Me In America: A Dream.

It is called the land of dreams, the place of opportunities, capital of the world; God’s own country and the place to be, but I know it as the United States of America: U.S.A. The country I started dreaming to visit ever since I was three years old wearing my Oshkosh dungarees while watching Sesame Street, a kiddies TV program that got me infected with the American bug. My grandfather never failed to tell me about America, “Obodo Oyibo,” he usually calls it whenever he sits down with to tell us tales by moonlight while smoking his tobacco filled pipe. I used to wonder how he knew much about this country himself and my father failed to visit when there was opportunities for them because I was made to know that our Naira was stronger than the Dollar at some point. I remember me, seven years old and still dreaming, writing my first letter to America; the recipient, a Christian tract society. I still feel my young heart filled with joy when the postmaster handed me my first mail from America filled with lovely tracts that talked about Jesus. From then onwards, I started writing to everybody and everything America; I wrote to the Voice of America and they sent me This Is America; I wrote to DC Comics and they mailed me Batman Comics and I wrote to Ernest Angley, he replied with a copy of Rapture. All Americans, all America. I remember listening to the angelic voice of Dolly Parton singing Coat of Many Colours while Michael Jackson moon walked me to Mars and back again on disco shows. Then came the era of Musical Youths; the boys that came with the track 007 and made many kids in my peer group start losing interest in school.

I dreamt America, I slept America. How can I forget 1989, when KC and Tolu, two of my best friends, came knocking on the window in the night. “Our Daddy is taking us to America,” they announced. I asked my Papa why he wouldn’t take me to America like my friends. “When you grow up, I’ll take you to America,” he assured me. I wait for growth to occur never losing sight of the dream while my buddies left for this land I had so much imagined. I watched TV and said a prayer for Reagan; I watched Rambo and longed to be a marine. I longed for America, I lived for America. In 1991, while still at junior high, specifically on January 15th, Bush led a war of liberation for Kuwait from the grips of Saddam. I prayed for America, I supported America and started the 11th commandment for America, a new gospel about this super power nation; “If a man lives all his days on earth without visiting America, if he dies, he would surely go to hell.” And I believed it; I still had doubts if my grandfather would go there but I sure did want heaven.

“America oh America, in my lifetime, I must visit thee,” became my creed, my prayers during the morning and at noon day. Aged 17 and grown, I reminded my Papa about his promise, my America. “Son, if you read your books well, you will go to America,” he advised; from an American promise to an American advice. I knew I had to salvage my soul from going down the pit; my father wasn’t as wise. Then came the great gamble, a chance to live the dream; the American visa lottery it was called. Five times did I gamble, five times did I lose my chance to make heaven on earth. I called on to my ancestors, my lineage that transcends of old to free me of whatever curse they may have laid on me; for if they weren’t too stubborn to have resisted the colonials, I may as well have being a Kunta Kinte somewhere in Michigan. Watching a youngster called Valentine a year after, the bug still very much alive, talking about an exam that can lead him to America. I watched and kept faith because where I was coming was very far. Val passed the SAT and got an admission in America, only then did I come nearer him. “I will go to the embassy tomorrow,” he informed and off he went, on a night journey to Lagos. “Valentine got passed,” I was told, “his visa was granted.” I learnt. Oh foolish me, lousy me, how near America was to me only that I didn’t seek. The next year, trust me; I did apply to write the exam to America. Pass I did, an admission, I did get, to Oklahoma Panhandle State University to study Computer Information Systems. I became too happy that at last I was going to America like Akeem. Meticulously, I gathered my documents; my uncle’s contract papers, my father’s palm oil farm papers and my results, all for America. Early in the morning I set out for the American embassy. I trekked under the rain and got soaked on my grandfather’s coats but I never did mind; to me it was showers of blessing; blessings of going to America. Arriving at Victoria Island, I asked for the embassy. “It was on Eleke Crescent,” one person said. “No, Abacha changed it to Louis Farrakahn Crescent,” another argued. “They now call it Walter Carrington Crescent,” a young lady informed me. I trekked on, wearing my grandpa’s coat and carrying my bulging documents to the crescent called Carrington.

On getting there I saw the flag, the most beautiful of all nations; blue stripes on red stars. Quickly like Arnold Swazzeneger, I threw a salute hoping to fly that flag in a matter of minutes. Waiting all over the river bank were dreamers like me; old and young, tall and short; beautiful and ugly, black and white including Chinese and Indians. All wanted America. I enquired about the requirements for the commandments of the consulate that I might abide therein. “You get your Valucard for your visa fee and then you wait for your turn.” A fellow dreamer said with his lips moving in prayers apparently for a breakthrough. “How much?” I enquired. “$100.” “$100?” My visa fee was not complete. The enemies were at it again but I was not the type to give in to my fears. “When will it reach my turn?” I kept on. “It depends on the visa you are applying for.” “I-20, student visa.” I announced. “You have to come back in a month,” my informer said. “Why such a delay?” I had come from afar. “To give you time to pray and fast.” The Youngman said and it made sense to me.

Immediately I went to the cathedral and did all the penance, I confessed all my sins and became born again. All for America. I started fasting and praying for success until I believed or deceived myself into believing that I heard a voice telling me that all was well. Finally, a divine confirmation that I was going to America. A few days later and it was D-Day. I left for the embassy before first light and met people that slept there and woke up there. I was advised to come so early so as to greet the consular when they arrived on speed boats. I did, I almost bowed down to them when they came. None of them responded to my greeting but I was confident. We all filed out like slaves about to board another slave ship only that we were struggling to get in. Even the whips that the guards used in flogging us to keep calm weren’t painful. I strived to get in and I did. I was nearer America. Inside the embassy I saw all kinds of Nigerians like me, some more desperate; there were very old men and women still hustling to get into America. I didn’t blame them; they never wanted to go to hell. I started praying, refusing to talk to anyone before they infect me with their bad luck. There were many of them around; people denied visa crying about the place. I didn’t want to dwell on them before I catch their bug, their bad luck. As I loaded my card and gave all my money away to America, I wondered how much revenue they generate each day because it was a market inside there. But I needed to keep praying. I saw people with accents being denied; I saw doctors told they weren’t doctors; I saw Chieftains in their regalia being told to leave; I saw grandmothers denied their visa because their claim that their daughter was abroad was seen to be a lie. I saw many broken dreams and people addicted to trying again. All for America. Then my turn came; I was called by a very young girl that may as well be my junior. I had my confidence and my documents reading millions of naira contract my uncle was making but nobody looked at my documents. I was asked an inaudible question by the American and her hand was already holding one stamp. I kept rattling why I wanted to go to America but the girl, the very young girl had made up her mind or somebody had made it up for her to stamp those denials.

I was not an exception. I lost my application, my chance to go to America. My only avenue to make a dream a reality. It was destroyed by a small girl without any conscience what a man went through, that I had to wait to grow up, that I had to fast and pray and ….oh…….my America is gone. I am still around but maybe still dreaming about America but then I ask myself why can’t I love Nigeria like I do America. That would be a topic for another day. Right now, I still see America.