By Kethia Embelo Ngeleza
Butu ata ewumeli, suka suka tongo eko tana.
No matter how long the night lasts, dawn will surely break
The screeching sounds of the Amtrak train rolling into the platform at Penn Station startled Sylvia awake. She checked her watch; it was 5:15 am, fifteen minutes past the time her ticket suggested they would arrive in New York.
She left DC’s Union Station a little after midnight, falling asleep in her chair immediately after boarding. A weekend full of wedding activities had exhausted her. The last few days were a constant train of parties and dinners. Her time was spent performing a balancing act. Taking responsibility for making everything perfect for her sister while trying to dodge invasive questions from her aunts and uncles.
Her mother advised her to stick to three topics of conversation: How happy Sylvia was for her sister, how well her course at NYU was going, and how she was preparing for a husband of her own.
“Searching seems desperate; no one will send a good son towards a desperate woman. Preparing, however, gives the illusion that you’re soon to be ready.”
The weekend rolled on, and Sylvia stuck to her three allocated topics, serving both her sister and guests. Her title should have been both Maid of Honor and Housemaid.
By Sunday night, every time someone spoke to her in Lingala, her responses would be short and limited. She could no longer answer any questions about NYU or her scholarship, nor could she explain in detail how she planned to earn money with a degree in history.
Once the last plate of cake was served and the last round of festivities was completed, Sylvia rushed to say her goodbyes. She swiftly diffused a flurry of kisses around the room. Every kiss brought the smooth feeling of cash being slid into her hands.
When she arrived at Union Station, she gathered her cash and walked over to the ticket counter. Exchanging it for a first-class seat on the next Amtrak to New York and finally took a deep breath.
#
That night, after putting his daughter Dalia to sleep and having a cup of coffee with his wife Esther, Joseph left his tiny one-bedroom apartment in East New York and drove to Penn Station around 9 pm.
Sunday nights offered him the smooth consistency of Saturday’s customers without the rowdiness that Saturday night brought. Joseph’s Sunday passengers usually sat quietly in his backseat, dozing off, only raising their heads to look out the window and see how close they were to their final destinations. Returning from their weekend trips to Montauk or Connecticut, they were too tired from travel to face the frenzied subway and opted to call an Uber. Sunday’s passengers were also more generous. So relieved to arrive home after an exhausting weekend, they were more likely to leave a $5 tip.
#
It was now 5 am and the ringing alarm on Joseph’s phone startled him awake. Raising his head from the headrest, he readjusted his seat back to its normal position. Blinking slowly, his eyes adjusted to the scene around him. He was parked across the street from Penn Station.
When Joseph first arrived in New York, he marveled at the scale of the building before even setting foot in it.
Months later, Joseph found himself inside the massive building, waiting for a train to New Jersey to meet a distant cousin. As he waited for his platform number to be announced, he roamed the station. Counting the number of mini-marts, fast food places, and stores inside. Joseph swore to visit every single one before he moved back to Kinshasa. For breakfast, he got a cappuccino at one place, a bacon, egg, and cheese at another, and finally, for dessert, a small pastry at a bakery at the far back end of the station.
There was nothing comparable to this in Kinshasa. Transportation was a nightmare. Moving through the city was a pilgrimage. Traveling outside the city was almost impossible without a plane.
Joseph counted Penn Station as one of his great wonders of America. Every time Joseph stumbled across one of these wonders, he would pull out a crumpled-up Post-it note he kept in his wallet, jotting down the name and location.
When Dalia was born, Joseph and his wife spent five days in the hospital. They accepted everything that was offered: genetic testing panels, private rooms, and even the newborn photography package. Their first child was born stillborn, and they were elated to have their second at an American Hospital.
Six weeks later, Joseph received a white envelope in the mail. He was cooking while Esther and the baby rested. His oily fingers left orange stains on the paper as he peeled it open.
The house grew quiet. He could no longer hear the rustling sounds of Dalia fussing. Esther’s deep breaths stilled. The smell of burnt cassava leaves rushed out of the room. Joseph walked over to the dining room table and dropped the paper onto it. Reading the number over and over again. He did calculations in his head. None of the numbers added up in a way that made sense to him. Entranced, it was only as he glanced over to the bedroom door that he heard Esther’s soft singing as she tried to calm Dalia.
