Road Trip: Thoughts of Homeland
- By Uche Peter Umez
- Published March 17, 2009
- Features
- Unrated
Uche Peter Umez
Uche Peter Umez has won awards in poetry, short story and children novel. He is the author of Dark through the Delta (poems), Tears in her Eyes (short stories) and Aridity of Feelings (poems).
View all Entries by Uche Peter Umez
I force a smile of understanding at him, even though I’m feeling knocked-out like The Nigerian Nightmare. The Chinese turns away at once, as if he’s found out that it was pointless explaining basic details to me. As he walks off towards Hugh, I become conscious of that familiar scratchy feeling at the back of my throat; a sign that forewarned the germ of flu. Back home, I took Vitamin C almost on a regular basis, a pseudo-addict. Surprisingly, I haven’t chewed any vitamin C since my 81/2 weeks residence in U.S.
I don’t realize that Hugh has been speaking for some time, while I was attempting to make the Chinese look idiotic. I inch towards Hugh, blowing hot air into my palms cupped over my mouth. I can feel the first sting of the chill in my eyes. Since the beginning of October, tears stream down my face on their own, as if my eyes have decided to weep for the discomfort of a tropical skin unused to temperate extreme. Now and then, I see my tears as a protest against the fall; a lamentation for all that will fall, sooner or later.
Everybody is squinting at Hugh as he recounts, clearly and evenly, like a practiced instructor, the logistics: from transportation, hotel accommodation, tours, and to numerous events all laid out as seamlessly as possible, so the writers – 36 – plus 3 IWP staff would enjoy the three nights in Chicago.
As the Russians walk up to the group, I realize they look cool in that same old-world-espionage kind of façade, Hollywood made me believe when I was a teenager. They look like people carved out of a Siberian ice. Come storm and snow, nothing will ruffle the mufflers on the necks of these distinguished poets and fiction writers.
I already know the Russians are from the Open World Program. The first time I heard the name was last week, when Adam went to pick them up at the airport. Before I grasped the meaning, I did think the Open World Program was concerned with the opening of the closed gates of the Kremlin. I would see two Muscovites pacing anxiously behind a highly wrought bronze iron gate – one of its rods the size of a rotund man’s limb – while an American CAT was pulling down a giant statue of Stalin; already Lenin was lying flat in the slush. On-lookers sway back and forth, hurrahing. A new world, open to fantasy.
Open World, I mouth the word like a mantra. I shrug and ponder if some benevolent idealist can set up a Closed World Program for African countries, but I feel irked by the dismal thought.
In reality, Open World is a program that enables emerging Russian leaders to gain significant, firsthand exposure to America's democracy and free-market system in action in communities across the United States. A Program that identifies potential leaders and shapers of the future. They visit Iowa City and other places; they will be joining us on the trip to Chicago.
As I think of the far-reaching impact this Program portends, not as per building understanding and network between both countries, but as it aspires to connect future leaders to think alike, dream alike, and plan alike, ahead on the same plane, thereby fostering future homogeny of norms and values and aspirations, I conclude America is a phoenix. What more could reduce global friction and tension in the future, when you and I understand the role each of us must play? When we understand how interconnected and interdependent we are in the long run?
This question whisks sadness over my heart as I think of my country that moment. Amid the laughs and banters of the writers floating all around me, melding into the shine of the morning like Nina Simone’s songs, I envision dark days ahead, days darker than the PHCN’s blackout. I think of the complete evisceration of the land that gives us roots and food. I think of them, the revered representatives in our national house, hoarding our commonwealth in British and Swiss banks, while the remainder is used to sate their sickly sweet private needs – women, wine, holidays and hospital.
I lose myself in a reverie, but someone elbows me accidentally. The Macedonian poet smiles fondly as he makes his way past me. The smile on my face feels like a strip of scotch tape strapped over my lips. The writers have started to file into the three minivans, too.
As I climb into the womb of the minivan, I hold myself back from not tripping over, making a monkey of myself. I choose a window seat and lean a shoulder against it, shoving my hands into the warmth of my winter jacket. Even in the bus the chill is overpowering; each female writer hugs herself tightly, shifts uneasily in her seats. I cock my ears to pick out the first person to gnash her teeth; none.
“Joe,” I call out. “Please could you turn on the heater?”
He does not look back; his eyes are on the wheel, or on the dashboard. But he replies in an amiable tone, “As soon as the car warms up a bit, the heater would start.”
Someone grunts behind me. I snuggle closer to the window, squashing my limbs together. I pull out Sky-High Flames and flip on to the page where I dog-eared. I pause as I fix my eyes on a paragraph.
“Jack Frost is coming soon,” another person crows, gleefully. “It is blowing hard in Indiana. Chicago is next-door. I read it on-line.”
I’m too frosted in the ears to make out whether the speaker actually meant Robert Frost. But I loathe his tone; sounds like a voice over for a horror flick; as if he enjoys the plight of his fellow writers.
I try hard to absorb the simple prose, but I feel like star fish on land. I simply can’t navigate a mere page. Just concentrate as my mind drifts away from the naivety of Ofunne and tumbles into the jungle of questions. I shut the novel and thrust it onto my knees, nestled in my cap.
The drive is monotonous; occasional songs from Joe’s radio, chitchat, laughter and sneezing, pepper the bleak silence. The Chinese is snoring behind me; I’m tempted to swing an arm behind my back so it’ll connect with his forehead, but I expel the juvenile thought.
I face the window. Clouds hang sedate in the sky like burnt-out desire. As lands of corn and soy bean flash by, I dream of the avid national heroes of today’s democracy. I dream of them dreaming of cramming the vaults of banks in Britain and Switzerland with proceeds that would have assuaged the gaping wounds of the Niger Delta.
