to hear it before walking into the cold mortuary room.

My family soon joined me to view the body. Sylvia burst into fanatical crying. She couldn’t hold it in; she had spoken to our father almost every, single day for the past year, and now he wasn’t there anymore. Rather, he was lying there, lifeless and still and cold. She screamed questions at him, asking him why he’d left her; why he hadn’t stayed to see his new granddaughter, Zoey; why he had to get treatment at the same hospital that had almost killed him once before. Why, why, why. It seemed her questions never stopped coming. They were questions no one could answer, and all we could do was listen, and ache, and then comfort her.

My brothers’ visits were short and involved their own kind of quiet grief:

Val walked up to the body and said what he had to say in just a few quiet words.

Francis touched our father’s chest and just walked away.

I approached, thinking, ‘This is my dad. I don’t remember much about him, and now I‘ll never have the chance to create lasting memories that I can share with my children.’ My dad lay right in front of me, lifeless and gone. I wondered if he could hear my thoughts; if he would touch my hand back if I touched his; if I would ever get the memories back of him that I had most obviously forgotten; and, lastly, if I would ever see him again. All these questions resounded in my head as I cried, lightly touched his hand, and then walked away.

After we sat down, everyone who had remained behind in the main mortuary waiting area was allowed to come in and look at him. Though I’d seen some intense crying the previous day—and even just minutes before, from Sylvie—I didn’t anticipate the crying which was to follow. As soon as the door opened the room thundered with tears. They cried like they’d just lost everything they had to live for. They cried as if it were their best friend, brother, their sister, their own father, lying there on the table. At first I was surprised, but then I realized the truth: they cried so deeply because that was how much my father had meant to them.

What was wrong with me? These people were weeping their hearts out and I was barely crying. Why couldn’t I feel the kind of sadness that so many of them felt?

Then I realized: it was because I didn’t remember my father. I didn’t remember being very close with him. But, as I sat there watching all the others weep and go by, I felt like I had missed my golden opportunity. I would never bask in the light of the great man whom everyone here had loved. I’d missed out on enjoying my father and my chance at any kind of meaningful father-son relationship had vanished.

I sat there, watching and sulking and grieving in my own way, until, thirty minutes later, we had my father’s body loaded in the main car and were bumping along the roads toward home. Before getting back in the car I caught up with Mr. Fred again. I asked him how he felt, seeing as he had lost his best friend that he had seen every day for the past twenty years. He looked away from me, thinking, tears welling in his eyes. He told me he’d seen this coming, but it didn’t seem to have prepared him any better. It didn’t make a difference, he said, because his best friend was still lying there, unable to say even one word to him.

That was enough for me to shut up and walk away.

We arrived safely in Ndop after another brutal three hour drive which, this time, involved a blown tire. The drive also included more stops.

The first was at the church my dad had attended. We carried Dad to the church and sat through a ceremony. The Father [clergyman] there told us a story about how dedicated to his faith Moh had been, and how weak and how old my father had become toward the end. He talked about the times when Moh couldn’t walk and had to lean almost all his weight on his wife so that he could make it to church on time. He told us about the time my dad went to the Father’s office when he was not accepting visitors and how my dad refused to be dismissed.

“He came to church every day,” he said, “regardless of his health, and so when he needed to see me and I tried to turn him away, he put his foot down. Moh said he hoped I would make time for him.”

In response, the Father asked him what he wanted. My dad asked him for his blessing. That is all he wanted, to have the Father’s blessing and prayers. He told the Father that he was not ready to die, that he had a lot more work to do in this world and his time was not now. My dad was a devout Christian and it showed in the way he lived his life; he hoped God would let him live longer so he could help everyone else have a good life. Obviously, I thought, that hadn’t been the plan.

After the church service we took my dad to the living room of his house and prepared for the town viewing. This goodbye party was huge. The entire town was there. I couldn’t believe it. People even came in from different cities—which was not an easy task—to see this man. He was so big and so important in Cameroon, his influence had reached wider than anyone could have imagined.

During the service—which was not only about grieving, but about celebrating a good (no, a great) life—I walked around and said hi to everyone who knew me. I even danced for the people who were standing out in front of the house. After dancing for hours I couldn’t do it anymore and went to the back of the house to see who was there. Turned out all the younger kids were hanging out, waiting for food. They came to celebrate my father and, since their whole life he probably helped feed them in one way or another, they were there to eat one last time at his house. Twenty to thirty kids were there, mostly boys, all waiting and eager to talk to me. They made jokes, laughed, and tried to be as strong as possible next to me because they didn’t want to seem needy and weak. I laughed with them, and said they should be getting fed in a short while. Half an hour later the food emerged from the kitchen, plates and all. Even though the day had been full of sadness, watching those kids spring toward the food was one of the saddest things I had ever seen. They rushed their way to the food like they had not eaten anything all day. I asked my cousin why they were rushing like that, hoping for an answer I didn’t already suspect. He said it was probably because they had had only a very small meal that morning and nothing since; he told me people there typically run on one meal a day. I watched them gorge: they were served plates and, after eating what they’d received, came back for seconds and thirds and fourths… until the food was gone. I ate some myself, but spent most of my attention on the kids. It wasn’t long before I called it a day and returned to the hotel for another night of restless sleep.

Image of the photo given to me by the priest at the mortuary.

The photo depicts me as a child, wearing my dad’s boots.

Bye-Bye, Dad.

The morning rose. Today we would bury my father in the town of Baba, on the road about 14 miles east of Ndop. After that, I would never see his face again.

My family and I woke up early in the day. Once we were piled into the car, we drove to the church located in the village and waited through another service—so many religious ceremonies happen in the burial process. After the final and lengthy church service, we took my dad to his house in Baba and laid him out for one last showing. People from the town came and saw my dad, said their goodbyes, some longer than others. Sylvie cried a lot.

Afterward we marched to the burial site down the hill from the house; my father would rest in a plot next to his brother, father, and mother. We all took turns throwing a handful of soil into the grave—first me and my immediate family, then everyone else. We held my sister back as she wept and watched our father as he being was lowered down into the ground. My sister and I stood there holding each other. It was then that it hit me that those moments were the last memories I would have of seeing Moh, my father. I had known it before, but somehow it hadn’t become real. Now, everything was suddenly very real.

Out of nowhere someone started bawling loudly. Everyone turned their heads to look. I realized quickly that it was Francis. Not only did he stick out like a sore thumb—he was the only person there above six feet tall and with a Mohawk—but Francis was the last person I’d expect to cry. He was always so tough, so serious. I watched in succession as, after him, Val followed with tears of his own, and then Sylvie really couldn’t help herself. Everyone cried as they watched my dad drop away forever into the loving embrace of Mother Earth.

After final prayers had been whispered, we walked back up the hill to the house. There was still work to be done. We prepared to serve food and drinks to the people who had attended. We wanted the village king, who was also my mother’s cousin, to come to the funeral reception services, so my family and I went up the road to ask him to come down and mourn with us. Since he was a family relative he was expected to attend, regardless of if we went to fetch him or not.

As we—Val, Uncle Moh Yenkong and his son, the driver, and myself—drove up the hill toward the king’s home, located on the highest and most scenic peak in the village, we saw a group of people dressed in costumes walking toward the house, people you never wanted to see coming at you: the Juju. They had been sent down by the king to dance and to celebrate the close of the funeral. Though the Juju were generally an unwelcome sight, it was a good thing and a blessing they were going to my father’s house.

