Running for My Life: One Lost Boy's Journey From the Killing Fields of Sudan to the Olympic Games (11 page)

“Thank you,” I said.

“You are welcome. Go ahead and buckle your seat belt,” she said.

I shrugged, unsure what to do. The woman reached down, pulled the two belts up, and fastened them for me. She patted me on the leg and said, “Have a nice flight. We are glad you are here.”

I smiled in return. The woman left and I settled into my seat. I pulled out a card from the pocket in front of me. It had a diagram of the airplane. That’s when I learned this plane was a 747.

The seats on either side of me filled with people. I said hello in Swahili to the Somali woman in the seat next to mine, but she did not understand me. A man’s voice came over the PA system and said something in English. I’m not sure what he said. He called himself the captain. That part I got. A few moments later the plane moved backward, stopped, and then moved forward. I leaned forward and tried to look out the window. A few lights passed by, but for the most part, all I could see was dark. The plane moved along the ground, swaying slightly from side to side. The motion and the fact that I could not see out reminded me of the truck that carried me away from my church so many years before. Unlike that long ago trip, everyone around me now wore smiles. No one looked frightened and no one cried. This drive to America was going to be a much better trip!

The drive changed when the plane turned one last time and slowed to a near stop. The engines suddenly grew very loud. We moved forward quickly. The force pinned me back in my seat. The airplane went faster and faster, the engines loud, the sound of the wheels against the ground echoed throughout the cabin. Then, just as suddenly, the front of the plane tilted up, the wheels grew silent, and we were up in the air. I did my best to see out the window. Off in the distance I spied a few lights on the horizon. The plane banked the opposite direction, and the lights disappeared into darkness. That did not matter. I did not need to see anything outside. I felt a great peace because I knew we were on our way to America.

A short time after we took off, the flight attendants wheeled a large cart down the aisles. When they came to me, the attendant pulled out a tray of food and passed it to the woman next to me. She then pulled out another and tried to give it to me. I did not have any money to pay for food. Besides, I had eaten an entire loaf of bread before we boarded the plane. I waved my hand and said, “No, thank you.”

“Are you sure?” the attendant asked.

“Yes,” I replied. The cart moved on down the aisle. Everyone around me had a small tray of food. It smelled good, but I knew I could wait until we arrived in America to eat. After all, how far away could America be?

A few hours after we took off, the man’s voice came over the PA and made another announcement. The plane slowed down. We made a couple of turns and then headed down. Outside the windows I saw lights running up and down streets below us. The plane landed. This had to be America.

“Welcome to Cairo,” the captain said. I knew Cairo was not in America. We were still in Africa. When the plane came to a stop, I started to get up. “No, not yet,” the flight attendant said to me. I did as I was told. Some people got off the plane, and others got on. Finally, the doors closed, the captain said something over the PA, and we took off again.

Once again, a short time after takeoff, the flight attendants came down the aisle with trays of food. My stomach growled at the sight of food, but still I had no money. When the attendant came to me, I waved my hand again and said, “No, thank you.”

The woman next to me said, in English, “Eat.” The flight attendant looked at me with a look that told me she really, really wanted me to take the food. But I could not. How would I pay for it? The last thing I wanted to do was land in America with a debt for the food I ate on the way.

Time passed as we flew. I sat in my seat, never once getting up, never once unbuckling my seat belt. My grip stayed tight on the bag the INS people gave me. They told me to hold onto it, and that’s exactly what I did. Outside the window, night turned into day then back into night. The trip to America took longer than I ever expected.

Finally we landed. “At last,” I said to myself, “America.”

“Welcome to Beijing, China,” the captain said. I knew we were still not in America. When the plane came to a stop, I stayed in my seat. I had no reason to get off the airplane in China. Some people got off the plane, while others got on. Once everyone found their seats, we backed up from the gate and took off once again.

And once again, not long after we took off, the flight attendants wheeled the cart of food down the aisle. “No, thank you,” I said just as I had every other time the attendants offered food to me. By now, I was very hungry. Yet I still had no money. Without money, you cannot eat. Everyone knows that.

