Wait for Calm Water by Simon Giles Transcript

https://theblackmiasma.wordpress.com/2021/02/21/wait-for-calm-water/
Boosting my fellow writers!

“The sun shines on my cheek. I can hear laughter in the market as Mama squeezes my hand. “Pick a mango, Ifeoma,” she said, “The ripest one!” I scanned for the juiciest fruit I could find!”

“Then, our village was awoken by the sound of gunfire. Mama grabs me and tells me to quickly run. We have to make it to the boat! My lungs are burning! I can see the river!”

I wake up suddenly, sweating, the dream of gunfire still echoing. Mama’s voice in my ears, urgent, telling me to run. Her grip, tight with desperation — it’s hard to shake off.

The room is quiet now. Morning light seeping through the window. I grab the old photo on my bedside table, Mama smiling in better times. It gives me a brief break from the dream’s chaos.

The dream always starts the same. Gunfire tearing through our village, Mama pulling me away, commanding me to run to the boats by the river. The burning in my lungs with every step toward the unknown.

I swing my legs out of bed, readying for the day. The dream’s weight lingers as I gather my bag. In the dim light, I see the letter — the deportation notice. I slide it into my bag, a reminder of the uncertainty ahead.

Leaving the room, Mama’s photo in hand, the dream’s weight and the reality of the notice stick with me. The dim office awaits, and with it, the uncertainty. I glance at Mama’s photo again, a silent promise. I will survive.

“I must survive this. For her.”

Here I am, sitting in this dimly lit office, waiting for the lawyer to call me in. I’m clutching a piece of paper that seals my fate. It’s official — the government wants me gone. I’ve got a few days to appeal, to find a way out. What awaits me in that office room, I can’t predict, but I know one thing — I can’t go back. There’s nothing left for me there.

The secretary calls out to me. “Yes? I’m ready to see him. I think.” I stand up and gather my belongings.

“Never let anyone underestimate the power of a smile and a sharp tongue, Ife.”

The scent of stale coffee and leather entered my nostrils as I stepped the lawyer’s office. I can see a picture of a smiling family on his desk. They all look so happy. So at peace. I look down at my necklace, and all of a sudden, memories flickered in my mind — The way my mother fussed at me to quit moving as her nimble hands braided my hair. “Remember, Ife,” she’d say, “no mountain is too high for a determined heart.” I couldn’t help but grin, picturing her facing this deportation mess.

“Hello. I’m your Attorney Henry Whitman. Thank you for sharing your time with me. Can you tell me more about your journey to America? Specifically, what drove you to seek asylum? Can you share more about the conditions that led you to leave your home?”

Okay, deep breaths, Ife. Focus. Hello! My name is Ifeoma, but some people call me Ife. It’s a place unlike any other; so many different colors and sounds. Imagine the air thick with the scent of sizzling suya and ripe mangoes, the many fabrics flowing in the market, and the constant hum of conversation.

He stops me mid-sentence. He scribbles down in his notepad and redirects the conversation. He adds his own knowledge and and says he would like to hear about my experience here, instead.

“Warri, that’s close to Port Harcourt, right? I’ve had a few clients from there recently. I want to talk about your life here. How did you handle the transition? I need to know if there any updates to be done on our end.”

Oh. Ok. Well, America. Land of opportunity, they called it. But opportunity spoke fluent English, not Igbo. The first few months here were a blur of culture shock and lukewarm noodles that tasted like nothing Mama would ever touch. Slowly, though, things started to click. I landed a job at a diner and my tiny apartment, chipped paint and all, held the promise of a future I’d build.

Then, bam! Eh! The deportation notice. It ignited panic sharper than any Lagos mosquito. But I remembered mama’s voice. “Ifeoma,” she’d say, “life throws stones, but you build bridges.” This bridge, I decided, would be built with the help of a lawyer and a whole lot of determination.

They say there’s an issue with my papers and visa, something about ‘discrepancies.’ I left so suddenly, after all, and I couldn’t get them finished correctly. It’s confusing to do, like being lost in a maze where every wrong turn leads to more trouble.

As I am telling this, I feel a panging in my chest. All of a sudden, the memories come flooding back, sharp and painful. I try to explain the situation, the confusion, the fear of navigating this system alone.

He interrupts me… again.

“Thank you for sharing, Ife. It’s important to understand the challenges you’ve faced. Now, let’s shift our focus a bit.”

He tells me he needs to understand my story better. The more details, the better chance we have of building a strong case. A strong case. But what does that mean? Does it mean dredging up the past I’ve tried so desperately to bury? The past that haunts me every night? But he’s right. I know he’s right. But how do I even begin? Each word feels like a betrayal, a reopening of a wound that never truly healed.

“Of course there’s more, things I’ve never said out loud.” I tell him. My voice is barely a whisper.

He grabs his notepad with a glimmer in his eyes and reassures me. I can feel an ocean welling up in my stomach.

“Okay. Where do I begin? It was…a dark starry night. It was like every other.”

“On that night… a million watchful eyes glittered above… Their silent gaze… was our only witness.”