Crumpling up the paper in his hand, he shoved it into his pocket before pulling the Post-it note out of his wallet. Smoothing it out on the table, he grabbed a black pen and scribbled out his latest entry to the list.
American Hospitals.
#
Sylvia approached the black Toyota Corolla and looked down at her bright phone screen. Matching the license plate number to the one on her phone, she headed around to the back door. Joseph Nkulu, a Mongo name.
She spent her last spring break in Houston, Texas. Between rodeo shows, museums, and park dates, every Congolese person she came across was Mongo.
The man who ran a small Congolese shop on the corner of 125th and Fredrick Douglas Boulevard was Mongo.
The woman who braided her hair was a Mongo.
Despite the various tribes in Congo, Sylvia’s education included a select list of the most important 50. Classified and ranked by her mother’s personal methodology.
The Batetela were at the top. Lumumba was Tetela; her mother was one too. As the list progressed, the lower the tribe, the farther they lived from Kinshasa. From there, her mother would factor in other elements to her ranking. Language, loyalty, or importance.
Mongo’s landed somewhere in the middle; they were numerous, and they spoke the “real” Lingala. Whenever Sylvia came across a new Congolese person, she always made sure to ask what tribe they were from. Knowing it would be the first question her mother would ask.
If Sylvia replied with “Mongo,” her mother would shrug and let her get on with the story.
#
As Sylvia entered Joseph’s car, he was greeted with the scent of palm oil that had seeped into her hair. He watched her as she moved around, making space for her awkwardly long legs. Sylvia had dark brown skin and a face so sharp that Joseph had the notion that if he reached out to slide his fingers along her jaw, he would pull them back to see blood dripping. Raindrops dotted her forehead, running down her face to create patchy brown lines that ended at her chin.
She was not necessarily beautiful. He’d seen countless girls who looked like her in Kinshasa. Walking along the roads with baskets full of peanuts and unripe plantains on their heads. But she was familiar. Joseph got so distracted gawking at her that he didn’t hear the words coming out of her mouth.
“For Sylvia?” she repeated.
The car was silent as Joseph observed her. Sylvia sat placidly. She was raised under the watchful eyes of aunts and uncles.
Long ago, she sat in health class as her teacher rolled out a TV and put it in the front of the room. Her gaze turned to the front of the class; the squeaking sounds of the TV cart wheels caught her attention. Her teacher stood in front of the class and went on a long tangent about puberty. Without listening, Sylvia turned her head towards the window to look out onto the schoolyard. The 7th graders were in PE class. She watched as they ran around chasing each other, focusing on the screams that traveled through the glass window. Sylvia caught a few words from the video playing: “Periods,” “Puberty,” and “Safety.” However, she didn’t turn her head back to the screen until the lights came on.
When she got home that evening, her mother was already in the bath. Sylvia entered the bathroom, kneeling by the tub as she greeted her. While the two talked, Sylvia studied her mother’s body. Her short legs were covered in bubbles. Her breasts, which sat low on her chest, swung to the rhythm of a pendulum. She looked at her stomach, which hung over a forest of hair between her legs.
“What are you looking at, ma poupée”
Sylvia’s gaze dropped. “Nothing, maman.”
Later that night, as Sylvia went to take a shower, she undressed slowly. She stared at her flat chest, raising her long, skinny arms above her head and sniffing under her armpits. She stuck her hands between her legs, feeling the soft, hairless skin. She shrugged. Perhaps puberty would turn her into her mother.
When she was fourteen, small lumps appeared on her chest. By summertime, the lumps grew into two mounds, and after a day running around her backyard with her cousins, her aunt commented on her small, pointed breasts that bounced as she ran,
“Helene, she can’t be outside like that.”
Sylvia overheard her, and since then, every time she entered the bathroom, she would measure their progress. Turning left to right, she grabbed and felt her controversial breasts.
By the next morning, she was in the passenger seat of her mother’s car, going to get her very first bra.
This was a trend to continue throughout the rest of her life.
The day an uncle noticed her school uniform skirt stopped 3 inches above her knees. She was banished to wearing the unattractive uniform pants until ninth grade.
At 16, her aunt’s message to her mother about a “scandalous Instagram bikini picture” made it so she was forced to wear tankinis the rest of the summer.
