Epilogue: 2022.
Author’s Note:
If the reader wonders why I have chosen to relegate the last fourteen years of my life, the “American” years, to an Epilogue, the answer is that I never intended to write a “victim narrative.”
Tales of exile, some infinitely more painful than my own, have already been recounted ad infinitum (and ad nauseam), both by the victims themselves, and by professional authors. I am loath to add to the groaning “Memoir” shelves in bookstores. Also, my title should have alerted the reader that this book is intended not as a “victim narrative,” but as a bildungsroman.
Nevertheless, you may wonder what has subsequently happened to the people in my story, so here, to the best of my knowledge, are some answers: --P.T.
--In February of this year, during his sixth term in office, the Dictator-President of Ngongo, General Festus Nkwema (1937-2022) died in his bed, supposedly of “natural causes.” As for the country’s mineral wealth, in this new era of electric vehicles, cobalt has become more precious than ever. U.S. political bungling has given China the inside track in the race to corner the market. Xiyou Jinshu, the company that operates a huge ngongienne mine, is fully supported by China’s Capitalist-Communist dictatorship.
--At some point, Mishach Ndukwe returned to Nigeria, where the grapevine reports that he may either be dead or a member of the clandestine separatist group, Indigenous Peoples of Biafra (IPOB).
--Upon the dissolution of the CPLN, in 2008, Major Oscar Odhon’g is said to have joined the newly formed East-Central Movement for African Democracy. As is the case with many of today’s African insurrectionist organizations, ECMAD combines Islamist and ethnic/separatist elements. Having apparently learned from Ngongo’s failed coup of 2007, ECMAD now uses shooters on motorcycles for its assassination plots.
--Very sadly, in December 2008, my first and greatest benefactor, Eliyahu Josephai, succumbed to a third cardiac episode. R.I.P, bwana mpendwa [“beloved master”].
--In 2011, “Bila Kujulikana,” the Zambian activist who briefly served as my tour guide at Mount Kilimanjaro, became her country’s Assistant Minister of General Education, a position she still holds. The actual name of “Miss Anonymous” is Dorcas Banda.
--Blanche Mbabazi, is Executive Secretary of Affiliated Women’s Groups of the Democratic Republic of the Congo (AWGDRC).
--Among those about whom I have no current information is my uncle, Alphonse Saint-Louis. His sister, my mother, Marie Diremba Tshombe, passed in 2013, at the age of fifty-nine. R.I.P., dearest mother. Apari! [“I miss you!’]
--Michael Horvat & “Gros Pierre.” Who knows? Who cares?
--Robert “Bob” Shepard (and Pierre Bondeko Tshombe). Since January 2008, when he met my flight from South Africa at John F. Kennedy International Airport, Mr. Shepard has remained my indefatigable benefactor. First, he secured (and paid for) a basement apartment in the East New York section of Brooklyn, which I shared with five other refugees from several parts of Africa.
Shortly thereafter, Mr. Shepard helped me obtain work as a Superintendent’s Assistant in a building located in the Manhattan neighborhood of Greenwich Village. (This is the building in which Mr. S. resides.) My supervisor, if not quite so kind as Mr. Shepard, is no Festus Nkwema, either!
Over the ensuing years, as my dreams of becoming a professional translator have faded, and with them my hopes of becoming a full citizen of my adopted country, I stuck it out in this position: P.B. Tshombe, Bachelor of Arts, University of Nairobi, Mopper of Floors, Deliverer of Parcels, Collector of Garbage.
But all has not been lost! When, in 2015, my boss, the old building superintendent, having saved sufficient money to retire to his native Kosovo, departed, I was promoted to full Superintendent (again, at least in part, through the good offices of Mr. S.)
For thirteen long years, six days a week, I rode the subway train back and forth from East New York. Each round trip took, on average, about two hours. If my math is correct, my total commuting time was about 8,000 hours! But I am not complaining.