When we arrived we found the king sitting outside his house enjoying a nice conversation with other townspeople. Aside from owning all the land and having control over the people, the village king is a man who isn’t so different from any of the rest of us. Rules dictate that common people are not allowed to talk directly to the king unless he speaks to you first; we certainly don’t shake his hand in greeting, and we just bow and walk away when the conversation is ended. So that’s what we did: we sat down quietly next to his people. He greeted us. We gave him the gifts we’d brought and asked him how he was doing and if he knew we were in town for our father’s funeral. The rest of the conversation was in the traditional language and I do not know it well enough to translate it here. Nevertheless, we talked to him and then after he served us drinks we returned to my father’s house. Our mission was complete: we had gone to invite the king and now we were to wait and see if he would show up.

The party which both celebrated my father’s life and mourned his passing went on late into the evening. I was already tired by the time we returned to the house from the King’s and there were still many more hours of celebrating and crying and socializing to do. But some other excitement had occurred while I’d been away.

The Juju I had seen on my way out to the king’s had apparently been told to find my mom and my siblings and I so that they could dance and get money from us. He had been begun searching for us since Val and I had gone to the king’s. In my village if the Juju dances for you and you don’t give him money he has the king’s authority to beat you until he is tired of beating you. Unfortunately, my mom, Sylvie, and Francis didn’t have any money on them, and that meant that if the Juju caught them there was a good chance he would beat them senseless. Well, because they knew they were in for it, when Mom and Francis were walking up to the house from the gravesite area and the Juju spotted both of them my mom broke out running the opposite direction while Francis ran toward the house to safety (they are not allowed to enter into anyone’s house). Since my mom was a slower target and the Juju probably assumed she had more money, he chased her. According to my cousins, the chase went on for half an hour. During that time my mom hid behind trees, behind other people, behind houses. She eventually made it inside, where she was off limits from the Juju. It was all in good fun, and I couldn’t stop laughing when I heard the story.

The rest of the day was filled with more social obligations, more tears, more stories being told, working to keep everyone at the event happy, and generally just doing everything else required from us. (In my village’s culture there are so many rituals to complete before the funeral process is ended and the dead souls can move on, so we were really hoping everything was going according to tradition.) After we did all we could do for the day, my siblings and I drove back to the hotel. My mom stayed behind and slept on the floor of the village house, and, boy, did I feel for her. The village house had only one bathroom, no beds, no lights, and masses of mosquitos ready to enjoy some imported, fresh-from-America blood. Mom must have been eaten alive while she slept.  The only plus was that Mary slept there next to her on the ground and kept her company.

When bad things happened, it always seemed to be the two of them against the world.

The decorated vehicle at the front of the funeral procession for Moh Muenyi.

A line of mourners march and play drums.

My cousin walks, holding a large portrait of Moh Muenyi.

An event Juju in costume.

Preparing Again for America.

The remainder of our stay in Cameroon was long and uninteresting. I was excited and a bit sad when time came to go back to Minnesota.

The day following the funeral and reception event had been full of fighting and arguments, with one side of my dad’s family wanting more from us than anyone else and trying to take advantage of us, probably because we were “rich Americans”. They wanted us to give them money (a lot of it), food, drinks, and even chickens. The king never showed up to the celebration; he ended up sending his wife in his place, which was wrong to do considering my mom is his cousin and he should have been there himself. The family was pretty upset over it.

My sister had to go stay with her extended family for a few days, so I went with her to Bamenda (about ten miles away) to keep her company. Her father-in-law (The Chairman) was one funny and interesting man. I ended up having some very nice conversations with him about Cameroon and about the future of the country in general. I asked him why he still tried so hard to run for president regardless of the fact that he knew the current president-elect would rig the elections to win. He told me the country’s citizens were his children and that he was there to help them all succeed; he told me how he enjoyed his job because he was the hope they needed and they, in return, put a smile on his face. He told me how happy he was to receive the love the people gave to him and that is why he kept doing it: to be the hope they needed. His love for the people warmed my heart. Toward the end of our visit, he was kind enough to write for me in the journal I’d brought along for the trip.

In the meantime, Mom was on edge because she had been up for over thirty hours organizing and coordinating the event, attending to the questions and inquiries everyone kept going to her for. My mom had coordinated the funeral with only small bits of help from other people. I think she might be one of the best organizers in the world because getting Africans to do something (and do it on time) is a battle very few people can win, especially while running on zero sleep and having to remember every little detail down to what everyone is eating and drinking. To say the least, when it was time to return to America she was very ready to sleep in her own bed again.

As for Francis and Valery, they were more than ready to return to the States. Thanks to some diplomatic connections and some more well-directed money throwing, Valery had overcome any barriers with his green passport and had received all the documents and permissions he needed in order to return to America.

We were lucky to have The Chairman lend us his car again. From Ndop, Sylvie, Val, and I headed off to the coast, to Doula, to catch our flight. With nine hours to go until take-off, and with the drive taking about six hours, we were on a bit of a time crunch. We packed our luggage and some bags of food into the three cars and were off. Thanks to the skillfully quick maneuvers and lead foot of The Chairman’s driver, we were in Doula a short four hours later; he’d left the other two cars—one which carried Mom and Francis, and the other with some family members who wanted to see us off—far behind. The driver quickly unloaded us and our belongings. He told us how he had to drive another three hours east to pick someone else up and take that person back to where he came from. The man was a machine! We knew we were lucky to have him drive us. We gave him some Nyquil to take when he returned home, so he could get some serious sleep because we knew he needed it.

About an hour later the other cars showed up. Though there were stressful moments and awkward encounters, all in all I was sad to say goodbye. Ten years is a long time to be gone and I didn’t know when I’d be back again. My aunt gave me a hug then turned around and walked away, crying. She loved us very much and loved to see her big sister, so she was very, very sad to see us go.

We went into the airport, got our tickets and bags checked, paid for our Visas, bought a few things, and then were off to go through the security check. Just like coming into the country, bribing seemed to be the only way out. We went to the gate and the American passport holders—my mom, Francis, and I—were deemed “all clear” without hardly a second look (again, being American overseas rocks!). Sylvie and Val, who were still considered Cameroonian with their green passports, ran into the expected road blocks. The airport officials did not want to let them get on the plane to America because their visits back to Cameroon were too few and far between. In addition, the person whom they’d bribed upon their arrival into Africa hadn’t stamped their documents, so they didn’t even have proof of entry! This meant they had to pray to God for some help, and pray we did. Lucky for them, the official who they’d bribed the first time was nearby and they were able to get her attention. After tossing her some more money she walked them past security and Sylvie and Val were free to go to their gates.

An hour after arriving at the gate, just after eight o’clock, we marched onto the plane headed to Brussels. Tickets checked, everything good, we were off! Except… the jet bridge was dark. In order to see I had to take out my iPhone and turn on the flashlight. Apparently the airport had forgotten to pay their electric bill; the airline attendants were pointing flashlights down the bridge to help us make our way safely. It’s so funny how that country has not improved one bit since I was a boy.

At 1:00 AM, as I slept on the plane, my mom’s head fell on my lap and woke me. I looked down at her. She was not okay. The lack of sleep, the stress, and the little amount of food she had been eating the past few days had gotten to her. As she lay on top of both Sylvie and me, we looked at one another and panicked a little. We got her water and started fanning her. She woke up a few times, but just passed out again. I was worried for her. I let her sleep on my shoulder and kept water nearby in case she woke and wanted it. Three hours later she finally woke up, feeling better.

