My friends who have returned to Sudan, to visit their families and find a bride, uniformly gape at the primitive nature of life there. A life without cars, roads, television, air conditioning, grocery stores. There is very little electricity in my hometown; most of the power, when they have it, is provided by generators or solar devices. Certain amenities like satellite phones are becoming more common in the larger towns, but on the whole the country is many hundreds of years behind the standard of living to which we are now accustomed. One man I know drank the water from the river, as all of the people do, and he was in bed for a week, vomiting a year's worth of meals. We have been weakened by our time in America, perhaps.
Dorsetta, what was I doing getting on another vehicle, again heading to Kitale, so soon after my accident? My bones still ached everywhere and I had no desire to get on that road again, but there had been a trip planned for many months, and I could not disappoint the boys. Thirty of them, two squads of nine-year-olds, were traveling to Kitale to play against the local boys' teams. Usually such games were exhibitions only; our kids were roundly defeated by any of the Kenyan squads. But the score never mattered, only leaving the camp mattered, so there I was, just weeks after the accident, on September 5, getting on the bus again.
I stood by the vehicle, a closed-top UN bus this time, with George, and we watched the boys run from all sides of the camp. They were good boys, smiling boys-about a third of them had actually been born here, in this camp. To be born here! I never would have thought it possible. The others had come from many regions of Sudan, many brought here as infants, starving and barely alive. I occasionally wondered if one of them could be the Quiet Baby, now grown. Perhaps the Quiet Baby was a boy. It was possible, of course it was. In any case, I loved all of the boys equally.
As they boarded, each of them giddy and touching every inch of the bus, I checked their names against the team roster.
Two were missing.
— Luke Bol Dut? I called out.
The boys laughed. On a day like this, they laughed at anything.
— Luke Bol Dut?
I looked out the window. The day was bright, light as linen. Two boys were running toward the bus. It was Luke and Gorial Aduk, the other missing boy. They were in their uniforms and were racing toward us as if reaching the bus would save them from certain death.
— Dominic!
It was Luke. He leaped onto the bus, almost hysterical. He couldn't get his next words out.-Dominic! he said again.
Another fifteen seconds as he caught his breath.
— What is it, Luke?
— Your name is on the board!
I laughed and shook my head. It was not possible.
— Yes it is! And not just on the board! Your name's on the list for cultural orientation. You got it! You're going!
Cultural orientation was the final step. But before that step were so many others: first a letter, then another interview, then the name on the board. Then another notice for cultural orientation. All of this usually took months. But this wild boy was telling me that the board was telling me all this at once.
— No, I said.
— Yes! Yes! yelled Gorial. He was trying to pat my back.
— Wait, I whispered.
I asked the bus driver to wait, and I told the boys to stay with the bus. I turned to George. I stammered for a second, asking him to wait a moment while I…
He blew his whistle.-Go!
I ran toward the board. Could this be true? Noriyaki had been right! They really wanted me! Of course they did! Why wouldn't they want me? They would not have waited so long if they didn't want me.
I ran.
Halfway there, I caught myself. What was I doing? I stopped. I looked like a fool, running to the board because some nine-year-olds told me my name was listed. False reporting had become a joke; it happened all the time, and was never funny. I slowed down and considered turning around.
The moment I slowed my pace, I heard screaming. I looked up to see Luke and Gorial, trailed by a mass of other boys, running toward me.
— Go! they screamed.-Go to the board!
They looked like they would knock me down if they reached me. I turned again and ran, the boys close at my heels. We all ran, the boys skipping and jumping and laughing along side me. Gop Chol, coming back from the tap, saw us running down the road.
— Where are you going? he yelled.
His face again restored me to my senses. Should I tell him what the boys said, tell him where I was running?
I smiled and continued running. I ran with an abandon I hadn't known since I was very small.
— It's on the board! Gorial screamed to him.-Dominic is on the board!
— No! Gop gasped.-No!
He dropped his jerry can and ran with us. Now there were fifteen of us running.
— You really think it's on the board? he huffed alongside me.
— It is, it is! yelled Luke.-I know how to read!
We ran, tears streaming down our faces because we were laughing and maybe crying and maybe just delirious. Finally we were at the board, the Lutheran World Federation's information kiosk, where they displayed refugees' arts and crafts.
I ran my eyes over the names. Gop was doubled over, holding his side. There were so many names, and the light was too bright, the ink so faint.
— There it is! Gorial yelled. His finger was stuck on the board so I couldn't see. I swept his little finger away and read my name.
DOMINIC AROU. SEPTEMBER 9. ATLANTA. Now Gop was reading with me.
— September 9? he said.-That's Sunday. Four days away.
— Oh my God, I said.
— Four days! he said.
The boys made a song of it.-Four days! Four days! Dominic's gone in four days! I hugged Gop and he said he would tell the family. He ran off and I ran off, back to the bus.-I'm going! I told George.
— No! he said. I told the boys.
— Where? With us?
— No, no. To America. My name is on the board!
— No! they all yelled.-No it isn't, never!
— You're really leaving? George asked.
— I think I am, I said, not quite believing it.
— No! You're here for life! the boys joked.
But finally the news sunk in. I would not be going on their trip that day, and probably wouldn't see them again. Some of the boys seemed hurt, but they found a way to be happy for me. George shook my hand and they leapt over the seats and crowded around me and patted me on the back and the head and hugged my waist and legs with their small arms and tiny bony hands. I was not sure if I would see them again before I left. I hugged all the boys I could reach and we cried and laughed together about the insanity of it all.
It was Wednesday night and I was leaving Sunday. I had hundreds of things to do before my flight to Nairobi. My head ran through all the tasks necessary. There was no time. I knew everything that had to be done, having seen all of my friends leave before me. I had to be at cultural orientation two of the next three days, leaving no time for anything. I would say goodbye to my Kakuma family and friends on Saturday, but before then, it would be madness.
That night I went back to the board, to see my name again. It was indeed my name. There could be no error now. They could not remove my name from that list. Actually, I knew they could-they could do anything, and often did-but I felt at least I had grounds to fight if they tried to rescind their promise. While I was looking at the board that night, I saw also my name on the list for INS letters. They had not sent the letter; I only had to pick it up, and that was the last part of my release. It was all happening at once. I didn't know what to make of the logic of the UN, but it didn't matter. I was leaving in three days and soon everyone knew.