Janet Greenwood called Omadi at the intercom in his room to 
find out how he was doing. She had taken it upon herself to help him. 
She was fascinated with the idea that he left a wife, and three 
children to come to America, and pursue this dream of a higher 
education. She found Omadi’s situation to be very unusual, an encounter 
she had not experienced for the last ten years that she was the 
director of International students. Most of the international students 
who came to the school were form wealthy Arab countries in the Middle 
East, and also from upper and middle class families in Asia. Omadi was 
a kind of enigma to her. She tried everything she could to make life 
less miserable for him on campus. When she noticed that Omadi was 
deeply depressed, she arranged for him to see one of the school’s 
counselors. She harbored this fear that Omadi might be too distraught 
to harm himself.

        When Omadi started to attend his classes he did not have the 
money to buy his books. He developed a habit of befriending his wealthy 
classmates so that he could share and borrow their books. When his 
English teacher observed that he was always sharing a book with his 
Indonesian classmate, she told him to try and get a book of his own.

        “There is no way you can learn in this class if you don’t have a 
book of your own,” the teacher chided Omadi.

        Omadi felt so embarrassed that the teacher rebuked him in front 
of the whole class. He was determined not to go back to her class until 
he could get a book of his own. With his earnings from the Marina 
dinning hall, where he worked as a student waitress, he bought all his 
English books. Notwithstanding, the teacher mentioned Omadi's problem 
of not having books in her class to Janet Greenwood, when the two met 
at the faculty dinning hall for lunch.

        “One of your teachers told me that you are not having the books 
you need in class,” Janet told Omadi, when she saw him later that week. 
Omadi knew that it was the English teacher who told her.

         One day Janet called Omadi to her office. Not only did she 
wanted  to know how he was doing, but she also wanted to give him a 
free ticket to attend the International student’s festival at the 
university’s gymnasium. The International student’s festival, she told 
Omadi, was a yearly event in which all the international students 
organized cultural activities from their home countries. There were 
different cultural foods on sale, different cultural dancing from the 
different countries that were represented, as well as a competition for 
the best cultural dress of the evening. It was a very big event for the 
university community, well attended by students, lecturers and 
administrators. While Janet was discussing this event with Omadi, her 
assistant Dawn, entered the office.

       Dawn was a ravishing brunette; she had a slender body, piercing 
blue eyes, and was in her late twenties. She had an infectious smile 
that buoyed Omadi’s spirits.

      “Why don’t we hook up Omadi to Mr. Winfrey” Janet said, 
offhandedly.

     “I guess we should,” Dawn replied.

      “Call him up and inform him that we have an African student who is 
now in the school,” Janet told Dawn. She then turned to Omadi and said:

         “Mr. Winfrey is a very important man. He is an African American 
executive who is interested in an African student as part of the 
University’s family hospitality program. The program matches foreign 
students with members of the professional and business community within 
the area, who help the students to acclimatize. I am going to give you 
Mr. Winfrey’s number. Call him.”

           Janet gave Omadi Mr. Winfrey’s number. Unknowingly, she had 
facilitated a process that had far reaching consequences in shaping 
Omadi’s academic pursuits. Mr. Winfrey became very instrumental in 
Omadi’s quest for higher education. He vigorously pursued the 
possibilities of obtaining a tuition scholarship for him at the 
university, when the prospects of continuing his education became 
hopelessly remote.

          Omadi called Mr. Winfrey the following day at noon. His 
secretary answered the phone and told him that he was out for lunch. He 
should call again at 2 p.m. When Omadi called again, Mr. Winfrey picked 
up the phone.

          “Winfrey,” the voice on the other end said.

          “Is that Mr. Winfrey?” Omadi asked.

          “Speaking,” he replied.

           “I am an African Student at the University of ,,, and the 
Director of International students, Janet Greenwood gave me your number 
to call,” Omadi said.

          “That is right,” Mr. Winfrey said.  “She called me. Let me 
talk to my wife and I will get back to you. We will arrange to have you 
spend the weekend with us. Is there a number where I can reach you?”

          “There is a pay phone booth across the lobby on the first 
floor of my dormitory,” Omadi said. “You can call me on that number. 
Let me give you the number.”

         The next day Mr. Winfrey called Omadi. The security guard who 
was on duty answered the phone. Mr. Winfrey gave him Omadi’s room 
number and kindly asked that he called him to the phone. Five minutes 
later Omadi came to the phone.

          “Listen,” Mr. Winfrey told Omadi. “I have talked to my wife, 
and we will pick you up tomorrow at 5.00 p.m.”

        “ I will wait outside,” Omadi said. Tomorrow would be on a 
Friday, and Omadi was just excited to get out of the residence hall.

        The next day at exactly 5.00 p.m. a brown Jaguar screeched to a 
halt in front of the Bodine hall. An African American man, impeccably 
dressed in a light blue suit, tall, light skinned and awesomely 
handsome, slowly got out of the car. He was in his late fifties or 
early sixties. He had a broad smile on his face, and an appealing 
gesture that put Omadi at ease. Looking at him, he knew instinctively 
that he was Mr. Winfrey.

          “He is a very important man; an African American executive,” 
Omadi remember Janet telling him.

         Mr Winfery got out of his car, and walked up to Omadi where he 
was standing at the bottom of the stairs. He was the only person 
around.

          “You must be Omadi?” Mr. Winfrey said, offering his hand for a 
handshake.

          “Yes, I am,” Omadi replied.

            “Mr. Winfrey. I talked to you yesterday,” Mr. Winfrey said. 
“Come on, let’s get to the car.”