After about ten hours of flying, at around 6:00 AM, we landed safely in Brussels.

I stopped and did some shopping as we walked through the airport mall searching for our next gate. Our flight wasn’t for another five hours. I ended up buying myself a nice (and very over-priced) sweater. At our gate there were enough empty seats on a number of comfortable-looking couches for us each to have our own space. (Thank you Jesus and praise the Lord!) We were finally able to stretch out and get some much-needed rest.

The flight from Brussels to America was long and uninteresting. I wasn’t tired and ended up having a nice conversation with a lady on the plane sitting next to me. She was funny and we talked long about the outdoors and other random things to pass the time.

Being back in Minnesota felt nice, both in body and in spirit. It was much less humid than Cameroon had been, and it was good to be back in America, where things weren’t 1970s-era in manner, technology, thought, or mentality. Now that I was grown I could even more clearly appreciate the differences between my young life in Cameroon and my existence in the United States.

As a child I was bedazzled by the sights and sounds of the idolized “America”; as a teenager I was self-involved (as teenagers often are) with hormones, growing up, and deciding who and what I wanted to be. But, now, as a young adult, and having been in Africa for a number of days to re-experience the life I’d known when I was a boy, I could see the obvious contrasts between the two worlds… and I felt a deep love for them both.

Not all of Cameroon is bad, but not all of America is good. There is a lot of promise in the people, the culture, and the soil of my homeland. Cameroon is isolated in many ways and for a multitude of reasons. In some ways its isolation makes it a curious and, at the same time, a spectacular place with clean air and no pollution and living. Real living, the kind of life and excitement and energy that people in America can sometimes only dream of.

In the States, we are surrounded by improvements that are too often not really improvements at all. We have cell phones and technology and new roads and skyscrapers and glamour and Hollywood and New York City… but we have become lost in it. Families are falling apart, communities don’t know how to talk to one another, neighbors don’t know each other’s names, gangs are everywhere, racism is not dead, and the list goes on. Even with all our big-headedness about our power as a country, America’s political system sometimes seems just as messed up as any of the systems in Cameroon.

Still, as I drove southward from Minnesota back home to my dorm in Florida, I had time enough to reflect on that last trip. I realized how happy I was to be able to see my family again and, also, how sad I was to see the man I once looked up to go away forever. My heart smiled when I decided for myself that I would, once again, return to Africa and stay there, live there, because, very simply, there is no place like home.

Mr. Fru Ndi (The Chairman) writing a message in my journal.

CHAPTER 15:

Ultimate Freedom.

“My future? That’s a secret which only God knows, but I can tell you it will be amazing.”

The dictionary defines freedom as “the power or right to act, speak, or think as one wants without hindrance or restraint.” This, in truth, is not the true and ultimate freedom available to humankind. Going to school—from kindergarten in Cameroon to college in America—I have always wondered what the purpose of a school-based education is. Society makes it seem like, unless you go to school, you won’t be accepted as a productive and good citizen, however no reason is given as to why you’re going to school other than for monetary and employment purposes. But is that really enough? This way of thinking made me resent school for many years; spending hundreds of thousands of dollars to try and earn it all back after graduating never made sense to me. Nonetheless, I’ve always gone to school and missed very few days because that’s what my mother wished of me.

Buddha once said, “There is no wealth like knowledge, and no poverty like ignorance.” This statement’s true meaning became apparent to me the first week of my sophomore year in college. I realized that the ultimate freedom available to us in this world is education.

Looking back in time, education has always been the biggest and most well-kept commodity of the rich and the powerful. In days of slavery in America, African-Americans were not allowed to own books, weren’t supposed to know how to read books, and weren’t allowed to share their knowledge with each other—they couldn’t even look in the direction of a school. And, in European history, there have been periods when literature and textbooks were destroyed in order to better control the people. Now, with those things in mind, education should become more relevant in our own lives, seeing as its value has always been great in the past.

In modern days, with schools commonly being free for all and many of them (mostly in the bigger, more diverse cities) being less than prepared to properly pass of knowledge along to young people, most students who go to school wonder what the true value is of an education, what the purpose is. The same students who wonder that will wonder why people in third world countries are smarter and usually end up as more successful human beings; they might wonder why their teacher or doctor is Indian, or Asian… or African.

The simple reason is that third world countries value education a lot more than modern countries like America do. This is because education is not free in most instances and, secondly, it’s not easily accessible. In America, we have free school, free school buses, free food, but still the education most American students receive cannot compare to an Indian student’s, or even a Cameroonian’s for that matter! Coming to America, I knew everything the schools were teaching the students in four grades ahead of me… and I was one of the dumbest in my Cameroonian school, failing Class 5!

After going through a public school in America (and in one of the most diverse and least funded schools in Minnesota), I started adopting the mentality that many other students in my position had: I began to believe that, as long as I tried, I could say I had done well. In Cameroon, there is no try; there is only “do” and “don’t”. If you got anything less than an A or a B, you’ve failed. That is the standard that is set in third world countries because if your parents are going to pay for school, you’d better do a great job or else your parents will deal with you very swiftly.

With that said, why did I come to the conclusion that knowledge is the true and ultimate freedom? The simple answer to that question is this: knowledge is the only freedom which cannot be taken from you.

Legal freedoms, as we know so well in the United States, can easily be taken away from you. For example, there are laws in Florida and Texas which limit who can vote or not, and laws in New Mexico which stop people from driving who might be carrying illegal alliances.

Monetary freedom—even though everyone seems to focus so strongly on it—is probably the easiest to take from someone because it can be accomplished via taxes, divorces, lawsuits, theft, etc.

What we are left with is educational freedom. This freedom alone gives you the ability to see the world as it truly is, to see with your own knowledge and without relying on how others may tell you to see it. This freedom makes legal freedom easier to acquire because you know and understand the situations and what your actions can mean in the legal system; this freedom is not only a privilege, but a tool that allows you to acquire as much money as your heart desires, as much as your mind can motivate you to go after. Educational freedom makes you the most free of men on this planet. Freedom is something many have to fight to get. “Freedom” is America’s selling point but, in truth, with educational costs going up and educational quality going down, it is very hard to see how we are truly a nation of free men. In reality, America is not a nation of people who are free by default; what they choose to learn makes them more or less free. America is a nation of opportunity for people to use their educational freedom to acquire financial and legal freedom.

So, if you’re ever in a class, wondering how any of the knowledge you’re acquiring will matter in your life, the answer is very simple: it’ll give you freedom.

Tomorrow is a new day, and it’ll be a better day if you understand the world you live in and how it works around you. Don’t let some rapper make you believe that money is freedom; don’t let a drug dealer or a corporate mogul tell you that they’re free because they’re wealthy. In truth, they are slaves to their money. Don’t let anyone tell you that just being American means you’re automatically free. Let them prove to you that you’re more free than anyone else and then when they achieve true freedom, don’t laugh at them. Don’t let anyone, not even the government, take away the knowledge you deserve, not as a person belonging to one country or another, but as a human being. What is the point of living on this earth for 60, 70, 80 years, if not to understand it?

Mario Novak once asked, “What is the point of being alive if you don’t at least try to do something remarkable?” And he was right.