They do not, these senators. They cannot conceive any enduring projects or linkages that will frame the country in a positive light, that will cast the children in the leadership mold; they cannot build the dynamic ambience that will engineer the rebirth of a glorious past; that will imbue the coming generation with confidence and conviction to confront head-on the exacting challenges of now and tomorrow.
(c) Uche Peter Umez, 2008
I don’t realize that Hugh has been speaking for some time, while I was attempting to make the Chinese look idiotic. I inch towards Hugh, blowing hot air into my palms cupped over my mouth. I can feel the first sting of the chill in my eyes. Since the beginning of October, tears stream down my face on their own, as if my eyes have decided to weep for the discomfort of a tropical skin unused to temperate extreme. Now and then, I see my tears as a protest against the fall; a lamentation for all that will fall, sooner or later.
Everybody is squinting at Hugh as he recounts, clearly and evenly, like a practiced instructor, the logistics: from transportation, hotel accommodation, tours, and to numerous events all laid out as seamlessly as possible, so the writers – 36 – plus 3 IWP staff would enjoy the three nights in Chicago.
As the Russians walk up to the group, I realize they look cool in that same old-world-espionage kind of façade, Hollywood made me believe when I was a teenager. They look like people carved out of a Siberian ice. Come storm and snow, nothing will ruffle the mufflers on the necks of these distinguished poets and fiction writers.
I already know the Russians are from the Open World Program. The first time I heard the name was last week, when Adam went to pick them up at the airport. Before I grasped the meaning, I did think the Open World Program was concerned with the opening of the closed gates of the Kremlin. I would see two Muscovites pacing anxiously behind a highly wrought bronze iron gate – one of its rods the size of a rotund man’s limb – while an American CAT was pulling down a giant statue of Stalin; already Lenin was lying flat in the slush. On-lookers sway back and forth, hurrahing. A new world, open to fantasy.
Open World, I mouth the word like a mantra. I shrug and ponder if some benevolent idealist can set up a Closed World Program for African countries, but I feel irked by the dismal thought.
In reality, Open World is a program that enables emerging Russian leaders to gain significant, firsthand exposure to America's democracy and free-market system in action in communities across the United States. A Program that identifies potential leaders and shapers of the future. They visit Iowa City and other places; they will be joining us on the trip to Chicago.
As I think of the far-reaching impact this Program portends, not as per building understanding and network between both countries, but as it aspires to connect future leaders to think alike, dream alike, and plan alike, ahead on the same plane, thereby fostering future homogeny of norms and values and aspirations, I conclude America is a phoenix. What more could reduce global friction and tension in the future, when you and I understand the role each of us must play? When we understand how interconnected and interdependent we are in the long run?
This question whisks sadness over my heart as I think of my country that moment. Amid the laughs and banters of the writers floating all around me, melding into the shine of the morning like Nina Simone’s songs, I envision dark days ahead, days darker than the PHCN’s blackout. I think of the complete evisceration of the land that gives us roots and food. I think of them, the revered representatives in our national house, hoarding our commonwealth in British and Swiss banks, while the remainder is used to sate their sickly sweet private needs – women, wine, holidays and hospital.
I lose myself in a reverie, but someone elbows me accidentally. The Macedonian poet smiles fondly as he makes his way past me. The smile on my face feels like a strip of scotch tape strapped over my lips. The writers have started to file into the three minivans, too.
As I climb into the womb of the minivan, I hold myself back from not tripping over, making a monkey of myself. I choose a window seat and lean a shoulder against it, shoving my hands into the warmth of my winter jacket. Even in the bus the chill is overpowering; each female writer hugs herself tightly, shifts uneasily in her seats. I cock my ears to pick out the first person to gnash her teeth; none.
“Joe,” I call out. “Please could you turn on the heater?”
He does not look back; his eyes are on the wheel, or on the dashboard. But he replies in an amiable tone, “As soon as the car warms up a bit, the heater would start.”
Someone grunts behind me. I snuggle closer to the window, squashing my limbs together. I pull out Sky-High Flames and flip on to the page where I dog-eared. I pause as I fix my eyes on a paragraph.
“Jack Frost is coming soon,” another person crows, gleefully. “It is blowing hard in Indiana. Chicago is next-door. I read it on-line.”
I’m too frosted in the ears to make out whether the speaker actually meant Robert Frost. But I loathe his tone; sounds like a voice over for a horror flick; as if he enjoys the plight of his fellow writers.
I try hard to absorb the simple prose, but I feel like star fish on land. I simply can’t navigate a mere page. Just concentrate as my mind drifts away from the naivety of Ofunne and tumbles into the jungle of questions. I shut the novel and thrust it onto my knees, nestled in my cap.
The drive is monotonous; occasional songs from Joe’s radio, chitchat, laughter and sneezing, pepper the bleak silence. The Chinese is snoring behind me; I’m tempted to swing an arm behind my back so it’ll connect with his forehead, but I expel the juvenile thought.
I face the window. Clouds hang sedate in the sky like burnt-out desire. As lands of corn and soy bean flash by, I dream of the avid national heroes of today’s democracy. I dream of them dreaming of cramming the vaults of banks in Britain and Switzerland with proceeds that would have assuaged the gaping wounds of the Niger Delta.
They do not, these senators. They cannot conceive any enduring projects or linkages that will frame the country in a positive light, that will cast the children in the leadership mold; they cannot build the dynamic ambience that will engineer the rebirth of a glorious past; that will imbue the coming generation with confidence and conviction to confront head-on the exacting challenges of now and tomorrow.
(c) Uche Peter Umez, 2008