Behold the Dreamers Read Online Free PDF Page A

his pen and leaning forward. “Do I have to spell it out for you? You got to use your common sense and produce for me something I can show these people. Eh? It’s like that man Jerry Maguire says, show me the money. These people at USCIS are going to say, show me the evidence. Show me the evidence! You get me?”
    He laughed at his own joke. Winston puffed. Jende did not react—he’d never heard of a man named Jerry Maguire.
    â€œWe got to show a lot of stuff to convince them, you understand me? One way or another, we produce a lot of evidence.”
    â€œWe’ll see what we can do,” Winston said.
    Jende nodded in agreement, although he knew getting the kind of letters Bubakar wanted would be difficult. Neni’s father didn’t like him—that he’d known for years—but the old man had never once threatened to kill him. No one in Limbe could attest to that. But filing for asylum was his best chance at staying in the country, so he had to do something. He would have to talk it out with Winston and see what could be done; Winston would have ideas on how to do it.
    â€œAnd you’re confident this will work?’ Winston asked.
    â€œI’ll make a strong case,” Bubakar said. “Your cousin will get his papers, Inshallah.”

Four
    S HE COULDN’T GO TO BED UNTIL HE GOT HOME; SHE HAD TO HEAR EVERY thing about his first day at work. When she had called him around noon to find out how his day was going, he had hurriedly said it was going good, he couldn’t talk, but everything was good. So she’d had no choice but to wait, and now, at almost midnight, she could finally hear him at the door, panting after having climbed the five flights of stairs it took to get to their apartment.
    â€œSo?” she asked, grinning as he sat down on the threadbare living room sofa.
    â€œI cannot complain,” he said, smiling. “It went well.”
    She went into the kitchen and got him a glass of cold water, helped him take off his jacket and, after he’d rested on the sofa with his head thrown back for about a minute, brought out his dinner and pulled out a chair so he could make himself comfortable at the dinette set.
    Then she began asking him questions: What exactly did he do for the family? Where did he drive them to? What did the Edwardses’ apartment look like? Was Mrs. Edwards a nice lady? Was their son well behaved? Was he going to be working this late every day?
    He was tired, but she was persistent, scattering the questions all over him like confetti on a victorious warrior. She had to know how rich people lived. How they behaved. What they said. If they could hire someone to drive them around, then their lives must really be something, eh?
    â€œCome on,” she said. “Tell me.”
    So he told her everything he could in between mouthfuls of his dinner. The Edwardses’ apartment was big and beautiful, he said, millions of dollars more beautiful than their sunless one-bedroom apartment. One could see the whole city through the window in their living room—his mouth had dropped open when he saw it.
    â€œChai!” she said. “What would it be like to have a place like that? I’ll jump and touch the sky every day.”
    The place looked like one of those rich-people apartments you see on television, he went on. Everything was white or silver, very clean, very shiny. He’d spent only a few minutes there while waiting to take Mighty to school after he returned from dropping Mr. Edwards at work. Mrs. Edwards had asked him to come upstairs because nine-year-old Mighty wanted to be properly introduced before being chauffeured to school. “A very nice child and a well-brought-up one, too, that Mighty,” he said.
    â€œThat’s good to hear,” she said. “A rich child who is well brought up.” She wanted to ask if Mighty was as well brought up as their Liomi, but she didn’t—she thought