When you were leaving for America, you heard a lot about green cards. You heard about the exhausting stories of how people, especially Africans, use white people to obtain their green cards. And you had convinced yourself that never for once would you use any white dude for such an endeavour. Because such things make you pale as hell. And because of that, you searched for a picture of a white dude on Google, then you took a kitchen knife. Staring at the picture while bending the knife into your chest, you began to think about how your ex jilted you, and the hard-forgotten hurts started coming back into your heart, tipping your chest with the tip of the knife and starting to drive it into it. The pain of your stab, mixed with the flourishing hurt of your once failed relationship cemented your hatred for this white innocent dude and the thousand others you are yet to meet. It was your way to stay committed to the ethics of your journey before leaving for America.
You arrived in America. It was during the winter season. And you had no car. Your feet were the pity. Because even after catching the train, you still had to walk three miles before reaching your workplace. Sometimes you cry upon arrival. Especially when you think about how easy it seemed in your country even in your hardship. You were only a dishwasher at the hotel, but it was so tedious. Your back had started hurting like a bird suffering from a knee injury. Your fingers had started crinkling; the detergents were so strong your black Palms were cracking.
You could have died but this dude showed up. A lanky white 22-year-old boy who had a car. He was your supervisor. You also heard he was the son of the CEO of the hotel. He was an ordinary dude. The point is all the white dudes you’ve seen so far in America have always turned out ordinary. They don’t have the blue hot eyes, endowed pacts and well-statured figures like those you have been watching on Netflix. “Hello.” You had closed and were getting ready to leave when you heard him from behind. You turned. “I noticed you use the subway trains, but you have to walk miles to catch them all the time. But you don’t have to anymore because I can drop you every day.” He spoke. Your ears erected like to say ‘Come again, sir.’ And he read it on your face. “I can drop you. Come on.” “Sir…” You hesitated “Collins.” He said smiling, beckoning you to come along. And just like that, you followed. It was a four-wheel drive. Black and too big for a 22-year-old boy.
You sat very quietly. It happened that you were in your head asking all the questions for which you couldn’t hear him to respond to any of the questions he had been asking you. It wasn’t until you felt his icy palm on the back of your left palm you turned, smiled sheepishly and uttered a shameful ‘sorry.’ From the time you sat down to the time you stepped out of the car; he had told you everything about himself. He confirmed his mother owned the hotel. His father used to be a politician until he ran mad during one of his campaign rallies, so he was currently at the psychiatry. He is in law school but every time he is on break, he comes around to take charge so that his mother can go and be with his father. You sympathized with him and even when you saw his tears coming to hug his cheeks, you quickly reached out for a tissue for him. And he smiled as he accepted the gesture. Immediately, you felt you could be happy about something now even though you didn’t have a car. Because your father was still strong and well and not at a psychiatry hospital, he was only a cocoa farmer, but he was healthy. Even though your mother was a CEO, she wasn’t a hotel CEO; she was the CEO of a fast-food joint. “Thank you.” You expressed with your big smile as you shut the car’s door. You were truly grateful.
A friendship quickly started budding forth. You and Collins started spending a lot of time together. He changed your position. You became the girl at the reception. So you also realised he was a kind, sweet human; yes, he didn’t pretend as if you weren’t African and very dark and that meant nothing at all to him because black isn’t supposed to be plain, right? Sometimes, his words are so fallible you can read through them, making you know that you may not get to be his girlfriend because his family wouldn’t accept you even if he accepted your black love.
On your part too is a crisis. The last time you spoke to your mother and told her everything he told you about himself, she warned you to be careful. Because you cannot marry into a family of mad people. You tried to explain, but your mother wouldn’t take it. She kept to her warning. “You are African. Before your generation, our husbands were searched for us because of some of these things. If a family has any chronic ailment like madness or epilepsy, we are forbidden to marry a man from that family.” Your mother has always reminded you of this identifying trait, but it was just that you had seen love and you were desperately considering what love is telling you.
On the other hand, there were your travelling ethics. But with this white dude, you knew you love him; it wasn’t for the sake of a green card. And you thought it would be easy until you saw them together.
You were closing; you were getting ready to leave when you saw them approaching. A tiny lady filled his arms; she was so clingy, and it was beautiful because they seemed perfect in all ways. “Hello, Amoanimaa.” He was an expert at mentioning your name. You responded but with a bitter smile “I am sorry; I won’t be able to drop you home today. My girlfriend and I have a very special date. I sincerely apologize for any inconvenience caused.”
And you said it was fine and that you would be okay, but you knew that inside of you was a raging chaos. Your life would become harder. Now you will be more miserable. But you will pray. You will ask God to take every tiny girl in the life of Collins away.
Crazy? Anyway…
You didn’t go to work. It was your off day. You had done yourself a good pity party and were trying to rest your eyes when you heard a knock on your door. It was Collins. He was a total sight of dejection and you felt pity for him at once. He looked like someone who had been rolling on the floor crying. His suit was dampened, and he seemed like a wretch. You helped him inside. You offered him water and he declined. “I heard that Africans have witch doctors and they are capable of treating madness, do you know of any?” This question spoke poorly to you. Then it built a sudden rage in you. “What do you mean?” You asked with your fumbling lips “You could probably get me a witch doctor who can treat my father’s madness because Elsie says she won’t marry me if my father doesn’t recover. Elsie is also an African but only that she was born and bred here, but even so, when we went to see her super-rich family and upon hearing that my father was mentally deranged, they bowed their heads and raised them only to say they were sorry.”
You grew cold. Pain rushed subtly through your chest, just like the pain you felt when the knife grazed your skin. Should you kiss him to show how far you’re willing to go to be with him? Or should you call your mother and ask her to find a witch doctor for him, so that after curing his father, he can go on with his wedding plans with Elsie while you sit in America, hating every white dude—but this time, for a real reason?
Maybe you should let the African witch doctor cure his father, hoping that he recovers but only with his left brain working, just enough to recognize you—the African girl he wants his son to be with.
You picked up your phone and dialled your mother’s number. You might soon become Mrs. Whyte.
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Afia Boatemaa is an avid storyteller and educator who uses writing as her trusted companion to vent and nag about the many ills, shame, suffering, injustices and abuses of society and for that matter, the lifetime oppression that has numbed Africans and Africa from realising her utmost potential. She is the author of the novel, The Truth About Today, a political and historical fiction that examines the military regimes that shaped Ghana before its establishment as the Fourth Republic.
Driven by her enduring passion for storytelling, her short story: Eczema of Blackhood, a piece she authored to highlight the telling makeup of the slave story, made it into the 2023 African Diaspora Awards (Longlist). Believing that the heart of Africa’s stories lies within those who have lived them, Afia emphasises the importance of authentic voices in sharing the continent’s narrative. To her, only those who have walked the path of being African can truly speak to the richness and complexity of the African experience.
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