Mama shakes me awake, telling me to get up quickly. The war had found its way to our village. Gunfire and screams pierced the night, waking the entire village. We were all running. I clutched Mama’s hand. We had to reach the boat on the river but there were armed soldiers all along the way. We dart behind the mango tree, breathing fast. Me and Mama have to remain quiet, and so still. So still.

The seconds stretch into eternity as we huddle. Shadows of soldiers pass. We hold our breath and pray. Silently, we slip from our hiding spot and dash to the river… when a soldier spotted us running and-

All I could hear were the bullets. Each shot ringing past our ears. I stop in my tracks and vigorously pat my body. Breathing heavy, I see I am whole. I turn around to see a familiar figure crumpled in the grass with a pool of blood. “Mama? MAMA? MAMA! NO! NO! NO!” I ran back to her with all my might. She was on the ground with a red spot in her stomach! She lay there bleeding! She reached out her hand, pulling me close, and gave me her necklace, urging me to escape to the boats. How could I leave her? But I had to run. Soldiers were yelling and beginning to surround us. She fought and fought for me to let go of her and leave. She heaved so much and yelled “gba a ọsọ”! I have to run! She screamed at me to leave! I have to run! But how could I leave her? Alone? Mama?

The deafening chaos around me seemed to drown out everything, except the heartbreaking pleas from my mother lying on the ground. The weight of her words hung in the air as I ran, each step echoing the internal conflict tearing at my soul.

But the soldiers, they had heard my screams. I had to run! It felt like I was leaving not just my mother but a part of myself behind in that war-torn village. Every step I took towards those boats felt like a betrayal of the highest degree. To my country, to my village, to my mother. To God.

“My heart is still in that patch of grass,
Rooted where Mama’s smile last kissed the air,
Though my feet chase freedom in a foreign land,
Aching with the distance I couldn’t bear.”

Once the last words leave my mouth, I find myself struggling to steady my breath, each inhale feeling harsh against the dimly lit room. The weight of my story bears down on me, and a wave of emotion threatens to break through, as I struggle to contain my tears. It’s an experience unlike any other, diving into my past, laying bare the details that had long been suppressed in my memory. The pain of recollection, surprises me with its intensity.

As my story hangs in the air, the lawyer looks at me. He asks why I kept such important information from him. Telling it makes it real. It’s a shame I carry, not for leaving, but for surviving when others didn’t. He tells me it’s not my fault, but how do you take away the guilt of being the one who made it out?

He takes a moment to absorb my words, then leans forward, “Ife, I appreciate your courage in sharing such a painful memory. It’s not your fault. You survived, and that’s okay. The guilt you feel is a heavy burden, but it’s not yours alone to carry. We’ll make sure the court understands the challenges you’ve faced. After this, we’ll proceed with a hearing in court. It’s essential to be prepared for the questions they might ask. You’ve been through a lot, but we’ll navigate this together. We’ll build a strong case and ensure you have the support you need.”

We spend the next few minutes talking about the upcoming court proceedings, figuring out what I need to prepare. The lawyer outlines what he’ll do, emphasizing the importance of providing a detailed account of my experiences. He assures me that he will handle the legal aspects, making sure that every necessary document is in order.

“As your attorney, I’ll work on gathering evidence to support your story. We’ll need to establish the grounds for your asylum plea. This will involve documentation of the conflict in your homeland, your journey to the U.S., and the challenges you’ve faced since arriving. It’s crucial to present a comprehensive picture of your situation.”

As he explains the details of the legal process, I absorb the information, realizing that the upcoming hearing is critical in determining my future in this adopted land. The lawyer’s guidance provides a semblance of reassurance, yet the uncertainty of the court’s decision looms large.

The lawyer folds his notes, signaling the end of our meeting. Panic sets in, and I blurt out, “Please, there has to be something more you can do!” His eyes meet mine and he says, “It’s not up to him. The court will decide.”

“You don’t understand! I can’t go back. There’s nothing left for me there. My home, my family, it’s all gone. Every night, I feel like a piece of me is missing! This life in America is all I have. I cannot let my mother’s sacrifice be for nothing!”

With a heavy sigh, he tells me He’s sorry. “All we can do now is… wait.”

“A knot of despair tightened in my stomach. The lawyer’s words echoed in the dim room, amplifying the suffocating silence. Wait. It was a simple word, yet it carried the weight of an unknown future, a future teetering on the edge of a knife.”

Every night, I’ve said a prayer. Yet each night feels worse than the last. The uncertainty hangs heavy, and sleep becomes a distant friend. The minutes crawl by, and I can’t shake the feeling that time is slipping away. It’s like standing at the edge, not knowing if I’ll fall or find solid ground. The weight of it all presses down, and I wonder, how long can one endure this waiting? The room becomes a cage, and I am trapped in this limbo, yearning for a resolution, a glimmer of hope in the darkness of the unknown.

But through all of this, I wait for calm water. In these tough times, my mind turns to my mother. I wonder if she also found peace in her prayers as well.