This observation was not reserved for family alone; Sylvia’s life was a panopticon of culture. So she opted not to share any information unless explicitly asked. Despite all of this, her habits were long and hard-formed; she spent the weekend greeting and sending off uncles and aunties. Her prison had always been a glass box, so when she installed herself in Joseph’s backseat, she couldn’t help but say.
“Merci, Tonton.”
Thank you, uncle.
#
The last time Joseph heard those words, he was at the N’Djili Airport. His wife’s family came to wish them goodbye before their journey to New York. As they prepared to head towards security, Esther’s nephew, Emmanuel, remained attached to her leg. Wailing, the child wrapped his small arms around her thighs, leaving snot stains all over her jeans.
“Please, Auntie, don’t leave.”
The alarm bell that had been ringing in Joseph’s head all morning intensified with the sound of Emmanuel’s cries. They had left Esther’s mother’s house at 4 am that morning to head to the airport. Joseph dug into his pocket, feeling around for a $500 bill of Congolese Francs. It was all of the cash he had left. Approaching the child, he bent down onto his knees, offering the bill. Emmanuel loosened his grip on Esther’s leg, staring at the money.
He came towards Joseph, quickly grabbing the bill before examining it thoroughly.
“Merci, Tonton.” The child exclaimed, running back to his parents.
#
Joseph rolled his car away from the curb, heading down 7th Avenue towards Brooklyn. As he drove, the sky cleared, and the street signs changed. No longer was this 7th Avenue but the Boulevard Lumumba. Traffic moved arbitrarily, conducted by the chorus of car horns that honked all around him. Layered with the sound of street vendors knocking on the car window, Joseph lowered his music and listened to the Kinshasa symphony. The air smelled of roasted peanuts. Children appeared on all sides of the car, begging for money or work. He rolled down his window, exchanging a five-dollar bill for a bundle of Rambutan. Keeping it down so he could spit the tart pits out of his window. Joseph looked back at Sylvia through his rearview mirror, watching as she rested her head on the window and closed her eyes. He didn’t understand how she could sleep through the sounds of the preacher.
He stood in the middle of the intersection, waving a Bible, screaming, “Fungola miso na yo mpo omona ngolu ya Simon Kimbangu, mema motema na yo na kotosa tata Charles, koma moningaya mwana Salomon, mpe yoka Molimo Mosantu ya Joseph.”
Joseph’s attention jumped from the preacher to the road. Breaking suddenly as he saw the distance between him and the car ahead closing rapidly. Jolting him and the girl forward. Sylvia’s eyes opened, looking around frantically. Joseph apologized, watching Sylvia relax back into her seat.
#
The car advanced, yet stoplight after stoplight kept them in a forever lull of push and pull. Joseph drove, and Sylvia watched. Raindrops made a light thudding sound that echoed into the car. Like the soft beats of a Djembe drum, they provided a steady baseline to the sounds of Fally Ipupa playing from the radio. Sylvia stared out the window, watching the light rain run down the car window. Her vision blurred as she observed her home. New York City was always breathtaking. But after a weekend away, the city shone a bit brighter than it usually did.
It was a point at which she always found herself in contention with her parents. They disliked the crowded streets and high energy. Constantly complained of the permanent smell that hung in the air. They hated her apartment; they said it was too small and suffocating for one person, let alone two.
Sylvia found it comforting; she never complained that her kitchen and living room occupied the same 350 sq ft space. She didn’t mind that the smell of her roommates’ cooking seeped into her sheets, or when her radiator dripped. New York was a place where you bargained location, price, and comfort when organizing your life.
“Are you new to the city, Uncle?” Sylvia asked in Lingala.
Joseph jumped when he heard her voice. He glanced at her through his rearview mirror. Her body was turned away from him as she spoke, eyes glued to the window. Hearing Lingala sent him into a state of mild euphoria; he hadn’t heard the language come from anyone but his wife in a long time.
Sylvia flinched at the sound of her own voice. She spent her entire weekend checking the Amtrak tickets back to New York. Hiding away from her family in bathrooms and closets. All she thought about was returning to New York.
She never spoke Lingala here. When she perused the Congolese markets in Harlem, she adopted an imaginary persona. She told the Mongo man on 125th that she spent time in Kinshasa on a mission trip, and had never been able to shake the craving for authentic chikwangue.