The flight attendant looked very concerned when I refused her offer of food. She left the cart and went back to her station in the middle of the plane. While she was gone, the Somali woman handed me a roll from her tray. I was too hungry to refuse it. I gulped it down.

About the time I finished the roll, the flight attendant returned. “Please, take the food,” she said.

“I have no money,” I said in my best English.

The attendant smiled at me. “Free,” she said.

“Free?” That was one English word I knew. “Okay,” I said.

She placed the tray in front of me. I did not recognize all of the food, but by this point, I was too hungry for that to matter. I ate the chicken and sauce in the main tray, along with the potatoes alongside it. Next to the bread was a small item wrapped in foil that I had never seen before. I unwrapped it and ate it in one bite. No sooner had I popped it in my mouth than the Somali woman showed me how it was supposed to go on the bread. “Butter,” she said. I shrugged and kept eating. The only thing on the tray I did not eat was the green leafy stuff. I tried it, but it did not taste very good.

When I finished my tray of food, the flight attendant brought me another. “Okay,” I said with a smile. I ate it nearly as fast as the first tray. We had been on this airplane a very long time. I had grown very hungry.

Outside the window the night turned into day. Off on the horizon I saw nothing but water. Only later did I discover that we had flown over the North Pole on our way from Beijing to New York. My eyes grew heavy, but I fought sleep. I did not want to sleep through arriving in America.

At long last the captain came over the PA and said the words I had waited to hear, “Soon we will land in New York.” The plane slowed and banked a time or two. Off in the distance I could see the tall buildings of the city. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen before.

When the plane finally landed, I felt like I was still flying, I was so excited. This was America, the place about which I’d dreamed for so long.

The airplane came to a stop. I stood up for the first time since we left Nairobi. Not once did I get up to go to the bathroom or anything else. I sat in my seat, clutching the bag I’d been told to hold onto. My legs ached when I finally stood, but I did not mind. This was America, at long last.

All the passengers filed off the plane in a line. The line went down a hallway, down a flight of stairs, and up to a man standing behind a wall of glass. “I need to look in your bag,” he said. He wore a uniform and badge. An American flag was sewn onto his sleeve. I opened the bag and held it up to him. He pulled out my I-94 form and stamped it. This form allowed me to immigrate to the United States. “There you go,” he said. “Next.”

I wasn’t sure where to go next. Thankfully, an aid worker came over to help. He looked at my airplane ticket and then led me to another terminal area. All around me Americans walked and talked and laughed and went about life as normal. Most were white, but not everyone. This was the first time I realized that all Americans are not white. I assumed they were. Like I said earlier, I thought the cold weather in the United States turned everyone white.

The other immigrants and refugees on the plane went their separate directions. I was the only one in the gate waiting area for the flight to Syracuse. I found a seat, my bag still tight in my hand, and sat down. I do not remember anything else until a man who worked for the airline shook me awake. “We cannot leave without you,” he said. Apparently, the moment I sat down I passed out asleep.

The plane to Syracuse was much smaller than the one from Kenya. Thankfully, this time I knew how to use my seat belt. Unlike the first flight, I was the only African on the flight, the only person coming to America for the first time. Behind me two girls talked and laughed while watching a movie on a portable DVD player. For some reason, their laughter made me feel even better about where I was going.

Thankfully, the flight from New York did not go to Syracuse by way of China. No sooner had we taken off than it felt like we were going back down again. I sat by myself, taking it all in. Outside the window the ground below was very, very green, greener than anything I’d ever seen before. No one offered me any food, although I did get a small cup of soda to drink.

The plane finally landed. Once we stopped, everyone stood up. A line of people filed off the plane. I wasn’t sure where to go or what to do, so I followed the line. We walked off the plane and onto a small hallway. Later I learned this hallway is called a Jetway. The hallway led to a door. I walked through and into the airport gate area. I paused for a moment, looking for one of the workers like those who helped me in New York.

That’s when I saw it. Right in front of the gate area were a white man and woman. Both wore huge grins. The woman held up a sign with words of English I could understand. There were only three words on it, but they were the best words I’d ever read: “Welcome Home, Joseph.”

