EACH MORNING, I WOULD CHECK the chalkboard outside the UNHCR building in Ifo. It would sometimes take me half an hour to get there, but all I could think about was the prospect of making it to America. Up the stairs, through the corridors, I’d stop in front of the board and read the name of every person on the list to make certain I didn’t miss mine. On March 7, 1994, I headed up those steps and scanned that board like any other day, poring over dozens of names, when my heart leaped into my throat. There it was: GABRIEL GER THABACH DUANY. My name. Typed up on an old-school typewriter. I spelled it out in my head again and again, making sure I’d read it right. But I had. It felt, I imagine, like winning a Mega Millions lottery. I’m not sure when I started breathing or walking again, but I somehow made it home, dazed and dreaming of how my life would change. How everything would now be better. How there would be food, and money, and education, and opportunity there for the taking. How I could put war behind me. How the battles I fought, inside and out, would end, and I would have peace. Finally, there would be peace.

Within three days, we were relocated to a camp in Ruiru for our medical checks. I couldn’t sleep at night with all the adrenaline pulsing through my body, penetrating my soul. I would finally step foot on American soil. And then the guilt and sadness set in. What would happen to my family? How could I be happy when I’d be leaving them behind—the people who loved me and fought for me. Even died for me. Would I see them again in this lifetime if I crossed the Mediterranean Sea, if I traversed the Atlantic? Was I ungrateful in wanting to leave?

As I drifted off, Oder appeared in my mind, insisting that I make something of myself. I whispered aloud, “Why not risk it all? What’s the worst thing that could happen if I go? I already know what will happen if I stay.” And then I thought about what Nyakuar told me as we parted ways and said our good-byes: There’s nowhere in this world where people don’t die. Words to live by. She told me, Go find yourself some opportunity in a strange land. That advice keeps me going to this day.

The night before we left for the States, Lual came by with a package.

LUAL: This is for you, so you can fit in as soon as you arrive. That is, if your dark skin and eight-foot-tall height don’t give you away first.

I unwrapped the stiff brown paper and found a pair of blue jeans inside! They were his old but still good-looking Levi’s, with a sewed-on patch of the American flag. I pulled off my shorts and tried them on right away. Instantly I was filled with excitement. I decided to sleep in my new jeans for two reasons: one, so I would be certain not to forget them, and two, so I’d arrive in America already looking the part.

Once at Jomo Kenyatta International Airport in Nairobi, we went through immigration and proceeded to join other passengers in the waiting area. When it was time to board, we walked toward a plane that appeared big enough to transport an entire village of hundreds of people. I never imagined airplanes, which looked like small birds as they passed over our heads, could be this enormous. We ascended the metal stairs, and the moment we got inside, I started shivering, my skin bubbling up with goose pimples from the steep drop in temperature. The entire interior was smooth, and the flight attendants showed us to our seats. None of us had any idea what to do with the little screens in front of us.

I tried to keep my composure and didn’t dare touch a thing. I didn’t want to risk messing things up and getting thrown off our flight. America now seemed like a real place, both so close I could feel its energy in my bones and so far away: one slipup or tap on the shoulder from a soldier could end my dream—my life—in an instant.

Our plane was bursting with Sudanese, Somalis, and Ethiopians, each one of whom looked as lost as we were. Most likely refugees like ourselves.

ANNOUNCEMENT: Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard Lufthansa flight 598, with service from Nairobi to Frankfurt. We ask that you fasten your seat belts at this time and secure your baggage underneath your seat or in the overhead compartment. Thank you for choosing Lufthansa German Airlines. Enjoy your flight!

Men and women dressed in uniforms walked the aisle, checking that everyone had belted up and that the luggage compartment was locked. After a few more announcements from the faceless voice, the plane started moving, and I felt a mixture of joy and sadness.

ME: Oh, God, may we travel to this new foreign land peacefully, and may our friends in camps follow us in peace. Amen-Rah.

I thought of my mother, brothers, and sisters in Akobo. I promised myself I would never forget where I came from, and that once I made it in America, I would come back home and uplift my family.

In a bit, the wheels of the mammoth bird moved across the tarmac, and as it gained momentum, it catapulted us through time and space to another world, our fate no longer in our own hands.