Knowledge is freedom. Go out in the world and be free, for tomorrow is another day to live the life our parents intended us to have.

CHAPTER 16:

Lingering Questions.

“Why this world, why life, why our existence are all questions we ask.

The answers, if you pursue them, are inside you.”

Every time people hear my stories they always have questions to ask, whether about my past life in Africa or about how I enjoy being in America. I do not expect that these short stories have in any way answered all or even most of the curiosities you might have about such things.

Following are a list of questions I get asked over and over again. They’ve become so common in my storytelling experiences that I feel it’s safe for me to assume that you may wonder about the same things. So, in an effort to satisfy any lingering curiosities, I’ve supplied answers as content for my last chapter.

What do you think your life would be like if you still lived in Africa?

If I still lived in Cameroon I can tell you it would be no joke and my life would not be very fun. I already had depressing and suicidal thoughts as a nine-year-old living in that country just before I left it to come to America. I strongly feel that, had I stayed there, I would have given up on life long ago.

How has being from Africa influenced your life in America?

Being from Africa is the best thing I could have asked for as an American now. As an immigrant, it helps knowing where you came from, what type of life you lived before; it helps because you know that, no matter what, you’ve left the worst of your life behind and you can work hard to move forward. America is, after all, the land of opportunity! Knowing where I came from makes me thankful every day that I get to live here, and I take every opportunity I can to reach what is my American dream: a happy home, food on the table, and possibly even a family.

Do you plan on going back to Africa? If so, how often would you go?

I have no current plans to go to Africa. The trip there is expensive, and at this point I have a lot of unfinished work to do before I can feel good about finally going back home. Cameroon is where I am from, and I do plan on returning there once I have finished here what needs to be done.

How much of your family lives back there? Are you still in contact with them?

Most of my immediate family lives in Africa and only a small portion of them live here in the US. I’m not in touch with those in Africa as much as I probably should be. I was not very close with my extended family; I always fought with them, and so I do not really stay in contact with them.

What languages do Cameroonians speak?

Cameroon, like Canada, has two official languages: French and English. These are the languages that most people in the country speak, just only those living outside the cities. However, in addition to French and English, outside of the cities there are over 30 different village-specific languages and dialects that are spoken.

How hard was it for you to learn English?

English took me a little over four years of learning to understand it. Speaking English, though, came to me fairly easy because we did a bit of that in Cameroon. Learning to write and read English were the hardest things about coming to America.

What is life like as an African immigrant in America?

It is not easy. People are not as friendly to outsiders as they could be. I’ve gotten some negative comments from people in Minnesota who I otherwise thought were quite nice. People will sometimes surprise you like that. There were teachers, students, and even some parents who talked down to me because they felt (whether consciously or not) they were better than me; it becomes apparent after a while that the common conception is that immigrants are stupid. But, there are a lot of good people around, too. Some people, like my grandparents, are so friendly to outsiders that you would think they’ve known you for years. America is full of contradictions like that—people who are hateful for no reason mixed with people who love you from the start—which is why I believe living in America can be very hard but also a blessing.

How has living in America without a dad or a father figure directly affected your life?

My mom was amazing at raising me in a well-rounded way, and my “adopted” granddad has been a great influence, as well as my church’s minister, Pastor David. But, simply, I don’t feel I’ve ever been absent a father figure while in America; there are so many great men in my life who have been father figures to me who I’ve been able to learn from.

Being African, how do you think getting a job in America is different for you than for other people?

Simple answer: I have to work twice as hard. That is, in order for me to get a job over someone else, I have to be twice as good as everyone else. My resume must be twice as filled and I must have references that say I am the most amazing employee anyone has ever had. Otherwise, the likelihood I will get the job is be very slim.

How does it feel to be discriminated against?

I have grown to live with the constant discrimination I receive. Living so close to Alabama, people are naturally a little more racist here than in Minnesota; I experience levels of uncomfortable moments that I am not used to on a regular basis. People see me and I can tell from the stares and the way they are looking at me that they really don’t want me there. One time I was out with my fraternity brothers to an event we were having with a sorority. Because of where we went out, I knew that if I strayed from the group I would literally be putting my life at risk.

Do you prefer African girls over American girls?

This question is asked so often that I thought it’d be important that I answer it here: I have absolutely no preferences to any ethnic group. Many Africans are known for mostly dating American girls and rarely interact with their own ethnic groups. I think diversity is great, and that if a person limits themselves to dating one ethnic group they’ll really miss out on experiencing so much the world can offer. Relationships allow you to share with other people’s life experiences so you can better understand the world through someone else’s eyes, someone who isn’t like you. So, having a relationship with only American girls or only African girls limits a person to experiencing the culture of only a very small population of the world.

Do you consider yourself African or African-American?

I am born an African and I will always be an African. That is why my book title is African in America, not African-American in America.

If you were to go back to Cameroon to live permanently, what do you expect life would be like there for you?

It would be a very real struggle. I am so used to having the Internet constantly available to me and I have such a busy life that going back to Africa and living there permanently would be a very hard thing. I do plan on going back and living there, but only part-time; I don’t think I could live there full-time.

What do you think of education in America versus education in Africa?

It’s a joke. America, being so rich and powerful, has below-average education compared to the rest of the world. Students from Cameroon compared to students from the United States, in the same grade… no comparison. Africans learn what Americans learn only much more quickly and at a younger age. It also helps a lot that Africans know that if they don’t do well in school they will have no future; while, in America, there are many other roads to success which do not involve a formal education.

Were you excited to come to the United States?

I did not know I was coming to the U.S. until a few months shy of my departure date. I was excited and sad at the same time. Leaving your dad and family behind to go somewhere you have never been to before is no easy task.

When you were still in Africa, what did you imagine America was like? What did you think of America, and Americans?

From what I saw in the movies, I didn’t believe America was real. To put it into perspective: as an African, I saw America as most Americans see Hogwarts school in the Harry Potter movie/book series. I thought it was amazing, very cool, unreachable, and I dreamed of living there, but I also did not completely believe it was real.

How long does it take to travel to Africa?

It takes about 24 hours. Typically you have two stops and then you’re there. The flights are long, and you watch a lot of movies to get through it, but, if you have friends with you, it’s not too bad. But, prepare for serious jet-lag!

Zoo animals are sometimes stereotypically of African-origin, like zebras, giraffes, lions, etc. What are the zoos in Africa like?

We really don’t have zoos. With the animals, they do not bother you and you do not bother them. People seem to think Africans have their houses built next to where animals like lions, tigers, and all other zoo animals usually live— no, never! That is like intentionally building your house next to a dragon’s lair, or a serial killer. We live in our own area and the animals live in theirs. You will see the usual snakes, lizards, and others, but those are pretty hard to avoid, even in some parts of America.

What are your favorite types of African food?

I can’t decide. I love all African food! It might look gross, and the smell might not be the best, but—gosh!—does it taste amazing! Not only does it taste good, but it’s incredibly good for you. Most African foods are lots of vegetables and fruits and healthy grains; we don’t eat a whole lot of meat. I am sorry that some people don’t enjoy the look of the food, but you are missing out if you have an African friend and you never eat at their house at least one time.

ISLAND CHAPTERS.

Introduction.

“Why shoot for the moon? There are already footprints there.

Instead, shoot for the sun. You may never make it, but at least

you’ll go farther than any other man has before you.”

