The Incredible True Story of Blondy Baruti Read online

  Finally, one of them spoke.

  “Money. Give us whatever you have.”

  Again, we exchanged glances. Then we turned out our pockets, revealing that we were penniless, a revelation that only served to heighten the anger of the soldiers.

  “What is this!” the lead soldier shouted. “You have nothing? I should kill you all right now.”

  My friend put up his hands and pleaded for mercy.

  “We are young and poor,” he explained. “If you need money, ask the government for help. We have nothing to give. I’m sorry. Please, don’t hurt us.”

  From the left another soldier took a couple quick steps forward, reversed the grip on his rifle, and drove the butt end into my friend’s face. He grunted and fell to the ground. Within seconds, the others did likewise, beating all of us with their rifles until we were bloody. As we cowered together, one of the soldiers pointed the barrel of his rifle at my head.

  “Let’s just shoot them. They have no money anyway. They are useless to us.”

  A few of the soldiers nodded in agreement. But a couple others shook their heads in protest.

  “No, they’re too young. Let them go.”

  Predictably, and almost comically, this exchange prompted a vigorous argument between the two factions, with some of the soldiers apparently eager to empty their weapons into living, breathing flesh, at the slightest provocation, with no concern whatsoever for the moral ramifications, and the others seemingly disinclined. My friends and I knelt in the dirt, our hands clasped behind our bloodied heads, listening to this insanity, wondering which faction would win out, and whether we would live or die.

  Finally, the bickering ceased and one of the soldiers told us to get off the ground. We did as instructed, slowly, methodically, so as not to show even the slightest hint of aggression.

  “Get out of here,” he said. “Now! Before we shoot you.”

  Frozen with fear, we did not move, until one of the soldiers dropped the barrel of his rifle a few degrees and squeezed off a few shots in the dirt near our feet. We recoiled in horror but still did not retreat.

  “Go home!” the soldier shouted again, as the others laughed. He fired again at the dirt, and this time we turned and ran, stumbling and falling over each other as gunfire strafed the ground all around us. We ran for perhaps a mile, as fast as we could, before finally stopping to rest, and to check ourselves for bullet wounds. We all were bleeding from the face and head, thanks to the beating we had endured, but none of us had been shot. It was something of a miracle. For whatever reason, through God’s will or sheer luck, the soldiers had extended mercy to us and allowed us to see another day. With a full moon illuminating the sky, I looked into the eyes of my friends. Almost in unison, we began to cry.

  When I got home, my mother was anxiously waiting (this was one of the rare times when she was not on a business trip). She saw the blood and dirt on my face, and began screaming at me.

  “Why are you so foolish? Haven’t I taught you well?”

  I nodded sheepishly. “I’m sorry, Mama.”

  Then she pulled me in and held me close, like I was still her little boy, despite being a foot taller than she was.

  “I cannot lose you, Blondy. You must be smarter.”

  I looked down at her; she was crying, too. “I thought living here would bring us peace.” I said. “Isn’t that what you told me in the forest? Will life ever be easier?”

  My mother shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  CHAPTER 9

  * * *

  As spring gave way to summer, I wondered whether Dr. Lissa had forgotten about me. I had nearly given up when he suddenly showed up at our home.

  “I have a scholarship for Blondy,” he said. “He’s going to America.”

  It wasn’t a college scholarship. Because I was only seventeen years old and lagging behind in both academic and athletic development (in comparison to my American counterparts)—and because I did not speak English—it was determined that I would benefit from two years at Golding Academy, a prep school in the American Northeast. But I would be on an athletic scholarship so money for school was not an issue. If successful in prep school, then perhaps I would be offered a basketball scholarship in college. This, in fact, was a path followed by many Division I basketball players in the United States. I was thrilled, of course; so was my mother.

  We kept this a secret. No one knew what was going on except my mother, my uncle Joseph, and my grandmother. We didn’t want to tell my sister because she had trouble keeping things to herself. In the African culture, especially the Congo, if you are planning to travel outside the continent, you shouldn’t tell anyone beyond your own family, because jealousy is a huge risk. Sadly, people do not always like to see others prosper. If people find out you are leaving, they might want to put your travel in jeopardy, or perhaps even try to end your life. This was a very real possibility, so we kept our plans very quiet. We had to swallow our excitement and enthusiasm, which were substantial.

  Until we learned that in order to travel to the U.S., I had to obtain a visa, a process that was both mind-bogglingly complicated and expensive.

  The first step was an interview at the American embassy. But even the interview was not without cost. We had to come up with $150 as part of the application and interview fee. Now, while this might not sound like much to you, or to most people in the United States, it was a princely sum to my family. Remember, we could barely afford food or clothing. But my mother was determined to support my dream, and so she sold some of our furniture and other meager belongings. Whatever she could not raise on her own, she borrowed. Somehow, she came up with the interview fee. I was so excited! But again, there were obstacles I had not anticipated.

