‘America will save us’

November, 1999. We returned to Kakuma for the December holidays. Authorities were photographing and completing records for all unaccompanied minors, the Lost Boys program had begun. The rumour about Lost Boys being resettled in the USA was now real.

I visited my former unaccompanied minors group. Initial screening for my group was due to start in two days. Our improbable resettlement to USA was happening before our eyes. This process was the talk of the whole camp. The year ended. We returned to school.

During the semester, we continued to get news that the interview stages had begun. Several fellow students whose names were scheduled for interview returned to Kakuma. Boys and girls in foster families, together with all the unaccompanied minors’ groups owned this resettlement to USA. Throughout 2000, stages of the initial processing and interviews proceeded speedily. One minor group after another completed the various interview stages. The news reached us in school each time a student returned from Kakuma. I received my letter from my group captain, Leek Lual Yor, urging me to come to Kakuma. ‘NIS and JBA interviews have reached our group.’ The letter said. I didn’t know what these initials stood for. Perhaps they included some sort of National Security Intelligence.

I ignored the call. I had changed my mind. My heart was telling me to first complete my high school education. I’ll seek resettlement later, my mind said. After all, I was privileged to study in a good private school. I thought it would be the same education that I would seek in America. Many of my colleagues left school for Kakuma.

When we returned to Kakuma for our August holiday, I found most interview stages for my minor group had finished. I went to see my group captain, Leek Lual about my file status. The news was not what I had expected. ‘Your file didn’t appear Francis. Many boys too have their files missing’ said Leek. ‘Is it only our group, or other groups are also affected?’ I asked. ‘Yes, other groups also have missing files’, he replied.

I didn’t understand. These files became known as the ‘Missing Files’. Fingers pointed to Kenyan UN workers. Selling resettlement files had become a profitable business for others in the camp. Perhaps that’s where the files had gone. Makuol, my sister’s brother-in-law, too had his file go missing. Understandably, many lost boys whose files had gone missing became restless as this was their only hope for a safe life. There was no one to complain to about the missing files.

With our last term of senior three finished we returned to Kakuma for our long Christmas holidays. The camp was always exciting. Social activities like traditional dance were fun to watch. Three months of no socialisation with girls made catching up with them the most exciting part of holidaying in Kakuma. As December began, the so-called missing files reappeared. I walked to the UN compound but it turned out to be only a trickle of names. These files had been corrupted, sold to others who had money. UN workers rescheduled them as a pretext. They sugar-coated everything. D-day arrived! Just before Christmas, the first wave of Lost Boys and Girls of Sudan were scheduled to fly out. Big planes landed on Kakuma’s dusty airstrip. These boys and girls were treated like celebrities. They were flown to Nairobi bound for America! Thousands of people came to the airstrip to watch them leave. The experience was mesmerising.

The number of boy-girl relationships sky-rocketed. Young men scheduled for flight consolidated relationships, betrothing the girls of their hearts, and attracted crazy attention from girls regardless of how ugly they looked. Boys who had never talked to girls were now at the top of the social hierarchy. Girls who deemed themselves beautiful competed for the-soon-to-be American boys. Many fell pregnant. Elopement rates rose. The tide had turned. Students privileged to study in Kenyan schools used to the most desirable to girls. It was all about school achievement. Now it was about the safety of America, the place perceived as ‘paradise.’ Unlucky young men without resettlement prospect resorted to composing songs mourning loss of their perceived social status to Lost Boys.

The newly arrived boys and girls sent back letters to their families, relatives and friends, describing their paradise. ‘Life’s comfortable and full of amazing things: cars, planes, tall buildings, trains.’ These stories influenced me. I thought about my reason to complete high school first. My older brother, Nyok, who had survived the 1991 Bor Massacre, didn't want me to return to school. ‘We’ll be better off as a family if you go to America. You can’t go back to school. Processing of the missing files will begin soon’, he argued as if he had the facts.

As 2001 began, my colleagues returned to school but I didn’t. I had heeded my brother’s argument. I decided to give these missing files a couple of weeks. But days crawled by without a sign of the missing files, not even rumours of interviews. January ended. I was still in Kakuma. I began to worry. I questioned myself and the decision I had made. This was my last school year. I pondered how far I had come, how I had struggled to gain this scholarship. Potentially now, I could lose both: completing high school and resettling in the USA. I became restless as February began. Nyok remained adamant.

Mid-February arrived with still no glimmer, no sign of the missing files. My stress level went up. I was torn. I must go to school and forget about this resettlement process, I thought. The exam for index numbers was due in early March. One night, I didn’t close my eyes. My thoughts went everywhere: I began my learning under a tree. I remembered Dr John Garang’s speech to us, the Red Army, the so-called lost boys of Sudan. He had urged, encouraged us to pursue education. He had said we were the 'sown seeds' for the New Sudan. We had spent years in Sudan without learning, running from one place to another, fearing for our lives and escaping enemy attack. But now I was studying in one of the best schools in Kenya. I recalled my form two English teacher saying: ‘Life without reflection is life that lives without you.’ Waiting for the missing files was making an uninformed decision, I said to myself.

The next morning, I called Nyok and my half-brothers and said: ‘I’m returning to school.’ ‘No, you’re not going,’ protested Nyok. ‘Your school is remote and inaccessible. We won’t be able to reach you in time when they call you for interview.’ I wondered who my brother really was! He talked with confidence as if he knew everything. ‘I’ve got to return to school,’ I repeated. Nyok looked dismayed and visibly agitated: ‘America will save us, but your form four won’t save us.’ Destitution, perhaps, exists in America. I thought. ‘I don’t want to miss the index exams. I’ve to get my index number for the Kenya Certificate of Secondary Education final.’

That Certificate was, for me, the pinnacle. It was my gateway to tertiary education. ‘One bird in hands is worth two in the bush,’ I said to Nyok, but he refused to listen. My high school education was the bird in my hand, but the improbable resettlement to America was two birds in the bush. I would be devastated if I missed both opportunities. I thought. My chance of migrating to America was becoming increasingly remote.

I woke early the next morning and grabbed my bag. As I left home, Nyok accused me of selfishness. He rebuked me for rejecting his ‘point of view.’ Little had my brother realised I was determined to abandon this resettlement process to America. Why should I continue to invest in what I don’t have control over? I had prayed for this opportunity and I felt God had heard my prayers. I must not squander this only opportunity was in my thoughts as I journeyed back to school. The next day I arrived at school only to face an angry headmaster.