Dear Reader,

The following is a short collection of miscellaneous chapters that I could not find a place for in the previous storyline. As such, I consider this, Island Chapters, to be a small book within a book, a diary of asides written between the tedious yet fulfilling labor of love entitled African in America.

Here you will find short stories revolving around the two countries I consider my far-separated loves: Africa and the United States of America. But, these are not only stories. More than that, they are my observations and experiences within these places, they are my thoughts recorded while living within the walls of these two houses, and the things—the cultures, the peoples, the mentalities—which surround them and make them what they are to me: home.

I give fair warning: these chapters are not for the stubbornly opinionated. They are not for those who would choose to defend one country or another to their dying breath. They are not intended to set one house against another, one culture of people against another, one place above another.

Unlike African in America, Island Chapters is not a chronological record of events of my life up until the publication of this work. These chapters are, simply, the descriptions of what my eyes have seen, what my ears have heard, and the recollection of the life that I have experienced being a part of both of these beautiful places.

I invite you, Reader, to journey with me, to taste the flavors of my thoughts and step down the roads that I have travelled. I offer Island Chapters to you as a blessing and a gift, and, with it the fervent hope that it will fill you with warm understanding.

Most Sincerely,

Wen.

Island Chapters: In the U.S.A.

CHAPTER 1:

Inappropriate Sense of Accomplishment.

"We gave you unemployment, affirmative action, and a black president. You can't call me racist."

That's what one of my former classmates said to me. It amazes me how blind some people are. The statement above and phrases like "I have black friends" and (my personal favorite) "I voted for Obama", are some of the more common excuses I hear when a person, in their own mind, believe they aren’t racist.

The mentality in America is such that people go to sleep at night feeling they have accomplished something and then wake up the next morning only to go about their day, fully unaware that some of the things they might do or say could be construed as racist. This is mannerism is most obvious in high school and college students. Students around me, mostly those who have not been exposed often to African-Americans, do things which shock me. I don’t understand how they don’t see a problem with the way they behave.

Racism has become a joke. But the truly funny thing about it is that it does not stop with joking. I have never felt so out of place as I have in my two months of living in Florida. African-Americans down here are left out and sometimes treated as if they're not good enough for society. When I hang out with my white friends I sometimes feel that I'm not good enough or on their level. The things they say and get away with… I know if I did the same, I would be called out or shamed for it.

Now, I’d like to examine the points my former classmate brought up:

Unemployment. Just another program put in place by the government that is typically associated with African-Americans. People have grown to believe that only African-Americans use this service and that they use it because they are a bunch of lazy people who would rather sit around and get free money than go out in the world and work for it. Both of these beliefs that we, as a society, have formed are wrong.

First and foremost, black Americans do not use the unemployment service more than white Americans do. The numbers between groups are almost even. Knowing this, how could a person say that African-Americans are lazy because they rely on welfare? If that were true then white Americans would be equally lazy, maybe even lazier, because they live in a society where they seem to have the upper hand.

Affirmative Action. This was something passed to help kill racism and push the integration of African-Americans into the work force. Despite all good intentions, not only is it ineffective at doing what it was designed to do, but it is also being put on trial by a young woman who feels African-Americans are given the upper-hand because of it!

The fact is that Affirmative Action is not as effective as people (or governments) think it is. The educational system still doesn't favor any ethnicity, whether white, black, or otherwise. The work environment has not changed much since the implication of this bill. African-Americans are still not getting jobs they deserve because of their skin color; they are being put on the back burner of society's expectations, like my mother was when she was passed over for the promotion in favor of a less experienced white woman. If a black person and a white person go to a job interview with the same resume, it is my experience that the black applicant is less likely to get the job, even if the Caucasian were less qualified. This glitch is apparent to me in so many ways, both in experience and in observation, and it makes me wonder if the institutions of Affirmative Action truly work or if something else needs to be put in place so that people can be treated more equally.

One result of the misconceptions about the Affirmative Action and Unemployment programs is an uneducated, resentful, and angry society. Another is that people have an inappropriate sense of accomplishment: those who under-accomplish or who cannot accomplish their goals due to societal restrictions and mentalities are accused of not wanting to accomplish anything, while those who do accomplish their goals may not have even earned it in the first place.

We have a long way to go as a society. When we finally learn that we must work together to better ourselves and our community as a whole, we will truly begin to feel accomplished.

CHAPTER 2:

Never Alone.

Loneliness is underrated.

In our modern age, with cell phones, text messaging, Facebook, Twitter, and other social feeds, we are never alone. Ever. The younger generation is more dependent on their “connected” devices than seems healthy and older generations’ dependency is slowly catching up. Individuals seem to need constant contact and, when they don’t have it, feel left out or like something isn’t right with the world. Even then, during those quiet moments, it’s so easy to distract oneself by turning on the television or listening to music, whether through a phone, computer, radio, iPod, or other listening device. Modern day teens are left at the hands of social networks or music to get them through rough patches.

Between music and constant communication with one another, people (especially young people) are left spending very little time by themselves, in their own head. This means problems get ignored, and that means they are left to grow, uncontrolled, like weeds in a neglected garden. Those problems may eventually grow to a point of such disaster that the person is thrown into a panic, perhaps leading to break downs of relationships that were already fragile because they hung by the thin web of wireless Wi-Fi connections. As those relationships crumble, a person who has depended on those modern “social” devices suddenly find themselves feeling lost; they become repressed, withdrawn, posting sad “woe to me” statuses on their social networking pages. This lasts for however long is necessary for that person’s problems to either (1) disappear, (2) be properly dealt with as they should have been in the first place, or (3) take over their lives.

It’s typical for people, while wading in their problems and left alone, to resort to listening to music to help them move through and past any current emotions. They don’t talk to friends (and I mean really talk, not text—texting is not having a conversation!), they don’t consult with family (because face-to-face conversations have become almost passé); young people don’t communicate. Instead, they listen to songs that relate to their feelings. They’ll look for music lyrics to tell them what to do: how to break up a relationship, how to react to a bad situation, how they should feel about this or that thing happening to them. Young generations have outsourced their emotional resources to musicians they don’t know—musicians who don’t know them—so when they're sad they listen to sad songs until they find a way to move beyond the feelings.

The human body once was able to create for itself the perfect emotions to aid its survival. Where once our bodies were manufacturing adrenaline to encourage us to get moving, now we have to blast loud, pumped up music to get us excited. Now that music substitutes for our “emotional muscle”, those muscles have atrophied, leaving us almost completely unable to accurately deal with emotional issues without assistance.

We, as a society, are emotionally handicapped. As we move forward, this disability will only grow to an even bigger problem. Kids who do not know how to handle their problems without a crutch like social media or musical medication… well, one can imagine how there will be some serious emotionally-based issues bubbling up and, for those unaware of the current crisis, the problem will seem to bubble up out of nowhere.

In college I see students demonstrating this behavior 24/7: when doing homework, working out, or simply walking alone. If I were to see just one young adult doing any of these tasks without texting on a phone or listening to music at the same time it would be an anomaly. The need to be surrounded by friends or music is lifeblood to young adults, and to some older ones. The danger for losing the emotional muscle is even greater in younger children.

It’s frightening to think, if social networks and “instant music gratification” were taken away, and if people were forced to listen to their own thoughts and socialize face-to-face, how society would get along at all.

CHAPTER 3:

Discrimination and Learned Helplessness.

