Never lighthearted, my African political exile friend sounded particularly lugubrious on the line from Washington. His voice was low and pensive. For the past few months, he said, he’d been hearing of plans hatched by the regime back home for his assassination. ‘They are very gruesome, very gruesome indeed.’
It was not the first time. In the past he’d always passed the details on to the FBI, which had also called him up several times when they thought he was in danger. This time he hadn’t bothered. ‘I always ask them: ‘What are you doing to protect me?’ and they say, ‘Well, if you see anything suspicious, call 911.’ I’ve come to the conclusion that the people here, or the people in your place, honestly don’t care about our lives.’
I’ve had similar conversations with rather too many of his haunted fellow nationals, dissidents convinced that fleeing the country of their birth has done little to guarantee protection from an African government they dared to challenge.
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