The reader will remember my repeated references to the Law of Unintended Consequences. In August - September 2021, that fickle Law struck yet again, this time for both better and worse. In the midst of the Covid pandemic, Hurricane Ida flooded my Brooklyn dwelling place, prompting me to recall the droughts and famines that have shaped the modern history of the Acholi. (BTW, who was that American writer who declared, as the Cold War was winding down, that the fate of the rest of the world would remain tied to that of Africa –- through infectious diseases? viz: HIV/AIDS!)
Soon after Ida struck, my ever-kindly benefactor arranged for my appointment as Superintendent of a large uptown building, where the emoluments included a studio apartment (not in the basement, but on the third floor). As for my Greenwich Village position, my Assistant, a capable Maltese youth, took it over.
As if all that good fortune were not sufficient, Mr. S. has recently arranged for me to become a petty trader in an open-air market in Harlem. Since the Covid pandemic has driven previous entrepreneurs out of business (and, in some cases, into their graves), opportunities have opened for new people like me. Thus, after all these years, at the age of fifty-two, I am following in the footsteps of my dear mother! (R.I.P.) Like Maman, I am now a petty entrepreneur!
As this account draws to its close, negotiations are underway to stock a stall for me in the African market between 115th and 116th streets, to the east of Malcolm X. Boulevard. This facility is sponsored by the Masjid Malcolm Shabazz mosque, with the assistance of the Rev. Al Sharpton, who together organize and support the vendors. My fluent French has once again paid dividends, enabling me to communicate easily, and to fit in with, the other traders, many of whom are of Senegalese origin. The efforts of Malcolm Shabazz mosque and Reverend Sharpton, on behalf of these poor refugees, remind me of all the faith-based activist movements in Africa.
Not that my life has become un lit de roses [a “bed of roses”]! Ever since my arrival in 2008, Bob Shepard’s friend and fellow-lawyer, Mr. Ira Goodman, a partner in the firm of Gilligan, Gonzalez, and Goodman (aka “Triple-G”), has been attempting to procure an “E2” visa for me. The E2 would supplant my current status as the holder of an expired Green card (i.e. an illegal alien). The E2 is designed for “Professionals Holding Advanced Degrees and Persons of Exceptional Ability.” But having worked all those years as a building superintendent and, now, as an aspiring petty trader, my “exceptional abilities” would seem to have receded to the point of invisibility. I last received a “Still Trying” email from Mr. Goodman six or seven months ago.
--I have saved what is, perhaps, my best piece of news, for last. You will remember, of course, Alfreda (“Freddie”) arap Kipsang. After fleeing (for political reasons, of course) her native Kenya to countries including South Africa, Brazil, Costa Rica, and Mexico, in December 2021, Freddie joined a band of “illegals” crossing into Texas. Two stops later, still in possession of only an expired travel visa, she arrived here in New York.
Seeking a place to stay, she has, of course, been invited to share my new “digs.” As to gainful employment, she is presently assisting me both in my Super’s duties and in the setting up of the stall in Harlem.
As if all that were not enough, in this mondo reverso [“topsy-turvy world”], I have just accepted Ms. arap Kipsang’s proposal of matrimony! On Monday, May 2nd, 2022, the auspicious day of Eid al-Fitr, assistants to Rev. Sharpton, and to the Imam of Malcolm Shabazz mosque, will officiate in joining Freddie and me, I hope, forever. Mvua ikinyesha inamwagika. [“When it rains, it pours.”]
One question remains, Dear Reader: do I regret my former life as an insurrectionist? Well, I can only answer that one indirectly. I have reached the reluctant conclusion that the best option for most African nations is what has been called “mild dictatorship.” Whether it is a one-party state with an enlightened leader -- Nyerere, Kaunda, and more recently, Rwanda’s Paul Kagame and Ethiopia’s (yes!) Meles Zenawi; or other forms of “mild dictatorship,” such as Botswana’s elected Khama dynasty, or Ngongo’s putative administration under Oscar Odhon’g— the alternatives, alas, seem far worse. A Swahili proverb expresses this idea: Kukimbia si lazima kufika [“To run is not necessarily to arrive.”] Or, as the great Voltaire put it: “The perfect is the enemy of the good.” [ “le mieux est l'ennemi du bien.”]
End Part One
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