But Joseph had a bag of raw peanuts in his passenger seat. He peeled them open with his teeth, throwing the skins out into his cup holder. He hummed along to the soft sounds of Congolese rumba as he drove.
It would’ve been bad manners to spend the entire ride in silence.
From there, the two launched into conversation. Sylvia told him she was the child of two Congolese immigrants; she was born in Kinshasa but arrived here quickly after the war. She explained that she came from a long line of Congolese intellectuals and that, in an obscure, distant way, she was related to Lumumba.
Joseph’s eyes rolled at the comment.
“I have only been back to Kinshasa twice. Congo is a beautiful country, but it’s difficult to enjoy the city when it’s so underdeveloped and disorganized. Anyone who calls New York dirty should spend a week there!” Sylvia laughed.
Underdeveloped, disorganized, and dirty. Those were only words that Americans used. A long silence hung in the air as Joseph searched for his response.
“Mwasi ya Amerika,” Joseph shook his head.
They continued to converse; Sylvia switched between Lingala, French, and English with an ease that Joseph envied. It was obvious she was comfortable in all three languages; even when he made complex jokes in Lingala, she would kiss her teeth, laugh, and reply,
“Yes, that’s America, Uncle.”
As Joseph shared his story, he spoke carefully. Sylvia wasn’t the first passenger to ask about his history. He watched her intently as he spoke, examining her expression for any whiffs of pity.
He been an economist in Kinshasa, but was unable to get a job with his Congolese degree in New York. He was enrolled part-time at one of the local universities in Brooklyn, but learning the same material twice was a slow and despairing process. As Joseph spoke about his life, his voice wavered. He no longer made eye contact with her through the rearview mirror. Sylvia listened with the slight feeling that she had heard this before. This was the story of her parents, of her aunts and uncles.
“No one is rich when they first come to America.”
#
Their conversation dwindled as both retreated into their minds. Joseph thought about Dalia. Sylvia’s gaze alternated between looking through the window and sneaking glances at Joseph. She watched his rough hands grip the steering wheel. Noticing the furrow in his brow as he focused on changing lanes.
When he first arrived in America, her father painted houses during the day while attending night school. He would always shrug off her questions about this period of his life focusing on after he finished his PHD. She imagines her parents lived two different experiences in this country. They could be organized into two categories: B.C. (before college) and A.C. (after).
#
In Sylvia’s first semester at NYU, she shared a dorm with Laura. Laura was the child of Nigerian immigrants. They would spend all night talking about their shared feelings of displacement. Their anger towards their parents. Laura bought two copies of “Half a Yellow Sun” by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie for the girls to read. When Sylvia finished it, she began discussing the book during one of their late-night conversations. Laura began to cry; she had not finished it.
Through her tears, she admitted shamefully, “I related more to The Bell Jar.”
#
During their conversation, Sylvia mentioned it was difficult for her to choose between Congo and the United States.
Joseph replied, “Why can’t you have both, miss?”
Sylvia’s heart ached as he described his life back home to her. He spoke about the Congolese church he joined. He and his wife went to the Congolese film festival in Harlem every year. He only spoke Lingala to Dalia.
Sylvia thought of Joseph’s daughter. She would grow up dismembered, her body parts strewn across the border of two countries.
Sylvia still harbored the hatred of a teenager, and at first, she cringed when hearing a story so close to her own. Yet Joseph’s eagerness to continue their conversation affirmed her. She was happy to speak Lingala in a different setting. To show off her cultural knowledge. Joseph didn’t speak to her the way he would to an American; he spoke to her in a relaxed manner. Turning up the car radio and switching from a low hum to full-on singing.
With age, her parents have been increasingly adamant about her participation in their culture. They read and listened to Congolese news more than ever. They organized a big party in DC every year for Congolese Independence Day. They insisted on her sister’s wedding being traditional. There was always an underlying pressure on her siblings to marry a Congolese man.
If immigration leaves a gaping wound, one that’s temporarily relieved with pressure. The pressure to feed and clothe your children. To re-establish your life and career. Once that pressure is released, and the painful existence of continuing to live outside your culture rips the scabs off the wound. How do our parents ever heal?
