The Foreign Service Journal, July-August 2010
J U LY- A U G U S T 2 0 1 0 / F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L 33 She held up his passport to the light, compared it with the other one in the file, presumably Joyce’s, and then left the window. Philip stood there alone, tapping his foot loudly. The woman returned about five minutes later and asked Philip something. He shrugged, and then went to go sit down again. “She wants to speak with you,” he told Joyce. The woman smiled at my sister quietly and then spoke with her for about five min- utes. She never asked Joyce a single question. At one point, she gestured toward one of the passports and shook her head slowly. By the way Joyce’s shoulders sagged, I could tell it was all over. Kevin grabbed my arm, knowing I wanted to run to her. The woman finally gave Joyce the two passports and turned away from the window. Joyce walked away, ignoring me fully. Philip collected his and Joyce’s things and followed her out, his face impassive. “Whatever you do,” the visa fixer had told us over and over again, “maintain your character until you’re a kilometer away from the U.S. embassy, re- gardless of the visa decision. Go home, and call me.” Before I had time to process what had just happened, Kevin’s name was called. “Omaha. We’ll live with my uncle.” “Twenty-six.” “Psychology.” “I moved here when I was 20. My parents are To- golese.” “My wife was born in Accra. She has no formal educa- tion beyond secondary school.” “We got married when we found out she got pregnant. Our baby is four months old. He has no brothers or sis- ters.” I stared at the floor. I pictured Joyce slowly walking away from the embassy, her feet making desolate prints in the fine red sand. I could see Auntie clutching her cell phone in fierce anxiety, waiting for her to call. She wanted Joyce to make it to America almost as much as Joyce did herself. Suddenly Kevin was back at my side, poking me. “Go up there! That man wants to speak with you!” I struggled to my feet, adjusted Bana in my arms, and went forward. The white man beyond the glass was tall and thin. I smiled at him nervously. “Don’t be nervous!” he said in heavily accented French. “You can speak English,” I told him. “I’m Ghanaian.” The man perused the paperwork quickly. “Oh, oh yes. Well, Gloria, where do you work?” “I stay home with my baby,” I told him quietly. The man peered over the window. “Your baby is very beautiful,” he told me. “Your first?” I nodded. “What’s his name?” “Bana,” I said quickly. I held the baby up to the window so the man could see his features better, and Bana started crying. The man held up his hands in surrender. “Tell him not to worry!” I could tell he liked kids. “How old is he?” “Four months.” “How did you decide to name himBana?” I hadn’t dis- cussed that with Kevin, and couldn’t be sure if the man had asked him the same question. I decided to tell the truth, based on what my mother had told me. “My father left my mother when I was a small baby, and that was his name. I grew up never knowing him, and I wanted to maintain a small part of him in my life.” The man smiled. “Well, Gloria. Let me be the first to congratulate you, your husband and beautiful baby boy for qualifying for the U.S. Diversity Visa program. You can come and pick up your passports next Tuesday at 10 a.m. Good luck to you in the United States of America.” I was stupefied. I had expected to leave the waiting room sobbing or painfully stoic. I looked back at Kevin, and he eyed me nervously, his foot tapping like Philip’s. He stood up and guided me outside. By that time Bana was exhausted after his experience with American bu- reaucracy. “Well?” Kevin demanded. I pushed the wrinkled ticket with the date and time when our visas would be ready into his hands. His eyes widened, and he kissed Bana and then me. The others in the waiting roomwho hadn’t interviewed yet stared at the three of us. I couldn’t tell what they were thinking. We continued walking outside. Kevin jabbered away on his cell phone in a dialect I didn’t understand, and Bana snored comfortably on my left shoulder. By the time we reached the street, Joyce was nowhere to be seen. ■ F S F I C T I O N By the way Joyce’s shoulders sagged, I could tell it was all over. Kevin grabbed my arm, knowing I wanted to run to her.
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