The Incredible True Story of Blondy Baruti Read online

  “There is one change,” my uncle said. “You’re no longer going to Golding Academy.”

  “Where am I going?”

  “Dr. Lissa said you are going to a school in Phoenix, Arizona.”

  This seemed strange. “Why am I going to Arizona if my cousin lives in Texas?”

  My uncle shrugged. “I don’t know. It is better to not ask too many questions. Just be grateful.”

  It all seemed a little mysterious, but in some weird sort of way it also made sense. If Patrick paid for the ticket, then he must have had a good reason for wanting to change the plans. And I figured that wherever I was going, I’d be living in a dorm room. I assumed that this new school in Arizona was also a boarding school. Frankly, I did not care. I would have gone to any town or city, and attended any school. All I heard was this word, the one that had sustained me for years:

  America!

  The next day I went to Foyer Social one last time, just to say goodbye to some friends, and to look around one last time at the place that had been both a boon and a bane to my existence. It was here that I was first taunted and insulted, and chased away from the court, and told that I would never amount to anything; it was here that they called me Mulayi ya busoba, Stupid Tall Man.

  But it was also here that I fell in love with basketball, and found a way to pursue my dream. It was here that I proved the naysayers wrong and made some of the best friends I have ever known. It was here that I became “ShakaFly.”

  Now, I was about to live out the dream of millions of young Africans.

  With all of these conflicting emotions swirling around me, I walked from one end of the court to the other. I jumped up and grabbed the rim with one hand, and hung there for a precious moment, taking it all in. Then I let go and fell gently to the ground, my eyes filling with tears that bubbled up from my heart

  Yes! I am going to America!

  CHAPTER 10

  * * *

  Standing in the kitchen of our home on that late-summer morning, waiting for my uncle Joseph and my mother to take me to the airport in Kinshasa, I felt a strange mix of sadness and joy.

  The day before I had hugged my sister and told her how much I loved her. She smiled and said, “I love you, too, brother.” But I did not explain why I held her just a little tighter, or why I had a lump in my throat. To the very end, until I had disappeared, my sister was kept in the dark.

  That was hard, but necessary.

  The next part was even harder.

  You see, before leaving the house, I had to say goodbye to my grandmother. I was going so far away, to such a strange and wondrous land. I had no idea when I would return, or how much time would pass. There is something final about leaving a grandparent, the implication being that age and time make very real the possibility that you might never see that person again. This was especially true in the Congo, where nothing is certain, most of all the prospect of good health and the longevity that naturally comes with it.

  I bent over to give my grandmother a hug and a kiss. It seemed like not so long ago that she would wrap me in her arms, and tell me that everything would be okay. Now it was my turn to reassure her, and to tell her how much I loved her, and what she meant to me. My grandmother was one of the strongest women I have ever known, but she seemed in this moment to be so small and frail and sad.

  “Thank you for everything you have done for me, Grandma,” I said. “Thank you for the love that you showed me. I promise you that you will live your life in peace because I will take care of you.”

  My grandmother pulled me tight and kissed me on the cheek. I could feel her tears against my skin, and the soft rhythm of her sobs against my chest.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I am going to America. I have a goal and I will not stop until I reach my goal. I will become a great basketball player and I will make you proud. I love you, Grandma.”

  I turned and walked away, leaving behind the woman who had spent so much of her life raising me, feeding me, making sure that my clothes were clean and that I had a safe place to sleep at night. My mother had protected me and my sister in the jungle, and she had worked herself to the bone traveling in the Congo to provide for her family from a financial standpoint. She had risked her own health and well-being, and had forfeited much of the time and interaction with her children that so many mothers cherish. She did it because it was necessary for our survival, and I understood this on some level (I understand it even more now, of course), but the fact is, I missed that time with my mother. And it was my grandmother who filled in the gaps with her firm but boundless and unwavering love.

