I now see it as a mistake, but I brought the picture to Maria one day. I wanted her to see it. I wanted everyone to see it. I wanted to talk and talk about who I was now, the young man who had had his picture taken and was on his way to the United States. I found her outside her home, hanging laundry.
— I've never seen you smile like that, she said. She held the picture for a long time; such photographs were rare in those days.-Can I keep it? she asked.
I told her no, that it was necessary for the file, that it was crucial to my application. She gave it back to me.
— Do you think we'll be taken, too? The girls?
I was not prepared for this question. I had not heard any mention of girls being taken for this round of resettlements. It did not seem a possibility to me.
— I don't know, I said. Maria smiled her hard smile.
— But I'm sure it's possible, I said, almost believing my words.
— I was only kidding, she said.-I would never want to go, anyway.
She was an awful liar, always transparent.
I was determined to find out if girls were applying, and a few days later I learned that it was indeed possible, that many girls, dozens of them, had begun their applications. I ran to tell Maria, but she was not at home. Her neighbors said she was at the water tap and when I found her there, I told her what I knew: that girls were invited to apply, too, that they simply had to prove that they had no family and were unmarried. When I told her this, a light came to her eyes, for a moment, before flickering out.
— Maybe I'll see what I can do, she said.
— I can take you there tomorrow, I said.-We'll get an application. She agreed to meet me at the UN compound in the morning. But the next day, when I arrived, she was not there.
— She's at the water tap, her sister said.
I found her in line again, sitting again with her two jerry cans.
— I'll see what happens with all of you first, she said.-I'll go next time.
— I think you should apply now. It might take a while.
— Maybe next week, then.
She seemed unmotivated to begin the process. Perhaps it was the nature of the day, too warm and windy, a day that kept many inside. Maria did not look at me that day, did not entertain notions of escape. I had a low opinion of her attitude that day, and I left her there, sitting in the dust. The line moved. Maria picked up her empty containers and moved them a few feet forward, and sat down again.
— What's happening with your application? Noriyaki asked me.-Any news?
Many months had passed since the initial wave of excitement about the resettlements. We had all turned in our stories, and since then, many young men had been asked to come to the UN compound for interviews. But I had not been called upon. I told Noriyaki there was no news, that I had not heard anything since I turned in my papers. He nodded and smiled.
— Good, good, he said.-That's good. That means things are on track.
Noriyaki was a sorcerer at convincing me of the most implausible things, and on that day he persuaded me that despite hearing nothing from the UN, I would be scheduled for the first airlift to America. I should begin to plan accordingly, he said-I should begin deciding which NBA team I preferred, for there would be no doubt that I would be asked to play professionally. I laughed, but then wondered if I could indeed play basketball for a living. Maybe I could play for whatever college I eventually attended? Every decent player at Kakuma imagined the day that he would be discovered and lifted up, as Manute Bol had been, and brought to glory. That day, I, too, allowed myself a moment of self-delusion.
— I should tell you now, Noriyaki said that day, — I'm leaving Kakuma, too. In two months. I wanted you to know first.
It had been long enough, he said. He needed to be home with his fiancee. And with me gone, he had decided, it would be the right time to hand the Wakachiai Project over to the next team. It seemed the right thing to do, I thought. We were both happy for each other, that we would finish this stage of our lives and move on together, albeit on other sides of the earth. We talked all that day about how we could keep in touch, how easy it would be with our new, more opulent lifestyles. We could call or email each other each day, send jokes and memories and pictures. We opened two Fantas, clinked them together, and drank them down.
— You'll come to my wedding! he said suddenly, as if the plausibility of the idea suddenly occurred to him.
— Yes! I said. Then I asked, — How?
— Easy. You'll have the proper immigrant status. You'll be able to travel wherever you want. It's one year from today, Valentine. We've set a date. You'll come to Japan and you'll be there when I marry Wakana.
— I will! I said, believing it completely.-I'll definitely be there.
Drinking our Fantas, we savored that thought for an afternoon, the luxury and goodness of it alclass="underline" airplanes, cities, cars, tuxedos, cake, diamonds, champagne. The day when we would meet again as prosperous men, comfortable and accomplished men of means, seemed very close.
In those days there was euphoria in the camp for so many reasons, among them the Vatican's first-ever canonization of a Sudanese martyr. Josephine Bakhita, who had been enslaved herself, died as a Canossian Sister in Italy in the late 1940s, and now she was a saint. This was a source of fascination and pride for us all, many of us having no idea that it was even possible for a Sudanese to be sanctified. Her name was invoked at church every day, and was on the tongues of every proud Dinka Catholic at Kakuma. It was an unusual time for us all, a time when for the first time in years the Dinka felt strong, felt wanted by God and faraway nations. A woman of southern Sudan could be a saint, and the Lost Boys could be flown across the ocean to represent Sudan in America. If one event was possible, so was the other. Nothing was out of the question.
When the first resettlement flights departed, there were celebrations all over Kakuma, and I went with Achor Achor to the airfield to watch the planes disappear. I was overjoyed for these young men, fully believing that I would soon join them in America. As the flights continued, though, as the near-constant news of the good fortune of this boy and that boy, I became numb to their happiness, and could only question my own inadequacies. Perhaps five hundred young men left, and as the months passed and I received no word from the UN, I became less happy for those who had been chosen. Parties broke out with every posting. Families celebrated, groups of young men dancing together when their names appeared. Each week there was incalculable joy for them and devastation for the rest of us.
I was not close to leaving. I hadn't even been given an interview. The interview was the first step, long before one's name could be posted. Something seemed very wrong.
— I'm very sorry, Achor Achor said one day.
I had already heard. Achor Achor's name had appeared that morning.
— When do you leave? I asked.
— One week.
The news was always quick like this. One's name was posted, and then that person was gone, it seemed, within days. We all had to be ready.
I managed to congratulate him, but my pleasure in his good fortune was tempered by the bewilderment I felt. I had done everything right, I thought. Through my job, I even knew some of the same UN staff members who were helping with the resettlement process. Nothing seemed to give me an advantage. I had not been a soldier, I had an exemplary record at Kakuma, and I was not the only one baffled by the fact that so many were sent to America before me. No one understood it, but theories abounded. The most plausible among them held that there was a prominent SPLA soldier named Achak Deng, and that the two of us were being confused. This fact was never confirmed, but Achor Achor had his own theory.