The society we are living in today has unconsciously created a place where learned helplessness is rampant in the streets. Have you ever wondered why people resort to drug dealing and other illegal crimes, all while knowing that they are risking their freedom? It is because we have created Learned Helplessness in the poorer neighborhoods. If you haven't a clue as to what Learned Helplessness is, let me explain.

Learned Helplessness is when a person feels that, no matter what they do, they will always fail. This can be seen when a child stops trying to succeed in school after receiving a few failed grades. That student has put their mind into a state of Learned Helplessness; they will no longer try to succeed because they believe they are destined to always fail.

Now, in society at large, the process works the same way. If you have ever gone to a very ghetto public school you will realize how little some students try, while others succeed. I fell into the trap of Learned Helplessness when I was a freshman in high school. After constantly hearing my mom telling me about how she was being discriminated against and mistreated at her job I began to wonder, why bother working hard when I will only end up being tossed aside? My mother didn’t get the promotion she applied for because she was black, even though she had worked there for five years and was a top performer. The next day a Caucasian woman who had worked there for two months, who was less qualified and who was trained by my mom, got the job over her. This event was enough to create a state of helplessness in my mind. I started believing that, if I wanted to go anywhere in life, I would have to find my own way and not waste my time down a path (specifically, the school path) that is not meant for “my kind”.

I believe it is because of Learned Helplessness that many African-Americans do not succeed in the current educational system. They hear stories of their parents being oppressed in their place of work (or they experience it themselves) and that creates a mentality of Learned Helplessness, which further pushes the person away from the educational system. That's also why sports and music are so popular in the African-American community; that is how many have escaped the ‘hood; sports and music act as proven tracks to success and fame, a path where African-Americans aren’t discriminated against in. It is why crime and other illegal activities are used among some blacks as the alternative to academic success. The drug industry, while a less socially acceptable field, is another indiscriminating area of financial freedom.

Following my mother’s rejection, she not only started her own business and became her own success, but her determined ambition saved me from my own Learned Helplessness. For me, her determination and achievement gave me the hope I needed to break away. I realized that, on the educational path, there was more than one way an African-American could prosper, but zero education was not the answer. My mom shone as a living example of how I could use my educational background, knowledge, and hard work to achieve greatness. She was able to walk away from her negative experience and create an even better future for herself. Because of her diligence, I overcame Learned Helplessness. But, sadly, I was lucky. Really lucky. Most kids aren’t able to pull out of Learned Helplessness. Stories like ours—my mother’s and mine—are rare in the ghettos of society, and that’s the reason why America doesn’t see its ghettos shrinking fast enough.

For crime to decrease and for society to be able to work together and succeed as a whole, discrimination most go. America can kill two birds with one stone! We can be an example of a Utopia, where all people are treated equally. If such a mentality were adopted across the board, it could slowly but surely kill crime. The absence of discrimination would create a place where education is valued even more than it is today; we would have a truly unique and well-educated population, capable of unlimited advancements in science, technology, medicine and any other field imaginable; minds would be free to press against the limits of academia. Laws like Affirmative Action would go dead because we would be all equal, and programs like Unemployment would fade away.

Now, I realize everything I am saying here is very unlikely to happen. There is a preconceived notion floating about that we, as human beings, are destined to be at odds with one another. But, just for a moment, imagine how great America could be if we worked together! I encourage you to think about that the next time you see someone being discriminated against.

We can be the first steps to a real life Utopia.

CHAPTER 4:

No More Self-Control.

Talking points:

         Sex at a young age is becoming more common.

         Diets are less successful due to lack of control.

         Excuses for everything are always made for why something is or isn’t done (i.e. failing a class, cheating in life, and much more).

         No more dedication to commitments (i.e. marital, professional, financial).

         Overall social downfall.

We seem to be turning into a world of weak commitments and zero self-control. It’s common to see or hear of people looking for ways to lose weight without actually doing the work, like reducing caloric intake and taking time away from the television to exercise. They want to eat what they want and do what they want, all while getting the results they want. Essentially, having their cake and eating it, too! While excuses are nothing new, people today try the easy way out of situations and make more excuses than generations prior have.

College students are the prime example of what the problem is with our generation. The amount of sexual activity that happens without commitment is unreal. More people are becoming “friends with benefits” than ever before and, where once the stereotype was that only men cheated, girls are now more commonly cheating on their boyfriends. It seems every year girls are getting "sluttier" and boys are getting hornier. What does that mean for relationships? Well, that answer can be seen by the rise in the divorce rate and the number of non-married couples living together. Conventional marriage seems to be going downhill, fast.

Excuses and blaming someone else is becoming increasingly common, too. Students blame teachers for their failures, society blames the president for the economy, sad people blame God for their problems—it’s a “blame game” world. And, even more disappointing, the excuses are becoming less and less clever. Making an excuse is so common it’s rarely a second thought! People make excuses for why they are not following through with their commitments. Excuses like, “I just can't do it,” “I'm not smart enough,” et cetera. People make excuses for cheating on their significant other as if cheating is normal behavior; they say things like, “Everyone else does it,” or “It’s okay because I only did it once.” Since when has cheating ever been okay, even once?

People cheat on diets more than anything. They forget that cheating on oneself is the most unethical thing someone could do, next to quitting altogether. A person should never cheat, much less cheat on themselves! The mind is much stronger than we give it credit for. Ever heard of a false pregnancy? It’s where a woman believes she is pregnant without her actually being pregnant; her mind is so strong that her body actually changes to sustain a fetus which doesn’t exist! If the mind has the power to do that, then it is certainly strong enough to stop you from cheating on yourself or someone else. Once you quit or cheat in one area of your life, it’s that much easier to cheat in other areas of your life. Soon enough, you will do it everywhere. Do not let yourself fall into the downward-spiraling trend of cheaters.

CHAPTER 5:

Business Rules Happiness. Religion Rules Laws.

“What are we doing?”

This is the question I asked myself after one recent Thanksgiving, and the same question I asked myself after the 2012 Presidential elections. What are we really doing?

Take Christmas, for example. When most Americans think of Christmas, they imagine presents and the bustle of the heightened shopping season. Does a thought even come to mind about church, about the real reason behind Christmas, or why it is celebrated? Psychologically, someone reading this paragraph might find an excuse for why this does not apply to them, but I know this mentality is happening all across America because I see it happening to people around me. I’ve even found myself caught up in the commotion!

This is the sad state of the world we live in. Christmas has become business: it is shopping, guilt, selfishness, desire, lust, irritation, and gift-giving. Even worse: most kids growing up this day and age don’t know the origins of or the original concept of Christmas. Talk to anyone over the age of fifty who has long lived in America. They remember a time when they didn’t receive more than a handful of gifts for Christmas—maybe they did not get anything at all!—but they were still very happy with the little things they had.

Businesses, in an attempt to make profit and keep their private jets well fueled, have created a society were the main focus of all major holidays are not the actual holidays themselves but rather another opportunity to make money. Thanksgiving is not giving thanks anymore; no longer is it a time to simply enjoy having dinner with the whole family and reconnect while being grateful for being together. Nowadays, Thanksgiving has been converted to “the day before Black Friday, the best shopping day of the year.” In 2012, Thanksgiving day itself became part of the Black Friday itch—the holiday had become secondary to shopping! For a few years now, stores have been opening earlier and earlier; “after midnight” became a comfortable chant for retailers; after a while, stores felt it was okay to open even earlier than that. In psychological terms this phenomena is called Foot-in-the-Door Theory. It’s a concept which describes the slow, creeping intention of changing one thing into another without another person realizing it. In this case, the retailers put their “foot in the door” by starting to open at midnight on Black Friday, and then, when they saw that shoppers had adopted that concept, they went ahead and opened up to their true intention—having you leave your dinner table (and your family!) and get in line to buy more and more products which you probably don’t even need.

