They talked about life in the United States. About how to get a job, how to save money, how to arrive on time for work. They talked about apartments, about buying food and paying rent. They helped us with the math-most of us, they said, would be making $5 or $6 an hour. This seemed like a great deal of money. Then they told us about buying food, and paying rent on an apartment. They had us do the calculations, and we realized we could not afford to live on $5 or $6 an hour. No particular solution was offered, I don't think, but we were too high to dwell on the details. We tried to listen to all the words, but we were so excited. Trying to learn numbers and facts that first day was like catching bats leaving a hollow. They managed to seize our attention when the American brought out a cooler and passed around a large cube of ice. I had seen ice before, though in smaller form; none of the other boys had seen ice at all, and they laughed, and squealed, and passed it hand to hand as if it might change them forever if they held it too long.
At work that day, I attempted to impart everything I knew to George, who would have to take over the project entirely. He was very attentive, but we both knew that leaving so quickly would be problematic. The operation had lost its two primary staff members in the space of a month.
— Maybe they'll send another Japanese person, George said.
— I hope they don't, I said.
I wanted no more people coming to Kakuma unless they had no other choice. I wanted us to take care of ourselves, and to solve all this on our own, and to bring no innocents into the hole we had dug. It seemed a sensible plan, that day at least, and after we locked up the office that afternoon, I felt the satisfaction of having settled another of my affairs at the camp.
As I walked home, the afternoon still bathed in harsh light, I saw my stepsister Adeng walking quickly toward me. Her arms were wrapped around her torso, a strange expression on her face.
— Come quickly, she said.
She took my hand in hers. She had never held my hand before.
— Why? What is it? I asked.
— There is a car, she said.-Outside our house. For you.
A car had only once before stopped at our shelter, when Abuk had arrived.
We walked quickly toward home.
— See? she said.
When we arrived, I saw four cars, UN cars, black and clean, dust everywhere around them. I stood with Adeng. The car doors opened and a dozen people stepped out at once. There were two white people, two Kenyans. The rest were Japanese, and all were wearing formal clothing-jackets and ties, clean white shirts. A young Japanese man, tall and wearing a tan suit, stepped forward and introduced himself as the translator. And then I knew.
— These are the parents of Noriyaki Takamura, the man said, sweeping his arm toward a middle-aged couple.-This is Noriyaki's sister. They have come from Japan to meet you.
My legs almost gave way. This was such a difficult world.
His parents greeted me, holding my hand between theirs. They looked very much like Noriyaki. His sister took my hand. She looked like Noriyaki's twin.
— They say they are sorry, the translator said, — but Wakana, Noriyaki's fiancee, is not well. She wanted to meet you, but she is finding all this very difficult. She is in bed, in the UN compound. She sends her good wishes for you.
Noriyaki's father spoke to me and the man in the tan suit translated.
— They say that they are sorry for the pain in your life. They have heard much about you and they know you have suffered.
— Please tell them that this is not their fault, I said.
The translator related this to the Japanese. They spoke to me again.
— They say they are sorry to add to the tragedy of your life. Noriyaki's mother was crying now, and soon I was, too.
— I am so sorry that you have lost Noriyaki, I said.-He was my good friend. He was loved by everyone in this camp. I beg you not to cry for me.
Now everyone was crying. Noriyaki's father was sitting on the ground, his head in his hands. The man in the tan suit had stopped translating. Noriyaki's mother and father cried and I cried there, in front of my shelter, in the heat and light of Kakuma camp.
I had two more days before I left for Nairobi, then Amsterdam, then Atlanta. I slept without peace that night and woke early, hours before the second day of orientation class. In the inky blue light before dawn I walked around the camp and felt sure I would never see any of it again. I had never seen Sudan again, had never seen Ethiopia again after we fled. In my life up to that point, everything moved in a single direction. Always I fled.
There were too many things to do in those last forty-eight hours. I knew I would do few of them well. The orientation class ended at two o'clock and with the remaining daylight I had to cancel my ration card, pack and then see hundreds of people who I would never see again.
I knew I would give away most of my things, for when someone is leaving the camp, that person is descended upon; he becomes very popular. Custom requires that he leave all of his possessions to those remaining in the camp. First, though, there is the practice of booking, wherein anyone close to a departing refugee will claim whatever they would like to have upon the person's departure.
Within a day of knowing I would be leaving, everything I owned was booked. My mattress was booked by Deng Luol. My bed was booked by Mabior Abuk. My bike was booked by Cornelius, the boy from the neighborhood. My watch was booked by Achiek Ngeth, an elderly friend who had commented many times on how much he liked it. I used some of the money I had saved to buy new clothes, some pants with side pockets, lightweight and stylish.
I rushed from place to place on my bicycle, that night and the next morning, and when people saw me, they could not believe that I was leaving.
— Are you really leaving? they asked.
— I hope so! I said. I really had no idea if any of this was real.
It was Saturday and I would be gone the next afternoon. I was still not so sure I would be leaving, because the false starts had been many and all of them cruel. And besides, when I spent time thinking on it, I had no business going to the United States; none of it made sense. It was logical, much more so, that the whole affair would be called off. As I raced through the camp, shaking hands with people I knew, it began to seem more possible that I would leave-likely even. With every person who knew about my leaving and wished me well, I began to believe. So many people could not be deceived.
When I arrived home, to sleep one last night at Kakuma, I ate a very sad and joyful dinner with Gop and the family I had adopted. Ayen and her daughters cried because I was leaving. These adopted sisters of mine, every one of them as worthy as I was, cried also because they themselves had no chance of leaving, unless they were married off to prosperous men in Sudan. They were not considered by the UN for resettlement because they were a family, and thus were in no danger. None of the resettlement countries wanted families, it seemed, so Gop and his wife and daughters are still at Kakuma today.
After dinner, I packed the few belongings I would be taking: the new pants I had bought, and the many documents I had kept-my grade reports, proof of completion of a course in refereeing, my CPR certification, my drama-group membership card-twelve papers in all. I found two perfectly sized pieces of cardboard, and I taped them inside, to make sure the documents would not be damaged during any portion of my trip. Then the strangest thing happened: Maria came into my room. I had planned to say goodbye to her tomorrow but she was here now.