  I WENT TO THE interview with my friend Christian, who, thanks to Dr. Lissa, was also interviewing for a visa with the hope of playing basketball in the United States. I had planned and prepared for the interview, knew how to explain why I wanted to go to school in the United States. I dressed in the finest clothes I owned: a pair of jeans (my only pair) that I saved for special occasions, and a clean T-shirt. Very early in the interview, conducted by a woman only a few years older than me, I was asked whether I understood that my coursework would be taught in English.

  “Yes, I know,” I responded (in French, which was my native tongue).

  “Do you speak English?” the woman asked.

  “No, but I will learn.”

  She pursed her lips and sighed. “Okay.”

  But it wasn’t okay. At the end of the interview, the woman stoically delivered the response I feared: my request for a visa was denied. I was very upset, but my mother was devastated. Can you imagine selling all your belongings, everything of value that you own, only to have your son’s application rejected? I could see the pain in my mother’s eyes, and it made me feel terrible. I felt like I let her down. But I still had faith. I told myself that being denied a visa was nothing compared to slogging through the jungles of the Congo for a year and a half. I would survive and hopefully get another chance.

  But how?

  Christian’s application was also rejected. With nowhere else to turn, we both reached out to Dr. Lissa and explained what had happened.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”

  And he did. One month later the prep school responded with a promise to provide additional services to support my language differences, and I was granted another interview at the embassy. When it came time for the interview, everyone on the Molokai team was at a camp getting ready for a big tournament to qualify for the Africa Cup. The team rented out space at a nearby Catholic school that had a nice basketball court on the premises. Our schedule was quite busy—with practice sessions every morning and evening. We ate meals at the school and showered there, as well. There were no days off. It was serious business.

  I was faced with a difficult decision: to ask my coach for permission to leave for my second interview, not knowing how long I wou
ld be gone, or whether permission would be granted (which seemed unlikely), or come up with some other type of excuse. I did not consider skipping the interview. As much as I loved basketball and wanted to help Molokai win the Africa Cup, it was not as important as obtaining a visa. And this interview was my last chance. So, once again, I told the coach that I had a family emergency: my grandmother was sick and I was needed at home. The coach was upset with me, and I suppose some of my teammates were disappointed as well. I was Molokai’s best big man, and they needed my help in the tournament. I still feel guilty sometimes when I think back on that decision, but I find comfort in the words of Michael Jordan, the greatest player in the history of the game: “To be successful, you have to be selfish, or else you never achieve. And once you get to your highest level, then you have to be unselfish.”

  In this moment, I had to do what was best for my future. I had to be selfish.

  After I left the camp I contacted Christian and asked if he was willing to pay the fees necessary for a second interview. He said no, and said that he believed the whole thing was a scam; he wasn’t going to waste any more money on a fantasy. It’s hard to explain, but for some reason I did not share his cynicism. I am a man of faith, and I believed that God would provide for me this time. But there was still the challenge of having to pay another $150 application fee, and there was nothing left to sell, so my mother borrowed the money. She went to every family she knew and asked people to contribute in whatever they could. She did this surreptitiously, explaining not that the money was intended for my visa application, but rather for help with a family health crisis. I know this was dishonest, but we were desperate. I also asked for help from some people I knew; I told them I needed money but did not explain how I would use it, because I was not sure they would approve. As I said, it is a popular dream in the Congo to exchange the poverty and bloodshed of our native land for the wealth and promise of America, and not everyone is supportive of his neighbor.

  “I need money for food,” I lied. “I need money for clothing. Please help.”

  Eventually we acquired enough money to secure a second interview. I prayed and fasted for twenty-four hours prior to the appointment, in the hope of improving my chances. I barely slept the night before. I was so nervous, and I felt instinctively that this would be my last chance. In the morning I put on the same jeans and T-shirt I had worn to the first interview, and fell to my knees beside my bed, so that I could ask for God’s guidance on the most important day of my life.

  Sitting in the embassy, waiting for my name to be called, I could barely contain my anxiety. My pulse was pounding. I felt queasy. This was the crucial moment, when I could almost see my dream coming true, and know that one day I’d be able to help my mother and grandmother. I silently said another prayer, this one more practical in nature.

  Please, God, let me do well. And don’t let it be the same woman conducting the interview.

  My prayers were answered. This time I was interviewed by an older woman with far more experience, which gave me hope, but the line of questioning was exactly the same. I told her I planned to attend school in America. She asked if I was aware that classes would be taught in English. I explained that I was aware of this fact and that my school would be providing extra support because French was my native language.

  “Are you sure of this?” she asked.

  I showed her the documentation to prove it. She nodded approvingly.

  “What is your main goal after you get an education in the United States?” she asked. Her tone was deadly serious. I could tell it was an important question, and that my answer might determine the outcome of the interview. I paused for a very long time before speaking, in order to get my thoughts straight.

  “America is a place of great wealth and promise,” I explained. “It is a place where I can pursue my dreams of getting an education and playing professional basketball.”

  I paused and looked at her, to see if she approved. Her expression did not change.

