The Modern Nomad – A Short Story

The whole essence of humanity is to travel. We all journey, whether from heaven to earth or earth to the place of death. This, I ruminate over as I sat down at an old fashion steakhouse, munching on my Kobe beef burger. The life of an immigrant in a foreign land far away from home, I mused. New home, I thought, as I looked around the restaurant at the other diners very engrossed in their meals, so different from Zainab’s tiny pub in Surulere, Lagos.

The contrast between the little restaurant back home and this one reminded me of a conversation I once had with a stout man on the train as I was returning home from lectures one evening. The man said to me, as I was reading the Metro New York paper I had picked up from the subway exit that morning, “You’re from Africa?” Not waiting for a reply he added “Me too I’m from Africa, we are all from Africa” then he laughed as if he’s said something very clever. Disregarding my lack of response, he continued in his finely accented English, “I am a professor of archeology,” I nodded and turned back to my paper, but then he asked, “What part of Africa are you from?” I replied, “Nigeria.” He slowly nodded  as if in comprehension of something profound. When I was just about to turn back to the paper, he said “Good place, good people, but bad government.” I agreed, like a patient in the doctor’s office, who has just received the diagnosis he has been expecting. “running nose, sore throat, coughing, you’ve got the flu.” Spot on was his diagnosis on the disease facing my country and most African countries in the world, lack of good leadership. “Do you want to go back?” to this question I said nothing, not sure what answer would be pleasing to the man; I had a sudden unexplainable urge to say the right thing to him. To my silence, he added, “I understand why young people would not want to go back to the home they left in Africa or wherever they are from, but then I often ask, isn’t there something more? Like a great mission to accomplish or a task to fulfill that goes beyond waking up every morning, going to work, and coming back to the apartment to see the bills waiting in the mailbox.” I had no answer to his question, for it’s a question I myself have often asked the sky. His next words were, “I’m an immigrant too you know, I came to this country at the age of 16,” politely I asked “where did you come from?”  He replied “I am from Mali.” Seeing his words have shocked me, he smiled and said, “I sometimes think of going back, but to what? My life here is much better than it would have been back home, I am a professor, I receive a fairly good salary why would I want to go back?”  The words were said like the question is one he has asked himself several times over.

I understood his nostalgia, I’ve often felt that way myself in the past 10 years since I’ve been in America, the longing for something almost intangible, something warm and welcoming, the longing for home. As I pondered this feeling, his last words before the train reached his stop, cheered me up, “This is now home, it cloths you, it welcomes you, it feeds you, it houses you, this is home.” I looked at the man, no longer a stranger but a brother from the same mother Africa, a smile curving around his lips, the clouds of missing home now slowly receding in his eyes, I smiled back at him. This is home indeed, new home. Those words I remember as I chewed my last French fry. I looked at my wrist watch, it was 8 o’clock, time to go back home, the waiter stopped at my table, “did you enjoy your dinner?” “Yes, very much, thank you.” I replied. “Oh I love your accent!” she exclaimed, as I left her a 2 dollar tip and walked out of the restaurant.  Those words never fail to bring a quick polite smile to my lips, the words my parents back in Niger have never heard.

I shook my head as I walked into the cold New York city air, pulling my scarf tighter around my neck. The life of an immigrant I mused again, caught between two worlds, I am American, but I am also a part of something different, a different place, a different culture, a different food, a different weather, and a different home. Those thoughts gave me a special kind of feeling. The words of the man on the train came to me again, “we are all from Africa.” I smiled and called out aloud to the darkened sky, “We are all Africans!”