Ten years after the rebel soldiers ripped me out of my mother’s arms, I finally had a place to call home.

ELEVEN
The Promised Land

M
y new family greeted me with hugs and kisses at the airport. I’d never been hugged or kissed by white people before. They introduced themselves as Rob and Barbara Rogers, “But you can call us Mom and Dad,” they said.

“Okay,” I said. Mom and Dad were easy to remember. I hadn’t called anyone that in a very long time. The words felt good rolling off my tongue.

An official-looking man stood next to them. He reached for the bag I’d held onto since I boarded the bus bound for the airport more than thirty hours earlier. I resisted. “It’s okay. I work for the government,” he said. Mom and Dad smiled and nodded for me to give him the bag. I did as I was told. The official looked through my bag and then said, “Everything looks good. Welcome to America.” He walked away with my bag.

“Do you have any luggage?” Dad asked.

“Yes,” I replied. I had no idea what luggage was, but I said yes anyway.
Yes
was the one word I knew I could use and never sound impolite. The last thing I wanted to do was offend these people.

“All right, let’s go down to baggage claim,” Dad said. Mom took my hand as we started walking. My legs felt shaky and my head was in a fog. Outside the sun shone bright, but my body told me it was the middle of the night. Mom asked me several questions, but I had no idea what she was saying. I knew a little English. Before I left Kenya, I thought I knew a
lot
of English, but speaking words and phrases in a classroom setting is very different than having complex sentences fly at you in an accent you can hardly understand.

We stood at the luggage carousel watching one suitcase after another spin by. “Tell me which one is yours,” Dad said. I nodded. I did not understand why we stood there watching suitcases roll by. After most of the luggage had been carried away by other people, Dad came over and looked at my ticket. He gave Mom a look and then said, “I’ll go get the car.”

Mom led me outside. The air felt so warm and smelled so good. I’d breathed recycled airplane air for far too long. Dad pulled up in the most amazing car I’d ever seen. Only army trucks and jeeps ever came into Kakuma, but this car was nothing like either of them. The green paint shimmered. It was so sleek, so new, I felt like a king climbing inside.

We took off down the road. Everywhere I looked I saw green trees, green grass, and beautiful blue sky. I rolled down the window and stuck my head outside like a dog. I can only imagine what Mom and Dad thought of me in that moment. I didn’t know my actions were out of the ordinary. I wanted to smell the sweet, fresh air and take in all the sights rushing past me. What better way to do that than to put my head out the window?

“Joseph, are you hungry?” Dad asked.

“Yes,” I said even though my stomach did not feel much like eating.

We pulled into a restaurant and walked inside. The smell of so many different foods nearly gave me a headache. We walked up to the counter. Up above were photos of everything on the menu. I had no idea what was what. So much food from which to choose! All the choices made my head swim. I just knew this had to be one of the nicest restaurants in all of America. Only later did I discover the truth about McDonald’s.

My dad ordered a chicken sandwich for me. “For all of us, right?” I asked.

“No. Just for you,” he said.

I unwrapped the sandwich, but I could hardly bring myself to eat it. For one thing, my stomach felt queasy from bouncing around on an airplane for a day and a half. But, more than that, I looked at this large piece of chicken sitting on the bread and thought of the way the ten boys in my tent shared one chicken at Christmas and Easter. It did not seem right that I had so much when they had to get by on so little. I took a few bites and wrapped up the rest for later. “We have food at home,” Dad said. “You can throw away whatever you don’t want.” I could not do that. I took the sandwich to the car with me.

Once we were on our way again, Mom turned and said, “We have a surprise for you. Dad found some of your friends here in Syracuse. Would you like to speak to one of them on the phone?”

“Yes,” I said.

She handed me a cell phone. It was my first time to talk on the phone. My friend Simon from Kakuma was on the other end of the line. Oh, it felt so good to hear Swahili! Simon left Kakuma a few months before me. He told me how Dad found him and some other lost boys walking down a street in downtown Syracuse. “He asked us about you,” Simon said with a laugh, “and we told him you will eat anything and that you talk a
lot
!” Mom and Dad would not discover this was true for a while yet. I loved to talk, but not yet in English.