COMING FOR AMERICA

The movements of flight attendants in the aisles, collecting trash and closing overhead compartments, jolted me awake. I shifted about haphazardly, as if freeing myself from a dream, and wiped the sleep from my eyes. That’s when I noticed the crew had distributed landing cards during the flight, prompting me to quickly fill mine out.

Unbeknownst to me, my seat light was blinking. One of the attendants approached to ensure my seatbelt was secure. She pushed her hair back from her face, snapped my food tray into place, and positioned my seat upright. Once the other stewards finished inspecting the aisles and checking all the seats, a cheerful voice came over the intercom.

“This is your pilot speaking. Air traffic control has cleared us to land, and we are about to descend into Detroit Metropolitan Airport. Please buckle up; we are beginning our final approach.”

When I heard the pilot’s announcement, a thrill coursed through my veins. In less than a minute, exhilaration flowed like warm water in freezing temperatures. The thought of finally landing in America ignited an endless joy on my eager face. I was about to achieve my dreams in the paradise on earth I had envisioned and plotted for a year.

The moment I felt the wheels of the Boeing touch the runway, the seams of my skin threatened to burst from uncontainable restlessness. The plane roared along the track, then slowed and began to coast toward my final stop without haste. It was hard to suppress the howl of victory threatening to erupt from my chest. The journey that had seemed impossible was finally coming to an end.

In no time, the plane started moving at a snail’s pace toward its gate, which connected to the terminal by a jet bridge. After maintaining my composure, I was now a bundle of anxiety. It was evident that no Airbus, Boeing, or Bombardier had manufactured a supersonic jetliner designed to get me to my final destination in America as quickly as possible. If there had been a way to get out and push the jumbo jet to my destination faster, I would not have wasted a second.

Before I had much time to ponder this thought, I felt the aircraft slowly but surely come to its final stop. This was the moment of truth—I had, without question, landed in the greatest country in the world, the motherland of all freedoms. This final part of the flight was the second most thrilling moment since taking off from Nairobi, Kenya. Feeling more electrified than I had ever thought possible, one thought ran through my mind: if you don’t spread your wings, you cannot discover how far you can fly.

Without wasting time, I sprang up and out of my seat quicker than everyone else, ready to disembark and step onto American soil. A voice came over the plane’s intercom.

“Thanks for flying with British Airways.”

“You’re welcome!” I hollered boisterously, giving the pilot two thumbs up as he emerged from the cabin.

Several passengers turned to look in my direction, eyebrows raised in question. However, I was an impatient young man, intoxicated by the thrill of a brand-new life. High spirits had painted my new razzle-dazzle world with beautiful colors. Nevertheless, I couldn’t disembark right away; fellow passengers had already pulled their carry-on luggage from the overhead compartments and blocked the aisle.

I could not wait any longer, impatience combusting inside me. With each passing second, the blood in my veins grew hotter, but I could not move any farther. Exasperated by the holdup, I leaned on the headrest in front of me, looking like a restless child standing and impatiently holding onto the crib railing, ready to climb out, take the first step, and explore the new world forever.

My restlessness would not let me play the waiting game. Since I had no carry-on bag, I forced my way toward the exit. In a matter of seconds, I was the first one at the exit door, waiting for the crew to show me where the Nairobi airport loading team had placed my suitcase in the belly of the airplane. It had not occurred to me that I had confused plane travel with our bus system, where passenger luggage was placed in accessible compartments underneath the bus. Usually, whenever a traveler arrived at a destination, they would get off the bus and wait for the crew to point out their belongings for unloading.

Locked in that mindset, I stood at the exit, unaware that I was blocking other passengers. Before long, no one was moving, and the aisle became jam-packed. I thought nothing of it, rationalizing that I was the first one out and, therefore, would be the first to pick up my luggage right outside the plane. Suddenly, the flight attendant approached me with the most charming smile of the entire voyage.

“Sir, may I help you?”

I was surprised at how fresh her face looked after such a long flight. She seemed so well put together that I doubted her job description included lifting and unloading heavy luggage for passengers.