  “And then I hope I can come back here, to my country, and help my people,” I continued. “The Congo is my home.”

  She smiled. This, clearly, was what she wanted to hear. It was also the truth.

  “Good luck, young man,” she said. And with that she handed over my visa. I thanked her profusely and ran out of the building. And I kept running, all the way home, a distance of roughly ten miles. I burst through the front door, waving my visa. My mother wrapped her arms around me and started crying.

  “Thank God!” she sobbed. “My boy is going to America!”

  My happiness was tempered by the realization that I would be going alone—that my friend Christian would not be getting a visa. Part of me was angry with him for not trying a second time, but I understood his situation. Like me, Christian came from a poor family. To each of us, $150 was a princely sum, the acquisition of which required sacrifice, solicitation, and a stretching of the truth. I was willing to do anything to get a second interview. Christian was not, and I cannot blame him for that.

  We kept this news to ourselves for a while, as we knew there was always the possibility of further complications. This turned out to be prescient, for while I had possession of the proper legal documents to leave the country and attend a prep school in America, and a scholarship from that school, there was something we hadn’t considered:

  How was I going to get to America?

  I mean, obviously I understood that there would be a very long and expensive trip involved, but for some reason it hadn’t occurred to me that I would be expected to pay the fare. I was young and naive, so when Dr. Lissa informed me that the plane trip to America would cost nearly $2,000, I didn’t know what to say. Two thousand dollars? My family had been compelled to sell off our furniture and beg to neighbors just to come up with the $150 visa fee. How in the world could we possibly get two thousand dollars? This was an unfathomable sum, more than my mother earned in a year.

  “I do not understand,” I said to Dr. Lissa. “Why doesn’t the school that is giving me a scholarship also pay for my plane ticket? They know we don’t have that kind of money.”

  Dr. Lissa seemed perplexed, as well. “I guess they’re not allowed to do that. They can only pay for your education, and your room and board. But not your transportation.”

  I did not understand any of this. It seemed illogical that a school would offer me a scholarship, which implied that my family was impoverished, but somehow expect us to pay such an extraordinary amount for a plane ticket.

  “What do we do, then?” I expected Dr. Lissa to have the answer, as he always had in the past. But the truth was, this was merely a hobby of his. He was a friendly man who loved sports and had helped a few kids from the Congo get to school in America, but he was hardly an expert. He fell quiet while formulating a response. Finally, after a long pause, he said, “I’m not sure. But don’t give up hope.”

  The clock was ticking. The embassy had given me one month to leave the Congo. If I had not secured transportation by then, my visa would be revoked. Each day that passed, I felt the crush of anxiety and the ticking clock. Can you imagine? I had been dreaming of this moment for years—since the first time I touched a basketball. I had been insulted, bullied, kicked out of pickup games because I wasn’t good enough; walked miles in 110-degree heat to get to basketball practice; threatened with dismissal because I didn’t want to be part of my teammates’ pagan rituals before games; trained all night by myself to improve; been beaten up by soldiers while walking home after pickup games. I had given buckets of blood, sweat, and tears to become a better basketball player, in the hope that the game would somehow take me to America. And now I had to come up with an astronomical amount of money to pay for transportation. It seemed impossible.

  With less than four days before the visa was to be revoked, we still had no answers. The worst part was hearing my mother cry almost every single night of that month. There was nothing she or I could do to come up with $2,000, the reality of which br
ought tears of despair and incessant prayers. “Oh, Lord I believe in you!” she would wail. “I believe you can turn impossible into possible. I believe in your name and in your power. The same God that protected me and my children throughout the journey of civil war, through the jungle of the Congo—I believe the same God will come through. My family and I trust in you!”

  I prayed, as well, though in the quiet of my room: “God, I want to be a miracle. When the world sees me, I want them not to see me, but I want the world to see your glory through me. I know with all my heart that you will come through at this moment in my life. When you start something, God, you always finish it, and I’m asking you today to finish what you started with me. Please . . .”

  With only three days remaining until the deadline, and no prospect of acquiring $2,000, Uncle Joseph walked into my room. I was lying on the bed, so depressed and nervous that I could not eat. I didn’t even want to go to Foyer Social, because playing basketball reminded me of my dream, and how it seemed to be sleeping away.

  “What is it, Uncle?” I said. Slowly, his face formed a smile.

  “The Lord never lets down his child,” he said.

  I sat up. “What do you mean?”

  “Dr. Lissa just called. You have a plane ticket to America. You should start getting ready to leave.”

  I was so shocked that I didn’t know what to say.

  “But how is this possible, Uncle? What happened?”

  “You have a cousin named Patrick in America,” he explained. “He lives in Houston, Texas, and he paid for your ticket, and he will meet you when you arrive.”

  I couldn’t believe my good fortune! I did not even know that I had a cousin in the U.S. And now he was paying for my trip to America? It was almost too good to be true. But then, we were family. And maybe he had become a rich man, like everyone else in America.