Though Christmas isn’t as corrupted as Thanksgiving, it has certainly changed over the years. In all of the weeks leading up to December 25th, you’ll see countless ads for things you “need” or “should” give to someone. Advertisers have colorful commercials that grab the attention of young children, marketing toys that they might have never known existed but now can’t live without. Commercials send subliminal messages to get kids believing that if they do not get a particular toy for Christmas, it means three things: first, that they will not be as happy as they would be if they had received the toy; second, that they are not as cool as their friends are (and their friends probably got the toy); and, third and most importantly, that their parents probably do not love them. This means that many parents are either forced to get the gift for the kid or suffer the tantrum that might follow. This relates to the next biggest problem.

Most parents nowadays do not like saying ‘no’ to their children, something that might stem from their parents saying ‘no’ too often to them or for other reasons, and so children end up getting anything they want. That means nothing negative in the short term but in the long term, this absence of ‘no’ would have changed the concept of Christmas to children forever: Christmas for the child has become the season for giving and receiving, for gifting and shopping, not the season for being happy you made it through the year and basking in the love of family.

Island Chapters: In Africa.

CHAPTER 1:

The Promised Land.

I have seen the Promised Land... and it's not America. The Promised Land is not a place where you're forced to live by the computer, to live at the will of Smartphones, to live glued to the TV, or to live at the mercy of other technologies. The Promised Land is not a place where people sit around watching other people live their lives on television shows. It is, rather, a place where people go out and work hard to achieve something unimaginable, to reach a goal they can be proud of and come home and tell their families they’ve accomplished it.

In my eyes, Africa is the Promised Land. It is the place where anything and everything is there for you, laid out for the taking, where everything and anything has been placed by God for people to live by. There are so many lush resources, so many intelligent people. There is such promise hiding there.

I see all this in Africa, but my vision is not the vision of the world. Africa will never be in real life the place I see with my mind’s eye. The world—with its slew of governments which are far more muscular than those in Africa—would be too negatively affected, economically and financially, and no one wants that. Africa is almost perfect but, thanks to industrialized nations like the United States, France, and Israel, among others... it will never reach perfection. It will always be stuck in last place, decades in development behind the others, highly dependent on foreign aid, its people stuck with a mentality of Learned Helplessness from which they don’t know how to escape. Africa is lost in the seventies: their cars are old, their houses are old, their clothes are out of date, and their technology is far behind.

Africa though blighted, is partly the victim of its own demise. From experience I know that entire populations in Africa are driven by greed. The man with the most money wins and takes advantage of the less fortunate—playing the “survival of the fittest” card—is only a piece of the puzzle. Dictatorship there is really bad; military power overrules the “good of the many”. American dollars speak loudly. Very loudly.

When I went there with my U.S. Passport in hand, doors opened for me that I didn’t expect would. Even though I was Cameroonian and I was known by most of the community, by just a flash of my passport I was allowed into places that my escorts, my African friends who had never left the country, could not go. All at once I felt heightened and hurt. I saw my African friends in a new light: the light in which, I felt, Americans saw me.

In addition to the political and technological plights, Africa, God's Promised Land, has become the world's test site for new military weapons, both biological and traditional. It is highly suspected that AIDS was not the result of some unknown jungle monkey’s bite, but the makings of the United States’ Biological Warfare Program. American slaves back in the 1800s came from the town where AIDS "originated". Therefore, if AIDS did “start” with these people, then wouldn’t the disease have been in America a very long time ago, before the Cold War? Why then, did AIDS appear during the time period when America and Russia were in the middle of a weapons race, when both Super Powers were out looking for the next big biological weapon?

When you really think about it, AIDS is the perfect weapon: it destroys the immune system and then leaves the person open to any small illness that can kill them. While this is just a theory, it makes sense because of the time frame in which all these things occurred. Of course, no one will admit to creating the worst disease (so far) that ever hit humankind.

I've learned by studying history that the governments are well known for blaming "less-than human" people for issues that they themselves have caused. (And, though some would like to directly accuse America only, we all know that this is not specific to the American government; governments, Nazi Germany for instance, have been doing this since as long as history has been written.) That's why when AIDS was “created” Africa was blamed—because it was easier to convince people that Africans were less than human than to tell the truth. Then, when AIDS came to America, gays were blamed for its spread, because gay people are less than human, undeserving, and abnormal.

Admittedly, I am no conspiracy theorist, and I do not hate the American government (quite the opposite, actually; there is much hope and love to be found here), but I do not like when someone gets blamed for something they did not do.

Africa has also fallen victim to severe resources depletion. Africa has diamonds, timber, hunting, fishing, rain forests, agriculture, ivory, people, gold, silver, copper, and is source to some of the most interesting history on the globe. Centuries of export with little to zero imports have left the resources dry and the prices of goods inflated (or deflated, depending on which direction those resources are going).

But, after all this consistent exportation, the Promised Land has become weak. Africa as a great resource was crippled long ago by so-called religious men who went to bed lying to themselves that they did a good thing. And there are still people today who commit the same crimes as in ages past, whether it is poaching or blood diamond dealing or slave trading. They might tell themselves they do it to better the world or to help their communities, but, one day, those people will have to admit their greed and selfishness. They will have to admit that they did it, not for the good of humanity or for some other charitable cause, but for the money.

God created the world in seven days, and Africa was inhabited since time began before becoming what we see today. God created an almost perfect piece of land and gave us, human beings, opportunity to take care of it, appreciate it, and live on it and by it. But we, in turn, have destroyed it.

By now Africa has been beaten, raped, and cried for someone to listen. But no one cares enough to listen and search for the problem or the solution. We, “intelligent” human beings survive in a global community we know so little about. And it's funny how no one seems to notice a troubled neighbor and, if they do notice, they don’t seem to care enough to take action.

We are a people who are quick to hate when given a single insignificant reason. We go to bed believing we are caring, loving individuals. We do not hesitate to go to war if another country makes a political statement towards us, citing the protection of the land we live on as a reason for doing so. But no one seems to care about the amount of waste we put into the earth, the amount of pollution we put into the air, the amount of bullshit we put into our hearts.

Humans have failed. We aren't working hard at creating major solutions to the problems. Instead, we are working hard creating the new iPhone. We aren't busy fixing the small problems we were assigned by God to fix; we are busy making more! We aren't trying to become one big, global community that is civil and united on the fact that we are all just humans. No, we are busy creating new divisions and building fences to separate ourselves even more. Ethnicity, religion, sexual orientation, and place of birth have become reasons for us to discriminate against each other rather than use them as a chance to learn more about the people in the world we do not know about, to learn about their experiences, and to unite in their differences.

America is the country where anything is possible. Still, it’s a land whose people think primarily of money, just like they do in Africa. (Oh, how similar we are!) It’s a place where kids in school are left to eat unidentifiable food and where now more than ever before people are questioning whether their food originated from an animal, a farm, a factory, or a test lab. Americans grow up eating food that makes them sick and they don’t even know it; food that causes them to acquire allergies, speeds aging, and weakens their immune systems; they are forced to rely on overpriced drugs and other medications to help them survive illnesses that those medications (and foods) caused in the first place. But… it's all about the money right? The money no one seems to have.

