 From
Kenya with Love, Part Two:Out of Africa by Jeffrey L. Williams |
| When
we last left Michael a few months ago, he had just buried his mother
who had died of cancer and he was awaiting the arrival of his
overbearing, priest of a father who would surly go nuts at the very
thought—the mention, the insinuation—that his son was gay. Michael had
scheduled a dinner with his dad at the Olive Garden last month. That
now infamous dinner—which I was a party to, was one that I will never,
ever forget. On the Friday morning that Michael and I were to meet his father, who insisted that I call him Mr. Ouijibi, Mike called me early and nearly begged me to try and change his mind. Michael was convinced that he had made a mistake and that to see his father now would surly lead to nothing positive. I tried my best to reassure him that he was in anticipation of his long awaited father’s visit and that he was justifiably nervous. Little did I know that the feelings of sorrow and fear were completely justified. Michael and I arrived at the restaurant a little before eight. Arriving early was the perfect opportunity for Michael to get some last minute preparation for me. He explained to me in great detail how to greet his father, how to talk to him and how to address him. Just as Michael was about to tell me how I should eat my food inoffensively, in walked this massive man in a dark suit and bright purple tie. As Mr. Ouijibi glanced over the restaurant searching for his fearful son, Michael began to fret. His legs shook almost uncontrollably and his hands grew sweaty. Before I could reassure Michael that everything would be ok and that we had nothing to worry about, Mr. Ouijibi made his way to the table and stood over his son completely blocking the light that stood over him. We were literally in a shadow of Mr. Ouijibi. It was almost as if a colossal cloud had completely engulfed the sun, and Michael made the scene look like the forecast had turned to rain inside the store with the amount of sweat his body had released.  Before
entrées could be ordered, Mr. Ouijibi addressed his son in an
offensive manner. In a very thick African accent, Mr. Ouijibi looked at
his son and said: “Well, you look like a slave in a monkey suit. I
guess this country isn’t doing you much justice.” I was stunned to say
the least but Michael could only look at his father and say that every
thing was fine and that this country was treating him well—thus far.
Michael was far too afraid to do what is common in situations like this
one. After what had just happened, I guess it makes sense, but since
Michael forgot to introduce me, I decided to take it upon myself to
properly address Mr. Ouijibi in order to get off on a good foot with
him.I stood up and introduced myself as Jeffrey, a friend of Michael’s and I was here because Michael wanted me to meet him. My kindness was returned with rudeness as Mr. Ouijibi briefly glanced at me, gave a sardonic smile and turned to his son for more berating. The uncomfortable-ness that began the evening continued when the question of Michael’s mothers’ body came up. “My time here isn’t very long,” Mr. Ouijibi said in his thick accent, “When am I going to get my wife back home [to a Kenyan cemetery] where she belongs? This wasn’t her land and she should not be rested here at all.” Things heated up when Michael explained to his father that he had no intentions of digging up her body and having it returned home to Kenya. Mr. Ouijibi was noticeably enraged as his eyes opened widely and he stood up and started to speak to Michael in his native tongue as to exclude me out of the conversation. At the moment that Mr. Ouijibi stood up, I felt the nerves in my body start to shake. This man was massive and his frame overlooking me made me, for the first time in a very long time—afraid. Although I was assured that we were safe in an open environment, I knew that with some men, witnesses meant nothing. Before my apprehension of that moment got the best of me, Mr. Ouijibi sat down and calmly browsed the menu. When the waiter came over and took the orders, both Michael and I were too nervous to eat so we just ordered drinks. Before Mr. Ouijibi could order, he looked over at the waiter and ordered the most expensive thing on the menu citing that his rich “Americanized” son was footing the bill.  Getting
to the issue of money, Mr. Ouijibi wanted to know the personal finances
of his son. Mr. Ouijibi demanded to know how much he was making a year
and where his money was spent. He also demanded that Michael take care
of the family back home that he had abandoned. One of his sisters,
Michael learned, was in and out of the emergency office of her work due
to an unidentified stomach ailment that would cost a lot of money to
have looked at by a good doctor at a good hospital. Michael makes just
under twenty-five thousand dollars a year and although that is a pretty
good starting salary and supports his tiny studio apartment in New
Jersey, it is hardly enough to send money to his family.The realization that Michael might not be in the position to send money home was not something that Mr. Ouijibi was able to take in. His hands clenched into tight fists and he stopped eating his very pricey Italian meatball dinner with the seafood side dish and gulped a large portion of his water and excused himself from the table and went into the bathroom. The ten minutes that he was away from the table gave Michael and me the opportunity to regroup and decide what our next move would be. Michael wanted to tell his father about his lifestyle and his sexuality. I immediately tried to talk Michael out of it because the evening was going horribly as it was and now not only did he want to add more fuel to the already burning out of control fire, but the restaurant was beginning to empty and we were becoming more vulnerable to an uncontrollable outburst. But against my better judgment and pleading, Michael decided to break the news to his father when he returned claiming that there would really be no great time to tell him and that it was now or never. The time had come and he was ready. The way Michael was talking, you would think that he was on death row and ordering his last meal. Much to my dismay, Mr. Ouijibi returned seemingly more angered than he was before he went in. I thought that Mr. Ouijibi being more angered was impossible—but it wasn’t and I had never been more afraid for my safety. Once he was seated, Mr. Ouijibi and his son spoke some more in their native tongue and then stopped to take a breather. Once the dust was settled, Michael opened up the floodgates and in rushed the gallons of saltwater that Michael would either sink or swim in. “Father I have something to tell you.” Michael opened. “I have been living a different life here than I had back home in Kenya. Although I am the same person I have always been I am now openly and honestly gay.” At that moment I knew that the shit was going to hit the fan, but it didn’t—at least not then. Once again, Mr. Ouijibi excused himself from the table and headed for the bathroom. Michael and I both knew that things weren’t going well because he was probably going into the bathroom to kill time before his outburst and it turned out that we were right. Mr. Ouijibi returned with the look of imminent death on his face and walked immediately to his son and with his massive right hand, grabbed Michael by the neck and began to squeeze. All I could do was sit there trapped in the corner of the booth while watching Michael nearly get choked to death by his father. What made the situation worse was that I couldn’t do anything to help. All I could do was sit. Sit and watch. The weird thing about that evening was the fact that Michael did nothing to restrain his father from choking him. Michael just sat there and looked at his father with tears running down his face as his hands stayed planted firmly on the table. It almost looked as if Michael wanted to die. During the short half a minute that Michael was being abused by his father, there was no one in our area of the restaurant and all the other patrons had been long gone. Mr. Ouijibi finally released his son and without saying one word, he grabbed his coat and walked out of the restaurant and into the darkness of the night. The night was finally over and I was relieved. But Michael was still stunned. After paying the bill, Michael and I headed out the store and started to walk north towards midtown. Michael walked two blocks ahead of me at all times all the while looking down at the ground not even looking up for passing cars or to find out where the hell he was going. After following Michael for blocks, I put him in a cab heading for Jersey and called him at his home to make sure that he was there and ok. The night began and ended horribly but now the next step was trying to get past this incident and moving on. That would prove to be difficult for Michael but I think he may have found what he could do to deal with his situation. He wants to write about it. During the finishing touches of this article, Michael asked me to leave out some very personal details about the night at the dinner with his father. He has promised, however, that he would write his own article on the personal effects of that night and add in the new relationship—or lack thereof—he now has with his father. The article is going to be a part of the story that he is working on about coming from Africa to the U.S. and struggling to make ends meet, have a happy, productive life and helping others with his story. If you want to correspond directly with Jeffrey please contact him at this email. |