#
Sylvia’s attention fell into her surroundings. She watched quietly as Joseph pulled into the empty spot between two cars, turning his head to look out the back window and smiling at her as he reversed.
“Alright, mademoiselle, we’re here.”
Joseph stepped out of the car. Running around to the trunk and pulled out Sylvia’s pink suitcase. After dragging the heavy suitcase onto the curb, he looked back to see Sylvia still sitting in his car. He walked back up to the car, opening Sylvia’s door. He found her with her head hanging down. Her shoulders were shaking, and Joseph could see the tears falling from her cheek, leaving tiny wet spots on her blue jeans.
“Sylvia?”
The sound of her own name caused Sylvia’s shoulders to shake harder as the tears began to flow quicker and quicker from her eyes. She was frozen. Joseph attempted a few more times to call her name, but to no avail. Her body sank lower and lower until her head was on her knees and her arms brushed against the dirty car floor.
Glancing back at the lone suitcase, Joseph sighed before closing the car door and getting back into the driver’s seat. He didn’t like crying; he never felt comfortable doing it.
#
The only time his wife had seen him cry was when her mother died. Esther and he had immigrated only a couple of months after their marriage. In the whirlwind of wedding activities, he only sat down with her mother once, when he asked Esther’s father for her hand in marriage.
Her mother sat quietly throughout the conversation between the two men. Listening quietly as they discussed expectations and finances. Only at the end, after Esther’s father seemed satisfied with the arrangement, did she move to sit next to Joseph. Grabbing his hand, she whispered a quick prayer under her breath. Joseph didn’t speak his wife’s native tongue, Swahili, so her prayer fell on deaf ears. Yet he closed his own eyes and intertwined his hands as she spoke.
6 months later Esther received the news that her mother had died. Joseph was home, bent over his homework when he heard her scream. When he realized what happened, he stood still. Unable to speak or run over to comfort his wife, Joseph began to cry.
Then he continued. He probably cried more than she did in those first few minutes. Esther rushed over to comfort him. But once her hand touched Joseph’s shoulders, the well of tears that fell from his eyes dried up.
His head hung low, and he avoided his wife’s eyes. What kind of husband was he? Esther’s mother died, and now her husband was crying in front of her for the first time in their marriage. They spent the next few minutes in silence. Joseph wouldn’t look up from the floor.
Now they were in this scary country, far from the familiar, and his mother-in-law was dead. The blessings she set upon them were now broken; what did they have to protect them?
No one else blessed their marriage; Joseph’s parents had refused to come to the wedding. His only guests were his big brother and a few random cousins.
Esther was from the eastern part of the country, a region associated with an unappealing tribe. They saw their union as a treasonous act against their heritage; they would be of no help now.
How would he look his wife in the eyes and tell her they could not scrape enough together for the airfare to attend her mother’s funeral?
Joseph cried. He cried, out of shock, shame, exhaustion, and grief. His tears kept flowing until they didn’t. Yet even then, lone tears escaped from his eyes during random moments over the next few days. Joseph would catch them in his palms and close his fist around them tightly, digging his nails into his skin.
#
Sylvia’s tears seemed to come at a frequency too fast for her to catch them in her fists. Joseph looked out the car window, checking for rain. The rain's echoes against the hood of his car deafened him to even the loudest sounds in his backseat. Kissing, arguing, or laughing all became muted noises when the rain fell hard enough. It lulled his passengers to sleep, quelling even the drunkest or the loudest.
There was no rain. Sunlight had started to break, and the sky was a clear orange. Joseph snuck another glance through the rearview mirror. He looked away again, fighting the lump that built in his throat.
Sylvia fixed her gaze on the window. Watching as early morning joggers and dog walkers maneuvered around her pink suitcase. She looked straight onto the Magnolia Tree-lined street. Watching the shadows dance as the sun rose above their head. She turned towards her brownstone. To the garden-level apartment she had lived in for the last 3 years.
Joseph had not moved for the last 5 minutes. He wasn’t sure if Sylvia still knew he was in the car. He only moved to look down and check his watch. The only sound that filled the car was Sylvia’s dry heaving.
Joseph broke the silence, “What’s wrong, mademoiselle?”
There was no space for Lingala anymore. The familiarity that hung in the air dissipated; there was nothing familiar to him about this situation.
