COMING FOR AMERICA 1
The Origin
Andayi Mushenye
LAST CHAPTER 37
Dreamful Sleep: The D-Day of American Misadventures
Print
Email
Facebook
WhatsApp
On another occasion, just before the cinema van came through, a swaggering comrade was jogging through the village pathways, throwing punches in the air. He stopped by where we were seated, huffing and puffing.
When he caught his breath, he warned, “None of you better mess with me; I fought Sylvester Stallone four times.”
“Where did that happen?”
With a face now covered in sweat, he asked, “You mean you didn’t see me in Rocky I, II, III, and IV?”
“No, I didn’t.”
He exhaled heavily to bolster his assertion.
“You see these two hands.”
He displayed his folded fists and threw two quick jabs and a punch.
“They are also known as hammers. Stallone was so afraid of me that he escaped to America. Now I have no one to fight but punch the empty space in front of me.”
The inquisitor quizzed, “What will that do for you?”
He wiped his perspiring forehead and looked around as if about to reveal his dirtiest secret.
“I must not only be in tiptop condition but also keep my muscles loosened so that they don’t get cramped when I finally execute the punch that will finish Stallone in Rocky V if that coward ever agrees to another fight. I hope he does because I will punch him so hard that all his children will be born mentally disturbed. His defeat will finally show America and the world his previous wins were a fluke just for show!”
He gave us a final look, daring us to say something. None of us said a word. We knew any contradictory comment to his claim would be the beginning of a fight because he was champing at the bit, ready to show his boxing skills. Satisfied he was the undisputed top dog, he departed, jogging, mumbling, and shadowboxing.
On a bright sunny day, the week of the cinema, I walked over to where my neighbor was sitting with other neighboring boys under the tree, watching over their grazing livestock.
He revealed, “I have a problem.”
“What problem?”
“Every day, Angela Bassett and Jodie Foster fight over me.”
Congratulations were in order, “Wow … That is the best problem a man can have.”
He disagreed boldly, “No, that is not the main problem.”
Now the rest of us wanted to know, and we let our spokesman go for it. “What is the main problem?”
Looking like a man caught between several women he loved, he divulged, “My mother says she prefers Whoopi Goldberg—she is more formidable, and with her, no one will mess with my property or my children when I’m not at home.” He thought hard for a quick second and asked, “Do you know, after listening to my mother’s logic, I realized a woman like Whoopi could be that special wife that can cause a dying husband to smile?”
The claim caught us off guard, and we were glad one of us asked, “Why do you say that?”
Recognition dawned on his face. “Because he knows he is leaving behind a strong woman that will take care of their children, who will turn out to be also strong and protect their mother and the love of his life in her old age.”
One of us leaned forward, curiosity growing. “So what are you going to do?”
The potential suitor nodded to himself agreeably. “I can marry all of them.”
I finally asked. “How are you going to afford them?”
“I don’t have to pay for anything,” he asserted, his voice calculating.
Now he had me, and I needed to know. “Why not?”
His mouth curved into a knowing smile. “They are independent American women.”
My desire to know went up a notch. “What do you mean by that?”
A slow smile erased the creases between his brows. “They have more than enough money to afford to pay for everything on their own.”
I couldn’t get my head around it. “How do you know?”
He met me with a question. “You mean you don’t see them at the cinema swollen with pride at all times, demanding equality with men in word and deed?”
I was still dissecting what he had said when he buttressed his belief. “For all I know, they would even demand to pay separate dowries. I wouldn’t be surprised if they get into a delightful competition with each other to see who will gift my parents the most.”
“Really?”
He bolstered barefaced, “Yes, in fact, plenty of men in America get spoiled by their woman’s money.”
Coming from a patriarchal society where the man is the primary breadwinner and provider, I couldn’t wait to go to America and see how this was possible. This newfangled notion caused me to declare out loud, “That has never been done before.”
“True—that is exactly why there will always be a first time for everything,” the braggart concluded confidently.
In another incident, I was walking with my two friends; one of them mimicked Arnold Schwarzenegger in the movie The Terminator.
He copped an Austrian accent and announced, “I’ll be back!” and departed.
Not to be outclassed, my remaining friend also made it known he was the real action hero. He hollered grandiosely, “I’ll be back,” and disappeared around the corner as well.
In a few minutes, the two came back, vociferously arguing back and forth about who was the real Arnold Schwarzenegger.
The first blowhard finally dared the second bluntly, “If you say you are the real Arnold, spell your last name.”
The challenger tried but failed, his face going blank.
His egotistical adversary guffawed and asked disparagingly, “How can you be Arnold Schwarzenegger and not even know how to spell your own name?”
At that moment, it was apparent sparks were ready to go off. After a quick back and forth, I could see the sizable gap between them narrowing by the second. The two were my friends. I could not pick sides, so I became a neutral bystander.
A visible vein was already popping out of the second friend’s neck when he faced the first one down. “So you think I’m a fool that can’t spell?”
