I remember that day like it was yesterday. It was a fine Monday morning; the skies were clear, the weather was fair and my heavy eyelids were crying out-loud for just an hour more of sleep. I, together with my brother and dear mother, had woken up early that day in order to make it on time to the United States embassy. To my surprise, the embassy was already filled with a good amount faces with anticipation written all over them. My family and I secured a spot under a shady tree and waited for what would be the longest hour of my life. Soon enough, a man, whom I inferred to be an American, with a stern look came through the embassy’s huge glittering doors. In his hands was a brown envelope that contained a mini-booklet that would change my life forever.

If suspense were a person, it would be me at that moment. For the next hour or so, I would wait, engorged with suspense and anticipation as the American went back and forth through the embassy’s doors; each time carrying his brown envelope and a new set of passports. Just when I was on the verge of giving up hope, the name “Obeng” echoed in my ears. I quick sprang up, raced and snatched from his hand this green booklet, which supposedly held so much power. I quickly opened a couple pages, stared at the United States Visa, which reflected the heavenly glow of the rising sun, and smiled. From that point thereof, my life would take a new turn.

About fifteen years ago, my father had been presented by one of his relatives with an opportunity to travel abroad. In Ghana, where I was born and lived at for about fifteen years, travelling abroad was deemed the highest level of success a person could achieve. It seemed like a person who had returned from travelling overseas commanded a new form of respect and was revered; such a person was close to a god. This was because of the incorrect ingrained thought that any individual who travelled overseas could become filthy rich in a matter of months. In light of this, my father quickly seized this opportunity and began travelling to several countries: India, the Netherlands, Israel and a host of others. Finally, after about two years of such travelling, he moved to settle permanently in New York. I did miss my father from time to time, but the satisfaction of having a father who lived in the United States and the gifts I received from him outweighed the feeling.

After about six years, my father became a citizen of the United States and quickly cleared the way for three of my siblings to join him in New York. I did envy my siblings but this feeling died out quickly after I accepted the fact that I couldn’t change what had already happened. Also, I enjoyed the freedom that came with the reduced number of adults in the household. Some six years later, my father would call, like he usually did, to tell my mother, brother and I that our papers to enable our relocation to the United States had been approved.

After we had received our visas, it was time to leave the very place I had called home for close to sixteen years. I didn’t think very much about how I will feel at this new place I am moving to, what the conditions will be like, how this action will affect the relationships I had already established in Ghana, etc. This is because I was completely overjoyed by the thought of moving to the United States, probably the greatest country in the world. Although I personally didn’t know very much about the United States, I gathered from the American movies I watched that it is the most amazing place on earth, a place full of hope and opportunities, a place basking in the richness of lavish lifestyles. I could finally skate through the streets of New York, watch the new year ball drop amidst the fiery crowd, ride a train and be a part of high school as portrayed in movies like “High School Musical,” which I would later find out was very inaccurate in portraying school life.

After the horrible airline food and the stressing twelve-hour flight time, I was finally in New York City. I was overflowing with joy and amazement. The first few days were some of my most exciting days of my life. Coming from a third world country, Manhattan was practically heaven. The skyscrapers, the cars, the weather, the air, the food, the people; everything about this place was heavenly. Even the days I spent indoors were equally exciting. I had thousands of TV channels at my disposal; match that with the four mediocre channels back at Ghana, which for the most part only broadcasted talk shows and news. I loved my new lifestyle and didn’t miss home at all.

It was only after I enrolled in high school that the reality of immigration set in. First of all, I realized that high school doesn’t come close to what is portrayed in movies; as a matter of fact, it is much more about learning that it is about fun. But that would be the least of my problems. I quickly realized that I had been thrown into a whole new system of education and a totally different culture of people without any preparation. Naturally, I am an introvert and bit socially awkward. As such, making friends was as difficult as finding a needle in a haystack. And my aptitude for speaking English didn’t help much either. Don’t get me wrong, I knew and perfectly understood the language, I simply didn’t have my way with words like most people do (I still don’t actually). Worst of all, I despised my accent and as such, tried as much as possible to talk only when absolutely necessary. I remember those awful days when I sat at a whole lunch table all by myself; how I hated lunch period! Too bad my stomach didn’t share the same feelings I did. I was introduced to new vocabulary, a new way of dressing, a new way of approaching certain circumstances, a new way of life. At first, I was overwhelmed by all of this; it was as if I had been asked to master rocket science in a matter of days.

But there were better days ahead. After about a year, I got used to this new environment and way of life. Even though I couldn’t get rid of my accent, I mastered the vocabulary and the ‘New York phrases’. I even learned how to navigate through the subway; that is after getting lost several times. I vaguely remember a day when I got lost on my way to school just because I used a different staircase when exiting the subway station; I had to return home with my head buried in shame. And with the right attitude I soon was able to make several friends, some of which I consider family. And even though I, as well as the rest of my family, haven’t been able to completely adapt to New York’s culture and we didn’t become filthy rich like my father thought we would, we still enjoy staying in this country and we consider ourselves New Yorkers. However, no matter how closely related we become to this new way of life, we will still cling to some of our old ways.

Nonetheless, some of these days, I sit back, overcome with acute nostalgia, and reminisce the times I spent back at Ghana and the lovely people I spent them with. I ask myself, “What if I never moved to New York?” as the phantom of my past prostrates before me begging to bring back the days far away in the distance overpowered by the heavy clouds of immigration.