Page 27 of Worlds Apart
But then there was Martin.
He was sweet. And kind. And thoughtful. He’d called a florist in Arlington the week before and sent her Tahiti daffodils because she’d mentioned reading about them in a book.
He was concerned two nights ago when she had a bandaid over a paper cut on her hand and wouldn’t let it alone until she promised him that it really was a surface wound.
He mailed her a stuffed elephant two weeks before that, taping a plastic straw to the elephant’s trunk with a note: Laxodonta africana, the African bush elephant, here in its native habitat, which would be digging up my water pipes for the third time this year.
It had been so cute, Sunny had called him immediately, forgetting that it was still the middle of the night for him. Martin hadn’t minded. They’d talked for an hour before he had to hang up.
“He’s not like that, Lu.” Sunny reached across the table and squeezed her sister’s hand. “I promise. When you meet him, you’ll understand. Martin isn’t like other guys. He’s special.”
ChapterEight
Martin satin the office-grey chair with stained upholstery that tilted precariously to the right and stared at the visa official across the desk.
“Are you serious?”
“I’m sorry, but you’re going to need a letter from your employer saying that you will still have a job when you return from the United States and frankly, you don’t own enough property here in Kenya to qualify for a tourist visa.”
The words slipped out of Martin’s mouth before he could stop them. “I’m sorry, but do you know who I am?”
The man in the poorly fitted suit sat back in his chair and lifted his chin. “I’m the man who gets to decide if you have a tourist visa to the United States, Mr….” He looked at the application. “Mr. Karamja.”
“Karanja. Martin Karanja, owner of Karanja Safari Company and Vice President of Karanja Enterprises.”
“Which is owned by who?” The man spread his hands. “I don’t see any documents here that indicate you ownanything, sir. A car. That’s it. You have a lease, but you don’t own a house. Your Safari company is only five years old and it’s owned jointly by you, a Mr. Errol Carberry, and your father. You don’t own the land that you operate on, you have outstanding loans at two banks, and very little in savings.”
“I can’t believe this.” His father’s obstinacy about putting things in Martin’s name was biting himagain. “Sir, I don’t mean to be disrespectful but if you would call the banks where I owe the money or simply call the ambassador, for that matter—”
“Visas to the United States are not handed out because of who one knows, Mr. Karamja.” The man was flushed and angry now. “It’s my responsibility to take into account the safety and the security of the United States of America.”
Martin was getting angry too. “What do you think I’m going to do when I go to the US? You think I’m going to leave my very comfortable life and all my businesses here to get a job paying minimum wage as an illegal migrant in a crowded city with weather no one would envy?”
The visa official raised his chin even higher. “People overstay visas every day, Mr. Karamja.”
Martin snorted. “This is absurd.” He rose. “I have traveled to India, Japan, Singapore, Fiji, Dubai, and a dozen other places in my life—”
“On business visas related to your father’s company,notas a tourist.”
“And all I’m trying to do today is secure a visa to visit a friend in Arlington, Virginia.” Martin sneered. “And you think I’m going to betemptedby the irresistible draw of America to abandon my life here? You are ridiculous.”
The man stamped something across Martin’s application and set it to the side. “Visa application denied. The United States of America does not believe you have enough permanent ties to your home country to be assured of your return to Kenya and considers you an overstay risk.”
Martin narrowed his eyes. “And my application fee?”
It cost a pretty penny to apply for a US tourist visa. It was nothing for someone with Martin’s resources, but the majority of Kenyans in the line outside didn’t have the resources he did. For most of them, the dollars it cost to apply for a visa would be a significant sacrifice.
“Application fees are for processing your application and are non-refundable.”
“How convenient for you.” Martin turned and walked out of the office. He walked out of the building, passing the line of visa applicants arriving for their interviews. Dozens and dozens of them were waiting silently, some for business reasons, some for immigration purposes, but probably countless others were wanting, like him, to visit friends or family overseas.
And they said that bankers were thieves.
He took his phone out and called Errol.
“Karanja!” His friend’s voice was jolly. “So have you bought your ticket yet?”
“My visa application was denied.”