“I’m waiting for someone to unload my suitcase for me,” I replied.

She smiled knowingly as if she had encountered someone with the same trouble. “No, sir, you will find your luggage in baggage pickup.”

My body language revealed that I did not comprehend what she had just said.

“Could you please step slightly to the side?” she asked.

Unsure of where to move, I obliged reluctantly. She beckoned me out of the way of the impatient passengers, and I stepped aside.

When the long queue eased, she returned promptly and requested, “Follow me, please.”

We deplaned and entered the airport, where she gestured ahead and asked, “Do you see that arrow sign up there that says ‘Baggage Claim’?” I nodded, and she instructed, “Just follow the arrows on each sign, and it will take you to the area. Your flight number and arrival time will be displayed on the monitoring screen, which looks like a television, and you can pick up your luggage from the indicated carousel.”

Although I couldn’t understand how my suitcase was already ahead of me when the airplane had landed just minutes ago, she seemed confident in her instructions. I thanked her and began to head that way, carefully following the signs. When I turned the corner, I was astounded to see the people ahead of me standing still but moving up and down in opposite directions without walking. Intrigued, I quickened my pace to see how this was possible.

After a few steps, I found myself next to a moving staircase. The first thought that crossed my mind was that those steps could flatten, sending everyone sliding and tumbling down. That wary thought made me hesitate before getting on. As I looked around to see if anyone was noticing my dilemma, I spotted a sign that read:

“Pets must be carried on this escalator.”

Having heard that Americans cherish the companionship of their cats and dogs so much that they pay for a seat to travel with them comfortably, I stood still, flummoxed by this new reality. Meanwhile, a multitude of hurried travelers continued to pass by me.

I exhaled and mumbled, “Phew! Americans must truly love their dogs and cats.”

I had no pet and realized I couldn’t get on the escalator. I walked back to look for other options for those without their beloved animals. To my surprise, other passengers from various airlines passed by, heading for the escalator without any pets.

Since I saw no sign prohibiting toddlers and young kids from riding alone, it felt foolish for an adult like me to second-guess my ability to ride. With that thought in mind, I turned back to see what they would do. They got onto the escalator without hesitation. I quickly ran after the pet-free group, followed suit, and practically leaped onto the moving stairs before they left without me.

Although the ascending ride was smooth, I couldn’t help but wonder how I would get off this moving chain of stairs without sliding and falling. With each breath, that thought caused my chest to rise slightly more than usual. My restless toes began to tighten and wiggle in preparation for the leap off. This fretfulness made my fingers clamp tightly on the handrails, causing them to become clammy. I feared my grip might slip as I neared the top, sending me falling backward and knocking everyone down.

With no time to consider other solutions, I focused intently on the five passengers ahead of me, quietly observing how each stepped off. When my turn came, I sprang off my toes and landed on the floor more firmly than I had anticipated. Looking back, an awe-inspiring expression had replaced my earlier worry. I felt a surge of pride for flawlessly executing such a complex maneuver in America on my first attempt.

For a moment, I stood still, scanning the area for the baggage pickup sign. When I finally began to move, slowly but surely, I sensed the subtle pressure from the travelers behind me, urging me to pick up my pace. Having briefly blocked their path, some passengers passed me, and I could hear their sighs and feel their impatience.

The polite ones said, “Excuse me” or “Pardon me.”

When I shifted slightly to the side, they zoomed past me at full tilt.

Others, clearly frustrated, muttered, “Jesus Christ!”

Feeling as though I had brought the whole day to a halt for everyone, I contemplated why these people were invoking Jesus in such an exasperated tone. These minor yet significant encounters were my first indication that America was a fast-paced world.

After another thorough scan of my surroundings in the impeccably clean airport, I finally spotted a glowing baggage pickup pictogram, and my pace quickened. Despite the hustle and bustle of Detroit Metropolitan Airport, I still felt lost and alone. In a few steps, a loud announcement over the airport’s public address system broke through my solitude.

“Passengers are reminded to keep their luggage with them at all times. Any unattended items will be treated as suspicious and confiscated.”