Dalia only cried for two reasons: when she was hungry or tired. There was no obscurity in her wailing, rather a checklist Joseph and his wife ran through to soothe her.
Sylvia opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out. Her lips trembled as she thought over Joseph’s question.
When she walked into her apartment, it would be empty. Her roommate was already long gone on her way to work. There would be no Rumba playing from the speakers. The smell of freshly fried beignets would not float through the air. No one would shove a plate full of food in her face, forcing her to eat after a long journey.
Through her tears, Sylvia looked down at her phone, her finger hovering over her mother’s number.
Sylvia listened to Joseph’s grievances about his life in America clearly. She’d given him advice and sympathy. Yet now with the spotlight turned back to her, she was unable to speak.
Every time she tried to calm herself down, she cried even harder.
Sylvia’s eyes dropped back down to her phone. Her mother’s contact picture was one of the two of them in Miami last summer. Her mom wore a long linen dress that reached her ankles, and Sylvia wore mini-shorts and a bikini top. Both of them had big smiles on their face.
#
That day her mother had insisted she cover up. Bathing suits were for getting into the water, and she and her mother had been sitting on the beach all day. Reading books and looking out into the ocean.
The next morning, Sylvia woke up with red blisters all over her chest. She never applied sunscreen; she usually didn’t need to. The Florida sun did a number on her skin, and she spent the morning lying on the hotel bed as her mother rubbed Aloe Vera gel all over her burnt body.
“I must be the first black person ever to get a sunburn.” Sylvia groaned
“You know it’s your father and my fault. We should’ve taken you to Congo more often when you were a child. If we did, you wouldn’t have this soft American skin.”
Much to her mother’s delight, Sylvia spent the rest of their trip wearing her long linen dresses.
#
Joseph started driving. The fourth time he circled Sylvia’s block, he slowed, looking down at his watch. This detour meant he wouldn’t get home until 7 am. Sylvia showed no signs of replying to his questions. On his fifth turn, he slowed down again in front of her apartment, looking to see if the suitcase was still stationed on the street. It had been pushed over onto its side. Creating a blockade in the middle of the sidewalk.
Joseph parked and got out of the car again. Grabbing the suitcase, he carried it up the stairs of the brownstone. Before running back into the car, he glanced back at his watch, seeing the minutes tick down; he had made his decision. He would ask her to leave.
Joseph took his time as he went back down the steps. Esther needed the car to get to work in an hour, but he didn’t rush as he walked back to the car. By the time Joseph opened the door, Sylvia was calm.
Her eyes had dried up, even though there was a red tinge left along the rim. The only remnants of her tears were the dry streaks that covered her sharp cheeks
“I’m sorry, Uncle. I just really appreciated our conversation. I will let you get home now. Thank you for the ride.”
Joseph stared at Sylvia, blinking.
He began to speak, but could only stutter out an inaudible “Okay.”
Sylvia swiftly exited the car, walking up the stairs to grab her luggage and carry it back down to the door for the garden apartment. Joseph cursed himself for not asking before he moved it. Joseph stayed parked and watched as she fumbled around her bag, looking for her keys. After entering the apartment, she looked back at the car, giving him a little wave before closing the door.
#
Joseph pulled away from the curb, driving towards Linden Boulevard for his final journey home. Sylvia’s words echoed in his head. As he drove, the air thickened with the salt smell of tears; the space seemed to shrink around him. Joseph’s eyes darted around to the exits. His breaths became deep and unstable.
Their conversation should’ve taken place in Kinshasa under the canopy of sunshine. They could’ve met in his grandmother’s kitchen. Attending a party for distant cousins who had just gotten married. Both of them seeking solace from the pestering mosquitoes and the loud music that shook the walls of the compound. In another world, one both only dared to dream about in their most private moments. One where the river powered the entire continent, and the farms fed half of the world. Where children walked the streets with full bellies and prosperity ruled as far as the eye could see. One where the mines of the east were untouched, and the roads paved. One Dalia could grow up in, and Sylvia could appreciate.
Joseph’s driving slowed as he drifted through his imagination. 25 minutes later, he arrived home. Parking between two cars, he looked up to his apartment window. Watching Esther’s shadow move around, preparing for her day at work. Joseph’s head dropped, and he stared at his shaky hands. Opening and closing his fists, Joseph began to cry.
