marvin rogers

They run toward me as I enter their steamy three bedroom apartment. I am hugged like I haven't been hugged in months, first by the mother, Annie, and then by three children at once. Without thinking, the words "hello family" slip from my mouth. Applying this intimate word to them comes natural. It's no surprise a pot of spicy, red African soup sits on the stove. Fufu is nearby in bowls, risen and ready for consumption. The living room is clean. I've never seen the living room this clean. I hug the father, Moses, and sit down to ask him about the family. He proudly hands me folded sheets of paper. I unfold them and quickly realize their value. The papers are the results of a paternity test that prove Moses is a 99 plus percent match to a girl living in Africa named Helena.

Moses, his wife and their five children haven't seen Helena since four years ago, when they left Côte d'Ivoire after fleeing Liberia. She was separated from her family in a refugee camp when she was Moses' little girl. Now she's a woman and mother. Her son of almost a year cannot come with her to the United States. Helena's name is the only name on the papers. She has been granted a one year travel certificate, and she'll arrive in Missouri this month, if all goes as planned. Marvin Rogers is the name of the son she'll leave behind in Annie's sister's care. Moses chuckles and tells me Helena's son was named after a member of the church that brought them to the United States. I wonder how many Liberian boys live in Côte d'Ivoire with the name Marvin Rogers. I wonder if Marvin Rogers will ever get to meet his namesake.