The thought of my unattended luggage somewhere ahead in the baggage pickup area struck me, and I broke into a fast jog. When I spotted my flight number on one of the monitoring screens, I was huffing and puffing for air. Leaning forward with both hands on my knees, I looked around and recognized the familiar faces of passengers who had been on the same plane. They stood next to a long, large, motionless belt encircling the center of the area. To double-check, I glanced up at the scrolling screen one more time. I was sure I was in the right spot when I saw the British Airways flight number I had memorized in case I lost my way to America.

To confirm what I expected, I asked a fellow passenger, “Excuse me, where is our luggage?”

Without saying a word, he pointed to the end of the belt, which had a sizable dark opening. How could that tiny space accommodate the crew carrying our entire luggage from the plane? I wondered silently. Unconvinced my luggage would come from that opening, I approached the next passenger and asked again, “Where will our bags be coming from?”

He seemed to empathize with my confusion and explained, “Basically, the airport’s computerized baggage system, which is designed to shorten waiting times at luggage carousels, automatically loads and conveys our luggage to where we are standing right now.”

Noticing my lack of understanding, he elaborated, “This service improves airport efficiency because passengers aren’t struggling with their luggage through the lines.”

He quickly assessed my clear inexperience. “Be extremely careful next time on that escalator.”

The warning caught me off guard. “What?”

“That moving staircase you jumped on.”

“And why should I be careful?”

“Your shoelaces are loose.”

I looked down and saw that my shoelaces were indeed untied. Filled with excitement upon arrival, I had forgotten to retie them after loosening them to relieve my feet during the long flight. When I looked up, he finished his thought. “They could get caught in the escalator, and you might end up with a trapped foot or worse.”

As I bent down to tie my shoes, the giant conveyor belt suddenly started to move, startling me. I nearly jumped out of my skin and almost toppled over because back in my village, I had witnessed a worn-out conveyor belt at a maize mill, also known as a posho mill, instantly reach top speed, tearing away from the pulley and injuring someone.

By this time, I was struggling to calm my frayed nerves while the rotating carousel delivered one piece of luggage after another. Fellow passengers stepped up silently and picked up their bags. Once I stabilized, I stood there intrigued, wondering how these beautiful, loaded bags found their way from the airplane to this large, crowded airport without getting lost or stolen along the way. Other travelers, unaware of my inexperience, continued to step forward to grab their bags and hurriedly depart.

Soon, my beat-up high school suitcase appeared among the expensive name-brand luggage. I copied everyone else, stepped forward, picked it up, and headed toward the immigration desk, where I would be officially processed to begin my bright future.

As I approached the large sign labeled “Arrivals,” I slowed down enough to fall behind the others. I intended to observe how they processed through and then do the same. I joined the queue, and within a few minutes, it was my turn. The U.S. Customs Officer quickly checked my student visa and stamped my passport.

When I left the booth, the last gate to America had officially been flung wide open. Feeling the thrill of a new beginning, I could smell the promise of dreams, opportunity, and happiness in this new country. The nation with more wealth than any other had welcomed me to earn whatever my efforts could yield.

Struggling to grasp the reality of what had just happened, I glanced at my passport again. When I saw the official entry stamp confirming my arrival in the USA, I became entranced and began to hyperventilate. Overwhelmed and sensing the start of something monumental, I began to hum and snap my fingers to the tune of Michael Jackson’s Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’.

Full of vim and vigor, it took another virtual bullhead to dissuade me from stopping to roll my shirt sleeves to my elbows, tug the hem of my trousers into my socks, perform a 360-degree spin that would initiate a nonstop moonwalk backward, glide toward the airport exit, and continue until my heated feet kissed the American ground outside. I had to bite my index knuckle hard to stop myself.

When I finally walked away, my finger bore slight tooth marks. Somehow, the sight of the indentation added more bounce to my vivacious footsteps, causing a gleeful smile to spread across my face. With the happy-go-lucky bliss of late morning, the only thought that came to mind was that if you pursue what you want with determination, one day your thrilled rooster might even lay an egg just for you.