World Hunger

When The Lord Is With Thee “This is the day the Lord has made Let us rejoice and be glad in it.” “I stepped out from the bus into the glamorous city of New York on a beautiful Sunday evening in October. The Sun was still in the sky, its eyes dull and ruddy, but starring lazily at the innocent citizens of New York City; however it was hurrying up to round up the day’s business because it was drifting steadily toward the western horizon, perhaps to where the sky and the earth nudged cheek to cheek with its sleeping place on Mount Olympus. Seeing the Sun so tired made my mind flip backward to the village farmer, returning home after a busy and laborious day on the farm and ready to go to bed at the taste of the first cup of palm wine. The city looked so gentle and pristine as if it just jumped out of the bottom of the ocean, and civilization voluntarily descended all over its boarder. I could have sworn that no one ever ventured to bring any dirt to the city, talk less of trying to disturb its placid inhabitants. I was proud of myself; I was going to live among civilized people; I was going to wear cowboy boots, vest and hats; I was going to ride horses very soon, and I was going to be really educated, perhaps more educated than the former Nigerian British High Commissioner in my district. That sensuous aura of elitism completely consumed my being that I didn’t know when I walked into an open area, cordoned off by police. There were yellow tapes going round some of the benches in that small spot, and the ropes crossed over to some parked cars on the street. “Stop!” a cop on duty yelled as I approached to ask him for direction to the railway line going to Pennsylvania. I froze as I saw him place his left hand on his rifle holster. I never saw a cop carrying a gun, at least publicly, and never saw one who was a lefty. “This country must be unique” I thought. The cop came closer and asked in a hoarse voice if I was blind. “No, Sir.” “And how come you didn’t see the yellow tapes?” “I—I—don’t—” Before I settled with my new found stammering jig, he yelled some things that sounded nice to the ear as a new expression but not so decent to reason. The culture of my new found land was gradually presenting itself in miniature figurines; then a fuzzy haze seemed to cover the picture I carried in my mind. As I stepped away from the cop, a Good Samaritan-Taxi Cab driver was waiting for me. “Come on, young man; welcome to America; let’s go.” “Oh my goodness, this country is full of everything under the sun; how kind; how descent; how imaginative! I didn’t flag him down, but he knows my need, and he remembers to call me ‘a young man;’ that’s neat, and I fell in love with him as if he was one of my relatives from my mother’s home.” He opened his trunk, and in a jiffy, my lone luggage was in, and we began negotiating for the fare and a possible moderate hotel. A couple who heard our conversation stopped as if they admired my checkered suit, checkered shirt, checkered tie, and platform checkered shoes to match the rest of my checkers. When they heard the Taxi Cab driver assure me of a twenty-dollar-a-night hotel, the Gentleman said, “You’re coming from Africa, aren’t you?” “Yes, Sir.” “You’re sure dressed up like it,” he said and added, “And because you’re coming from Africa, you shouldn’t be throwing your life unto people simply because they’re Americans; you should be on your way to your destination instead of looking for a cheap hotel; this is America; it’s never too dark to complete your travel to your destination because a sleepover in a cheap hotel may be costlier than life. By the way, where’re you going?” “Pennsylvania, Sir” “Where in Pennsylvania?” “Lincoln University, Sir.” “There’s no way you’re going to go to Lincoln University tonight; the last Gray Hound Busses for Pennsylvania left about six. Do you have any relatives or friends in the U.S.?” “Yes, I do, Sir.” “Where does he live?” “Washington, D. C., Sir.” “Then you should be going to Washington, D.C. instead of looking for a hotel.” The Taxi Cab driver became mad and yelled some of those expletives the cop yelled at me except that this driver had a warehouse of those fine ways of saying ugly things; he unleashed an arsenal of good words that were qualified with the same adjective, and the most common of them referred to the Gentleman’s mother. I was shocked at the “Good Samaritan,” but the Gentleman paid him no mind; and in a voice that seemed to quell the nastiest of storms, he said, “Are you bringing down his luggage or not?” The “Good Samaritan” put down my luggage and sped off with a final finger sign to the Gentleman to emphasize his anger. Then the Gentle Man introduced himself and his wife. “I’m Donald Iverson, and this is my wife Michelle. Here’s my card” as he handed me a beautiful business card. “But listen carefully, America is a good country, but it is peopled by humans. Don’t forget that, and be on your P’s and Q’s.” I thanked him and told him my name, my home, and my mission. He and his wife said they were happy to see young Africans come out to study in the U.S. They took me to the Pennsylvania Train Station in Manhattan. They bought three tokens, so they could cross over the box office and take me to the train platform, about two flights down in the ground just to see me through. His business card identified him as an Insurance Manager for New York Life.