  I cried all the way to the airport. In fact, by the time I bid farewell to my mother and my uncle, I was all cried out.

  “Be brave, work hard, and never forget where you come from,” my mother said, pressing her hand against my heart. “I love you.”

  “I love you too, Mama.”

  Uncle Joseph seemed at once proud and sad. Normally stoic, he shook my hand, then pulled me in for a hug. “Blondy, you know that if we had money, we would send you to America with lots of nice things.”

  “I know, Uncle.” The truth is, I did not care. I was thrilled and grateful to be going at all; that I had no material possessions to take with me was irrelevant. I had always been poor; what difference did it make now?

  “But we don’t,” he continued. “So this is all I can give you. It’s the most important thing, anyway.” He handed me a Bible, its cover worn but not tattered, as if the book had been well-read and cared for. “Read this every night,” he continued. “If you are feeling lonely or sad, you will find hope in its pages. When things don’t go your way, let God be your guide.”

  We sat in the terminal for a little while, until we heard the announcer calling my flight number, and instructing everyone to head to the checkpoint. I got up, shaking, still in disbelief that I was about to board a plane for the first time in my life—and a plane bound for the United States, of all places! It felt almost like a dream. But it wasn’t. It was real.

  I gave my mother a huge hug and told her again, “I love you.” Tears were pouring out of her eyes. I gently wiped her face and gave her a kiss.

  “He has to leave,” Uncle Joseph said. But my mother would not let my hand go. Finally, my uncle stepped in and separated us.

  “Please take care of your sister and your mother,” I said to him. “I’m going away, but I will always be there with you guys in my heart. And I will help as much as possible when I start making money.”

  Uncle Joseph—who was really the only father I had ever known—simply smiled. “Don’t worry too much about us; we will be okay. Take care of yourself out there. You are a grown man now. You are not a boy anymore.”

  Uncle Joseph then reminded me that my cousin Patrick would be my guardian in the U.S. “He is a successful businessman there. Listen to him and trust in him. He guarantees me he will take care of you.”

  “Okay, Uncle,” I replied.

  I started to walk away toward the checkpoint. I stopped and looked back at my mother for the final time. I saw a woman of faith, a woman who fought to keep me safe, a woman who held my hand through the jungle of the Congo. A woman who sacrificed all she had to put food in my mouth, and who sold everything she had to see my dream come true. I could not go on. I turned back and ran to her and held her in my arms, crying so hard that I could barely breathe.

  “You are my hero,” I said before pulling away.

  By the time I took my seat on the plane (and my goodness how big this machine was!), melancholy had been replaced by a feeling of anticipation, an excitement so palpable I could barely sit still. I had never been on an airplane before. I had never been out of the Congo. And now I was on my way to America! Soon, I thought, I won’t have to walk miles just to use a computer that will let me look at video clips of NBA players. I can watch games live on television. Maybe I will go to one of those magnificent arenas, where the great players perform in front of thousands of fans. Maybe I wil
l meet my idols. Maybe I will play against them one day!

  Anything was possible.

  THE TRIP ITSELF WAS arduous. I was the proverbial fish out of water. We left Kinshasa at 1 p.m. and made the first of several stops, Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, roughly seven hours later. There, I had to change planes for the second leg of the journey, which would take me to Rome. To say I was confused would be a dramatic understatement. Suddenly I was in a foreign land, where everyone spoke either Amharic or English, neither of which I understood. I did not know where to go, and I could not ask for directions.

  The airport itself was the most beautiful place I had ever seen, yet I wasn’t even in the U.S. yet. I asked myself, “If Ethiopia can look this beautiful, what about the United States?” I couldn’t stop looking around. And for the first time, I was walking alongside scores of white people.

  Is this really happening? I wondered. In my entire life I had seen perhaps a handful of white people. They were to me like ghosts: unreal, unapproachable, mysterious. Yet suddenly they were everywhere.

