Yomi - Part Two

This is a work in progress (and has been bedeviling me technically for some reason)... Find "the picture" separately.

Francis Yomi

My name is Francis Yomi.  One month ago I won the lottery.  No, I am not a rich man, the numbers are evil, but I won the "Freedom" lottery.  I have received a visa to work in America.  I leave today.

I have never left West Africa before.  I am proud to speak French and Duala, but my English is not so good yet.  My wife, Yehana, and my son, Francis, Jr., will join me in America.  My wife is very sad.  She has four sisters and one brother here.  She has many nieces, nephews, friends.  But, it is for America I tell here.  She just cries.

My son cannot sit still.  He was ready to leave the day I received the letter from the Embassy.  He tells me about Pasadena, Stanford and Pontiac - places he learned by studying the Indominatable Lions, our football team.  They went to America in 1994 and one player stayed.  I will phone Jean Pierre.  He lives in Buffalo - such a funny name for a village.  My family will go to Columbus - now there is a name for a city.  It is 1,001 miles from Columbus to Buffalo, Francis Jr. tells me.  This is more than double the distance from Yaounde to Lagos, Nigeria.  It must be a long bus ride to share with chickens.

My father was a fisherman but I play football.  I carry this photo for luck.  We made it to the regional final that year.  I scored many goals.  I want to score goals in America.

Francis Jr.

Papa, show me the picture again, when Botafogo was the best of the Bantu teams.

I remember it Papa, even though I was only five years old.  You were so proud that Botafogo was the best team in five provinces.  Look, I am on this hill behind you.  Mama kept telling me to stay close.  There were so few ladies there, but Mama said it was important to support you as a family.  Papa, you scored the first goal. Everyone in Buea cheered.  But Ephraim, the goalkeeper, betrayed us.  He gave up three goals.  Everyone cried.

In America, you will be a big star.  Just show them the picture and tell them about your goals for Botafogo.  Americans can't play soccer.  You will be king of the land.

Jehana Therese Yomi

What is this place, Columbus?  My husband takes me away from a god job, my sisters my brother, Francis Jr's grandfather. How will our son ever know his country?  America is pretty pictures, big cities and perfect farms.  But it is so far away.

I teach agriculture at the University of Yaounde.  I show farmers how to increase milk production from goats and cows.  Itis a goo djob, but everyone wants to move to the city and get a computer.  My students don't want to farm.

Today we leave.  Francis wants to play football.  I hate the game.  The managers are corrupt.  The poor throw their money away at the football "lottery."  Oncy once have I watched Francis play.  On that day, when I took Francis Jr., and we sat on the wet hill owhile Watching Botaforo play.  I asked Francis to quit that night.  He is a good man and has supported me since we married. I was just 15.  What about after football I ask him.  He never responds.

Now he thinks he can play in America.  He has one photo.  Have you seen it?  Maybe I can teach in the famous university in Columbus.  Maybe we have risked everything.

Secretary, Player Personnel
Columbus Crew

"Form Letter"

Two words on the subject line of the email and Yomi's dreams of a soccer career in Ameria were over.  The secretary answered the director with a two-word response as well. "Got it."  She slunk away to read more about Francis.  She knew the story, almost by heart.  African man.  Green Card.  Dirt field. "Best player" in the region.  A stint with some youth national team.

This email and accompanying picture struck her differently.  Yomi had access to a scanner and created a digital image. He was middle class and could write and speak English.  The photo seemed so personal.  She asked herself questions.  Where is Cameroon? Is there no grass field? Who won?  Why this picture, weathered, dog-eared, crinkled?

It didn't matter.  Another email startled her.  She read the subject line.

"Form Letter."