First Prize: The Lottery
by Tomi, Nigeria/America, Age 17

We meet the Abimbgolas at Dave's Supermarket. Mom is trying to decide between 1% milk or 2% when she sees them out of the corner of her eye. Milton is a predominately white town so any black person sticks out like a sore thumb. With Nigerians it is even more so. We talk loudly with a heavy accent. Our skin is the color of dark chocolate, as opposed to the caramels and mochas of the African-American. And we tend to wear the most hideous American fashions, baggy black jeans, neon-colored t-shirts and red Nikes.

Mrs. Abimbgola is wheeling the shopping cart slowly down the Exotic Spices aisle, while her three little boys run after each other.

"Wait here," Mom whispers to me and she dumps the plastic bottles of milk in my arms and runs off to meet Mrs. Abimbgola.

I scowl. I hate it when my mom gets like this. She feels like she has to make herself known to every single Nigerian she meets.

Mrs. Abimbgola's eyes widen in surprise as Mom introduces herself. Her voice soars over the tinny supermarket music as she answers in her thick Nigerian accent, "Yes we are Nigerians. We moved here two months ago." Several customers stop and stare. I feel my face burn. The two talk for several minutes. When Mom finally leaves, she has Mrs. Abimbgola's address and phone number.

The next thing I know, it's a Saturday afternoon and we're driving to the Abimbgolas' apartment in the inner city. The back seat is piled high full of my old toys, balls, books and stuffed animals. I can't understand why my mom is being so generous. It's not typical Nigerian nature. If you see a beggar on the side of the road in Lagos, you walk past him and mind your own business. You never know if he might be a magician in disguise, planning to turn you into a pile of yams.

I sigh. Because of this latest whim, I have to sacrifice a sleepover I have been planning to go to for months.

"Here we are." Mom says and she parks the car.

"This is it?" I ask, surprised. I've been so busy fuming with anger that I haven't noticed my surroundings.  The building is a shabby duplex. The paint is peeling off; one of the windows has no screen. Part of the fence is missing. We enter the cement courtyard. The three little boys are playing soccer with an empty Budweiser beer can. I glance at Mom to see her reaction.

"Good afternoon boys," she says, smiling.

The three boys stop playing and kneel. "Good afternoon, Ma," they chorus. I know what my mom is thinking. How well trained these little boys are! Why can't Fumilayo behave like them?

"Fumi, go get the box of toys from the car." Mom says. She hands me the keys.

I carry the box into the courtyard. The boys watch, wide-eyed. You'd think they'd never seen toys before.  As I place the box on the ground, I'm suddenly surrounded. At my nod, they dig their dirty hands into the box, pulling out Matchbox cars, G.I. Joes and brightly colored soccer balls. As they shout and exclaim in Yoruba, I look around at the rusting fence and the litter strewn about the street.

Meanwhile, Mom and Mrs. Abimbgola talk and talk and talk. Their voices reverberate off the courtyard walls. Mrs. Abimbgola forces us to stay for lunch. Lunch is genuine garri and beans bought from a busy Lagos marketplace.

After lunch, we say our goodbyes, get into the car and drive away.  I'm silent on the way home. I stare at the raindrops that splash onto the glass, turning the world into a blur of shapes and colors. Mom's chatting away, I barely hear her. Then, my ears perk up.

"What did you say?" I ask.

Mom stares at me. She's surprised that I am listening.

"I said that they won the visa lottery."

"The visa lottery?" I ask again. The image of a man in a tux announcing "the winning family" becomes poignant and then fades away.

Mom is still talking. "It's tough for them here. Yemi says that they were better off in Nigeria. They had a house and a car. Now Olu, her husband, doesn't have a job. He's back in Kano trying to scrape up some money to support the family." She shakes her head.

"But why did they move here, if they were better off in Nigeria?" I ask.

"Better education for the boys. The same reason we moved here." Mom answers. "Remember Fumi, America is a land of opportunities. You've got to work hard. You can't afford to slack off ..." And Mom goes off on one of her never-ending lectures about working hard and how success is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration and so on.

As she talks, I think back to what she said about the visa lottery. I think about the Abimbgolas' decrepit apartment and of the little boys playing soccer with the empty beer can. Isn't winning a lottery supposed to be a good thing?