  I wandered around the airport, staring at monitors that made no sense, looking for someone who appeared kind enough to give me some guidance. I saw two white people walk by and I wanted to ask for help, but fear got the best of me and I bit my tongue. I had never spoken to a white person before. A moment later I stopped a friendly-looking black girl; using hand signals, since I did not speak her language, I asked for help. She smiled and took my ticket from my hand, and then explained as best she could where I was supposed to go, pointing to a long line of people standing at a gate. I did not understand protocol and I was worried that I would miss my flight, so I ran up to the crowd and took a spot close to the door—in the process, cutting ahead of at least a hundred people. What can I say? I was ignorant. I did not know that in Western culture you have to wait in line for your turn. I just wanted to jump on the plane and get to the U.S., before someone decided that this was all a big mistake. Some of the other passengers stared angrily at me. A few of them made comments. I was embarrassed and unsure what I had done wrong, but it occurred to me later that many of these people were probably afraid of me. After all, I was a very tall young man.

  On this flight, which was to Rome, I settled into my seat and tried to relax. After a short time, one of the flight attendants offered me something to eat. I could not believe my good fortune. And then I realized that everyone was being fed. A full meal. Was this normal? Was this what life was like in Western culture? More food than I could imagine, even on an airplane? I did not even recognize most of what was served, but I ate it anyway, in quick, ravenous gulps. I ate bags and bags of peanuts and crackers and pretzels, washing it all down with several cups of cola. Inevitably, after perhaps an hour or two, my stomach began to protest. The combination of strange food, excessive sugar, and persistent turbulence left me in a state of gastric distress I hadn’t known since I was a little boy. Compounding matters was the embarrassment that comes with experiencing that sensation while in a claustrophobic environment. On the flight to Rome I must have used the bathroom a dozen times, each time excusing myself in a language my seatmate did not understand, and then unfolding myself as quickly and unobtrusively as possible before shuffling down the aisle, terrified that I would have an accident along the way.

  Eventually, after a long layover, I landed in the United States of America, specifically at Dulles Airport in Washington, D.C. Our flight landed at 8 a.m. on September 4, leaving me with another nine hours to kill before the final leg of my trip, which would take me to Phoenix. By noontime my stomach had settled and I was growing hungry, but I had no money at all, and did not speak the language. I wandered around a bit, never straying far from my departure gate. I was befriended at the airport by a young traveler named Sam, who spoke Amharic and English. We bonded as Africans in a foreign land, and Sam’s ability to speak English, coupled with his innate generosity, allowed me to gain a measure of comfort right away; we spoke through hand signals and facial expressions. He asked me what I wanted to drink and I responded, “Milk, milk.” Because milk was so expensive in the Congo and I dreamed of drinking as much milk as possible after leaving. Sam bought me some milk and food because he knew I had no money. This was my first experience with the charitable influence that America could have on people.

  When I landed in Phoenix and made my way through the airport, I had no idea what to expect. But the disorientation did nothing to quell my excitement. I kept saying to myself, “I am in the United States of America! I have made it!” I knew only that a cousin I had never met was supposed to be waiting for me. I did not know what he looked like; I presume he did not know what I looked like. But at the same time, how difficult could it be for him to find me? He knew my flight number and it had arrived on time. How many 6-foot-8 basketball players from the Congo were on that flight? I’ll tell you how many: exactly one.

  As I exited the terminal’s restricted area and entered a larger area where hundreds of people waited for loved ones, I scanned the crowd, looking for . . . well, I’m not exactly sure what I was looking for. I had no way of identifying Patrick, so I guess I was looking for a tall black man who might be African, and that if our eyes met he would recognize me as a relative. As if the blood of our ancestors was some sort of transcendent link that could reach out across a great divide. In fact, it was not even my cousin who spotted me first. I saw him in the crowd, with three white people, and noticed his eyes darting back and forth, looking for someone familiar. But while he scanned the room, the woman next to him, a smiling, pleasant-looking middle-aged woman, pointed in my direction.