Africa went from being the Promised Land given to us by God to the world's communal landfill. AIDS, biological weapons, dangerous pharmaceuticals, and other things are tested there because, unlike America or other developed countries, there is almost no way for those people—my people—to tell the world about what is happening to them. Africans have no voice. And because they—we—have no voice, the problem persists. That is why I’m working to be a voice for my people. That is why this book exists.

If a tree falls in a forest and there's no one to hear it, does it make a sound?

If a chemical bomb is tested in my town and I do not survive to tell the world about it, did it really happen?

For information on these claims, visit:

         http://www.deepblacklies.co.uk/pentagon_aids.htm,

         http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Discredited_HIV/AIDS_origins_theories, and

         http://conspiracyinsider.blogspot.com/2012/07/is-african-zombie-disease-bio-weapon.html for interesting reads.

You can also read about one of Africa’s unexplainable, “natural” disasters at:

         http://www.dibussi.com/2006/08/the_lake_nyos_d.html

         http://natgeotv.com/uk/killer-fog/videos/tragedy-at-lake-nyos

CHAPTER 2:

Man-Made Conflict.

There is quite a lot of conflict in Africa. Much of which have been made into popular movies like Hotel Rwanda, and Blood Diamonds. But the big question people always have is this: why do you people fight each other? This question puzzles millions of intelligent people, and quite frankly, it almost seems crazy to me that the answer is not known worldwide. The answer can be explained with one simple question: how do you control a whole country full of people who outnumber you?

The answer: you make them hate each other.

This is what the European leaders did to control their colonies. They created an environment where the people in each area did not trust the other and they made it so that the people relied on the Europeans to keep them apart and keep the fights from breaking out. Now, this “divide and conquer” system works wonderfully for everyone… until the people keeping the peace leave the country, and no one is there to keep the peace anymore. At that point, any two opposing sides are left with no clarity on who is the leader or who is in control of the country. So they end up fighting over it, and will not stop until they have a clear winner/leader.

This is what has happened to most of Africa. The French and English left and with their departure began the battles that cause African suffering. It’s commonplace for me to be asked if the blood diamond trade is still going on in Africa, but it’s rare for people to understand that Africa is not a country: it is a continent made up of many individually recognized countries! The conflicts the continent has undergone and is still undergoing makes for a very hostile environment and paints a negative picture in many people’s minds of what Africa is actually like.

THE END.

“I am not afraid of the end of my book.

I’ve had a lot of great stories, characters, and events.

When it all ends, I’ll be thankful for everything.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

Born November 12, 1993, in the small village of Ndop in Cameroon, Africa, Wenceslaus (Wen) Muenyi is the youngest son of Moh Triya Muenyi, once mayor of Ndop, North West Division, and Grace, his mother and shining hero. At the age of nine, he and his siblings traveled to the United States to be with their mother, who suffers from persistent cancer and who came to the U.S. to receive treatment for her illness.

Wen currently studies Computer Science and Marketing at the University of West Florida. He plans to eventually return to Cameroon to help improve the living conditions and opportunities for the people there.

Wen may be contacted directly at: hi@wenceslaus.me.

You can read more about Wen at:

http://www.wenceslaus.me

Prior to the creation of this book, Wen made a YouTube video for his mother, as a tribute to her passion, strength, and perseverance. That video can be viewed at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TkJq4GyopPk.

“The book is over, but before you stop reading and I fade into your memory forever, I want to tell you I love you”

Special Thank You

A “Thank You” is one of the most powerful phrases

you are capable of saying. Use it often.

Richard and Barbara: I do not know how to put this into words. As I’m writing this there are so many things in my mind that you guys have done for me and I could write another book to fill all that in there, but for now, I want to say thank you. Thank you for being the grandparents I never had, but I needed. Thank you for the years of help and the days of fun times and memories we have had together. I love you two more than I can put into words.

Pastor David: I know I am not the best at getting to church every weekend, but I still want to thank you for every lesson you have given to me while I am there. I have so many good memories of the times I’ve spent in church and most of that was because of you. You’re a great teacher, preacher, and role model.

Kathy, Christina, Jeff, Jami, and Susan: It is rare for me to go into someone’s home and feel the way I feel about you guys. You have accepted me as your family member, and I see you as my brothers and sisters. I will always cherish our relationship and look forward to the days when I can afford to visit you guys more often.

Angie: I just cannot say thank you enough for everything. You’re the most unique girl I’ve meet at UWF, I love your personally so much. I am thankful that you are always there for me when I need the help. I appreciate and love you very much. You’re my best friend forever.

Angelina:  “Turn down for what” our relationship is a party, our friendship is mutual love, and I know wherever I go in life, I’ll be able to call you and plan a trip somewhere and have some fun. You’re the life of the party and you’ll always be the most reliable fun person I know.

Michael: There is no one that I feel more confident that when I get older I can call up and we will still be friends but you. You are my brother no matter what. When we go to Europe it’ll be you and I. When I get old, it’ll be you and I taking our kids to soccer practice. You’re my best friend without a doubt and I love you so much brother. Don’t let the fact that I’m always so busy make you think otherwise.

Daniel: I remember you and I used to have nights where we went out and no one knew where we were. We had so many hearts to hearts and I feel like I’ve never connected with anyone on that level my whole life. You are one of my favorite people regardless of anything and when you need me, I’ll be here for you.

Val: There is no summer without you and I going everywhere together. I know the first time I meet you I wanted to fight you but now I’ll always have your back. You’re my boy and you’re the only one that always makes sure I’m having fun when I’m home. I hope that after college is over we will be able to have an epic lifestyle together.

Little Bro: If and When, you will be taken good care of and we’ll make great memories together, not just in the Fraternity but also in life. I never make promises I don’t keep and I hope you’re ready to experience the world and make memories that you can tell your kids when you get old. Welcome to my family.

(Photo Credit: IFindKarma)

This is one of my favorite quotes and the most true question I’ve ever pondered.

Table of Contents

Dedication

Prologue

Maps

Chapter 1: The Past that Led to Me.

Chapter 2: Early Years.

Chapter 3: The Honeymoon is Over.

Chapter 4: It’s Okay Now… You’ll Be Fine!

Chapter 5: America is Unreal.

Chapter 6: The Beginning.

Chapter 7: The Next Three Years.

CHAPTER 8: People & Possessions.

Chapter 9: Finally Home!

Chapter 10: Middle School.

Chapter 11: Freshman Years, the Good Years.

Chapter 12: Florida, the Heartbreak Cure.

Chapter 13: Bigger… Nicer… Better!

Chapter 14: The Last Trip.

Chapter 15: Ultimate Freedom.

Chapter 16: Lingering Questions.

Island Chapters - Introduction.

Island Chapters: In the U.S.A.

CHAPTER 1: Inappropriate Sense of Accomplishment.

CHAPTER 2: Never Alone.

CHAPTER 3: Discrimination and Learned Helplessness.

CHAPTER 4: No More Self-Control.

CHAPTER 5: Business Rules Happiness. Religion Rules Laws.

Island Chapters: In Africa.

CHAPTER 1: The Promised Land.

CHAPTER 2: Man-Made Conflict.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

Special Thank You