Undaunted by his rising anger, his foe rebuffed, “No, I don’t think you are a fool, but I know for sure you are the chimpanzee that can’t spell the name he responds to.”
An instant blow greeted this comment, and the battle caught me in bare-knuckle combat between my two hardnosed “Schwarzeneggers.” It was not until one of them sensed defeat and scurried for safety that the skirmish evaporated.
Black American actors also caused brawls. When Eddie Murphy, Denzel Washington, Cuba Gooding Jr., Morgan Freeman, Samuel L. Jackson, James Earl Jones, Laurence Fishburne, Forest Whitaker, Wesley Snipes, or Danny Glover appeared on the screen, everyone claimed some friendship or kinship with his favorite actor.
At some point, one of our village comrades declared, “Eddie Murphy is my first cousin. Our genes are powerful. That is why he managed to fight and shoot for forty-eight hours without stopping.”
On the dot, his claim was rubbished. “How can you say you possess hardwearing genes that can chase a violent robber on a killing spree for forty-eight hours straight, yet you are too lazy to sleep for eight hours?”
Before he could answer, someone did it for him. “Remember? That is why he is the brother of Doctor Dolittle.”
Laughter was still ringing in the air when another egotist disputed, “Eddie Murphy is my blood brother in America. They abducted him from our home to go and act like he was coming to America. That means calling him your first cousin tarnishes our family reputation here and abroad.”
The boaster shouted back, “Look at Eddie Murphy. Does his face look like yours, which was glued together by a tired, absent-minded God?”
Giggles were resounding up in the nightfall when his adversary retorted, “I guess you don’t know he went to America and had plastic surgery so that he can act in movies.”
A sharp retort came his way, “If he is your brother with enough money to change his looks, why is it that the top of your head is not flat like that of his other brother, Arsenio Hall?”
The two argued with bared teeth, and before we knew it, his nemesis maddeningly strutted over and barked, “At least mine is not a face like yours, which only a blind mother could love!”
The rapid laughter incited his challenger to move right up to his face, ready to settle it once and for all, but he was met with a scalding question.
“Surely, where does a stinking moron with skunk breath like you get the monkey-see-monkey-do bravado to step in anyone’s face?”
Another quick, angry exchange and posturing followed, and right away, fists flew.
Unfortunately, the disputant was from our arch-rivals across the river in Musudzu village. That meant those of us from Mungavo village took one side to defend our militaristic reputation, and it was an all-out village-versus-village skirmish. By the time we retreated, skin-puncturing whacks had done their damage in the sundown, and we were vanquished staggeringly.
Somehow, the boys from Musudzu village always conquered us, from our circumcision days to the soccer matches, athletic competitions, and wrestling skirmishes every boxing day on the 26th of December. Unable to win head-to-head contests and thus not daring to seduce or visit a girl in their village, we planned a deadly ambush.
We stole ropes from our cows, and just before the movie ended, the gang leaders rushed ahead to tie them across the narrow path just before crossing Wakole River, which led to their village right across the ancestral forest where we were circumcised. This strategic point was crucial because we knew our arch-enemies would stop and take their final stand once they crossed the river into their territory.
When the movie ended, as planned, we fell back, and as soon as they branched off the main road to head down the narrow bushy path, one of us screamed into the menacing darkness.
“I have been slashed with a machete!”
Another one of our scheming squad screeched into the bushy nightfall, “He just severed my arm, and it’s falling off, help me, somebody help, please, come and tie it back on my body.”
There was another harrowing squeal, “Oh my God, he is chopping everyone. I’m bleeding. Come help! Please help!”
Knowing they were passing through a hostile village, our adversaries instantly scampered in the pitch darkness for dear life. In no time, they crashed into the ropes, and we were right behind to thrash them with strong whips that had taken us a month to prepare. After a few days of studying the injuries and no one was reported cut or stabbed, the village chief discovered our mischievousness.
Afraid of what those boys would do in retaliation, Mama never let my brother and me go to the cinema anymore. It was the same week she transferred me to Chavakali High School because she knew those young, vengeful warriors would somehow catch up with me on my long five-mile trek to or from Senende High School. That marked the end of my dalliance with the movies that gave me the first glimpse of the images, accents, stories, nuances, and mannerisms of Americans and their country.
During the flight, it was not until halfway through the first leg from Nairobi to London that I noticed that besides the well-cushioned seats, the activities and design of the aircraft cabin were deliberately crafted to provide a pleasant and relaxing atmosphere.
The food was served and consumed. Shortly after that, alcohol was on beck and call. The cabin lights dimmed when the plane crew issued blankets and pillows. I looked around and saw my fellow passengers reading, chatting quietly, watching a movie, or listening to music from their headsets.
Moreover, with the droning white noise that quieted my mind as I rocked softly and stayed seated for an extended period, it didn’t take me long to start feeling lethargic.
In no time, I passed out sooner than I could continue conjuring more memories and visuals of how I knew or perceived America and what this most magnificent country in the world would be like in reality when I finally touch down in the Star-Spangled land of my wildest dreams.