  I had no idea who any of these people were, but upon introduction they seemed warm and friendly. Patrick stepped forward after the woman had pointed me out and extended a hand for me to shake. He smiled and welcomed me to America. His demeanor seemed somewhat odd and stiff, but I didn’t think much of it. After all, while we might have been cousins, we also were complete strangers. But Patrick was polite and clearly in charge of the proceedings. He introduced me to each of the people in his little entourage. The woman’s name was Laurie Blitz. The man beside her, smiling warmly, was, as I suspected, her husband. His name was Terry Blitz. The third person was a younger man, perhaps a few years older than me. His name was Brandon Blitz, and he was their son.

  Although Patrick was obviously Americanized, I was not. In the Congo, it is customary upon meeting someone to offer a gentle kiss on the cheek, which is what I tried to do. At the same time, Terry and Brandon extended their hands, while Laurie tried to wrap me in a hug. All of this resulted in a very awkward and funny little dance that left all of us smiling and laughing.

  “You’re going to be living with the Blitzes,” Patrick explained. “And Brandon works at the high school you will be attending. He’ll be one of your basketball coaches.”

  This all sounded fine to me, although I wondered if perhaps there was something wrong with the dorms at the high school. I had no expectations beyond meeting my cousin and doing whatever he told me I was supposed to do.

  Brandon smiled. He seemed like a nice guy, very easygoing.

  “Pleased to meet you, Blondy,” he said (my cousin translated for me, speaking Lingala, an African dialect). “I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m looking forward to working with you.”

  As the Blitzes led us toward the baggage claim area, Terry asked Patrick to ask me how many bags I brought with me. Patrick relayed the message in Lingala, and with a big smile on my face I explained to him I had nothing. “It’s just me and my backpack. Uncle Joseph told me you will take care of me, so I gave away all my clothes to my friends before I left the Congo.”

  Patrick nodded, but his facial expression betrayed a hint of embarrassment. Indeed, I had carried with me only a small backpack that contained nothing more than my Bible and a bottle of water. The only clothes I owned were on my body: a pair of sweatpants that were totally inappropriate for the wilting heat of an Arizona summer, a tattered polo shirt and sandals. Patrick turned to
Laurie and explained that there was no need to stop by the baggage carousel. She gave me a quick and sympathetic glance, but turned away so as not to cause me any embarrassment. I liked her very much right away and could tell that she was a good person.

  “Well, then, let’s go home,” she said.

  As we walked out into the Arizona air, I was struck by the intensity of the heat. It must have been a hundred degrees, even though it was early evening. And the air . . . it was like nothing I had experienced. So dry that I could barely breathe. The Congo is hot, but it is also humid. This arid environment was foreign to me, and totally disorienting.

  “I thought it was cold in America,” I said to Patrick.

  He laughed. “In some parts of the country, yes. But we live in Arizona. It’s the desert. You’ll get used to it.”

  There were a couple other things I had in my bag, including one of my championship basketball belts, and a simple T-shirt bearing the Congo flag. The latter I presented as a gift to Patrick, who seemed grateful, and the Blitzes appeared to approve. On the ride to their home, the car was filled with nonstop chatter, as I told Patrick of my journey and my hopes and aspirations, and tried to answer questions from the Blitzes with Patrick serving as translator. I felt such warmth from these people and though I could not really understand why or how they had decided to take me in as part of their family, I wanted to do my best to assimilate as quickly as possible.

  On the drive from the airport, I couldn’t stop looking out the window. The city had so many lights, like nothing I had seen before. There wasn’t a bump on the road. It was one of the most perfect rides I had ever experienced. In the Congo, after all, the roads are in terrible condition. Terry rolled down the window for me. I put my head out and felt the fresh air of America. Growing up in the Congo we were told that American air has the power to make your skin fresh again, like a baby, so I wanted to feel that fresh air.