Arriving in the U.S.

We landed at John F. Kennedy (JFK) airport at approximately 6:30 a.m. on Aug. 12, 1998. By this time I had learnt that Noma had a ten-year work visa. I had a two-year visitor’s visa.

Noma was first in line at the immigration counter.

The officer seemed to ask her a lot of questions. She kept reaching into her purse for additional documents of sorts. For the first time, I noticed that Noma had mottled honey brown skin. She was roughly 5’2, with high-arched hips. She wore her hair in dreadlocks. Noma was 38, I was 25.

I couldn’t hear their conversation but I could see Noma balancing on her left leg, then her right leg and back to her left. She needed strength. I needed strength.

I suddenly noticed that my palms were sweating. I was nervous. Not scared, just nervous. For some reason I started focusing on the officer's head. It was big for a man his size, I thought. He was short and had a tiny frame.

He stamped her passport.

Completely faithless I stepped forward to the counter. My legs were heavy. Numb. By this time I’d consoled myself of my back-up plan. I’d return home and complete my green card application if my entry was denied.

"Is this your first visit to the U.S?" he asked me.

“Yes,” I responded offering half a smile, my lips felt like they were coated with a thick layer of clay, as if they would crack if I smiled an inch wider. My mouth was as dry as cotton.

“How long do you plan to visit ma’m?”

“Three months.” I said, trying to sound convincingly confident. I could hear my heavy Zimbabwean accent echoing and in contrast to his.

“Where do you plan to stay for the duration of your visit?”

“New Orleans, Louisiana.”

“Welcome to America, enjoy your visit!” He stamped my passport.

“Thank you.” I replied constraining my emotions.

I could feel my heart spinning in cartwheels. I was ambivalent; happy to have been granted entry into the U.S., but what if this whole coming to America thing was a mistake?

I’d replay the dialogue and the officer’s “welcome to America” words for many months after my arrival.

I joined Noma at the luggage claim section. She was granted a 90-day stay, I was granted 180-days.

We parted.

I took a shuttle bus to the New York Port Authority.

That was the last time I saw Noma.