I looked around and saw other passengers relaxed into their seats, and decided to do just as they did. I stretched my legs, laid my head back, and tried to enjoy the ride, though the adrenaline rush, mixed with nervousness, was not cooperating. I saw clouds in close proximity and wondered whether this was what they meant in our Bible school classes when they said a cloud took Jesus up out of sight, toward heaven. I wondered if maybe America was closer to heaven, given that Sudan, with all the hunger and suffering, would logically have to be much farther away.

FLIGHT ATTENDANT: Hello, sir. We are serving curried beef for dinner tonight.

The thought of being served a meal by a white person blew my mind. At Ifo, they had been demigods in our eyes, working for the United Nations and having the power to change our lives with a mere stroke of the pen. I imagined these hostesses either owned this airplane or were highly paid employees of the United Nations, tasked with transporting us to America.

The food, packaged in tiny portions, looked strange. I slowly opened each pack, and the only two things that looked familiar were milk and meat, but I couldn’t understand why it was packed in such tiny quantities. Everyone around me was busy eating, and so I followed suit. Then, with help, I made my seat recline, and I closed my eyes to enjoy an unusually unburdened slumber.

First stop: Frankfurt.

We were all commanded to get off the plane. I was used to the fits and starts, detours and zigzags that came with travel and, more specifically, fleeing to safety. So we created yet another kind of caravan of people and trekked from one side of the airport to the other in order to get to our next gate. It was on this excursion that I witnessed one of the most astonishing sights I had ever seen in my life: the escalator. It scared virtually every last one of us.

PAUL: Stay calm. Calm down. Put one foot on the flat surface and get your other foot on it right after. Watch. Like this.

He rode up the escalator, then came back down again, to show us how it was done and to give the first child the courage to take the leap of faith. Then came my turn.

PAUL: Do not panic, Ger. It is easier than it appears. You will enjoy it once you’re on it.

That escalator ride convinced me we were in the vicinity of heaven, since I couldn’t understand how this could be a part of people’s everyday lives. I couldn’t see dust or dirt anywhere, not a single tree or even a bird, yet I could see my reflection almost everywhere I looked. The idea of heaven was unfolding right in front of my eyes. We got to a waiting area where all kinds of people were moving in and out. Screens with words and images running up and down littered the walls, and my little education at the refugee camps couldn’t come to my aid. In time, we heard it—a name I recognized since Paul had said it’d be our first stop in America.

ANNOUNCEMENT: Now boarding on Delta: Frankfurt to New York.

The airplane was as huge as the one we had boarded from Nairobi, and everything inside looked similar. Now that I had been on an airplane before, I decided that I wouldn’t show my naivete again. I feigned confidence as I went up the stairs to board, and once inside, I acted nonchalant.

On the other hand, Both, Paul’s younger brother, couldn’t hide his fascination. I was waiting for the moment he would touch something and mess it up, but before that happened, I drifted off once more. At the tail end of another extended nap, I sensed the plane descending and opened my eyes as its wheels touched the runway at JFK International Airport. On the other side of the porthole window was a sea of lights a hundred times the candescence of those I’d glimpsed in Nairobi. When we entered the terminal from the Jetway, I stopped in my tracks. Here was the largest number of people I’d ever witnessed in one place, people of different nationalities pulling suitcases every which way. Paul spun in a circle, trying to locate our connecting flight, then did a quick, silent head count of our group.

PAUL: Where is Both? Ger, Nyakume, where is Both?

Paul got anxious and angry. Intent on not losing anyone else, we searched for him as a group for close to half an hour, after which he emerged from the lavatory. Paul yanked him to his side and gave him and us a quick dressing-down.

PAUL: Next time any of you sees fit to run off, keep running.

We had a connecting flight to make but didn’t know how to find it, and no one was able to help us when we asked. Finally, Paul handed someone our tickets.

PAUL: Dess Moh-ee-ness?

The gentleman took one look, checked the airport screens, and spotted our flight.

GENTLEMAN: That one right there. To Des Moines, Iowa.

Paul had been mispronouncing the name, leaving everyone else he’d asked confused.

PAUL: Thank you.

We rushed to the boarding gate, got helped into the plane by airport staffers, and were off on our last leg to our final destination. For now.