             Omadi walked with Mr. Winfrey to his car. A white woman, 
with a blonde hair, was sitting in the front seat of the car. She 
opened the door, got out of the car,  and greeted Omadi excitedly.

         “This is my wife, Vivian,” Mr. Winfrey said.

             Vivian Winfrey was an elegant and attractive woman in her 
middle fifties. She was of  medium height, had a slim waist, and was 
remarkably dressed. She had blue inquisitive eyes and a penchant for 
asking too many questions.

           As soon as the car pulled off the curb, Vivian Winfrey 
started the conversation. She was a very amicable person and wanted to 
know everything.

          “We have bought a map of Africa,” she told Omadi. “We have 
located the Gambia on the map. It looks like a very small country, the 
size of Rhode Island.”

           “It is indeed a very small country,” Omadi said.

            “We are going to a seafood restaurant in Milford,” Mr. 
Winfrey told Omadi. “We go to this restaurant occasionally to eat.”

           There was a light rainfall, and the traffic on the I-95 going 
north was heavy. Everybody was rushing to get home from work.

           “How did you like it here so far?” Vivian Winfrey asked 
Omadi.  “It is much different from home.”

           “Yes, it is much different,” Omadi said. “A little bit lonely 
at times.”

           “You will get used to it. What kinds of vegetables do you 
have in The Gambia?” Vivian Winfrey asked.

           “I guess the same kinds of vegetables that are here,” Omadi 
replied. “But I don’t think we have Broccoli.”

           “People eat a lot of Broccoli here,” Vivian said. “We eat a 
lot of Broccoli in our house.”

           “I heard the interview in which the President said he did not 
like Broccoli,” Omadi said. “He said he was forced to eat Broccoli, but 
now that he was the president he was not going to eat any more  
Broccoli.”

            “You heard that interview?” Vivian asked. “I wonder if the 
first lady Barbara Bush likes Broccoli.”

            “We would one day like to visit Africa. My husband is dying 
to go to Africa. We will come and visit when you go back home,” Vivian 
said.

          “It would be my pleasure to welcome you,” Omadi said.

           “What language do you speak besides English?” Mr. Winfrey 
asked. “Your English is very fluent.”

          “The official language in The Gambia is English,” Omadi said. 
“We were colonized by the British. There are many other local 
languages, but I speak Wollof and a little bit Mandinka..”

           Mr. Winfrey drove the car into the parking lot of the 
restaurant. The restaurant was small and sat comfortably near the 
waterfront. The walls inside the restaurant had a beautiful woodwork 
with images of fishes and other seafood. The chairs and tables were all 
wooden. They also served salad on wooden bowls. The atmosphere had a 
middle class appeal and the guests were professionally attired.

         “Hello! Mr. Winfrey, good to see you today. Hello! Mrs. 
Winfrey, good to see you too. A table for two and of course non 
smoking,” the owner of the restaurant greeted them.

         “Charlie, I have a guest today,” Mr. Winfrey said.  “This is 
Omadi. He is from Africa, The Gambia.”  Mr. Winfrey was beaming as he 
introduced Omadi to the restaurant owner.

         Mr. Winfrey had this burning desire to associate himself with 
everything African. He considered himself as an African who was born in 
America. He bought all kinds of books about Africa, its culture and its 
   peoples. He even organized an African party in his residence and 
invited all his white friends. He hired an African cultural group in 
New Haven that did the drumming and dancing. On this day he proudly 
donned the African garb that Omadi gave him as a present.

         “Hello! Please to meet you,” the restaurant owner greeted 
Omadi. He shook Omadi's hand. “I have a table for you folks.”  He led 
the party to their table. A waiter came shortly after to take their 
orders.

        “What would you have?” Mr. Winfrey asked Omadi. “They have steak 
with boiled potatoes, they have lobsters and shrimps, and they also 
have grilled fish and chips. I think I will have the grilled fish and 
chips.”

        “I will have that too,” Omadi said.

          “That is good,” Mr. Winfrey said. “What do you want to have, 
darling?”

         “I will have the lobster and boiled potatoes,” Vivian said.

         First came the salad in those wooden bowls for the appetizer, 
and while they waited for the main orders chatted animatedly.

          “I understand you have three kids,” Vivian said to Omadi. “How 
old are they?”

          “My oldest daughter is nine, my son is four and my little 
daughter is about a year old,” Omadi replied.

          “We also have three kids,” Vivian said. “The oldest is an 
entertainment lawyer; the second is an engineer and the last one is a 
pilot.”

           “But they don’t look like her,” Mr. Winfrey interjected. 
“They look very much like me.”

          “The kids belonged to his first wife,” Vivian said. “Those 
children are terrific.”

          Vivian told Omadi that Mr. Winfrey’s ex-wife, the mother of 
his three adorable children, was a black college professor who taught 
at the State University of New York.

         “How did you meet your wife?” Vivian asked Omadi.

           “It was arranged by her older brother who was my friend and 
classmate,” Omadi said. “Our families live in close proximity to each 
other. We all lived in the same street in Banjul.”

           “Do you want to tell him, darling, how we meet?” Mr. Winfrey 
quipped. “She was my neighbor when I was living in Queens,  which is a 
borough in New York.”  They both laughed heartily.

            Vivian Winfrey married Mr. Winfrey a year after she was 
divorced from her ten years marriage to a white American businessman. 
She was born in England, where she attended both public and private 
schools. She held positions as Executive Secretary with few  
corporations in London. She moved to America where she met her first 
husband and became an American citizen five years after her marriage. 
She held a Bachelor of Arts degree, and sat in the board of various 
non-profit organizations, corporations, and foundations.

          Mr. Winfrey was born in the South. He was brought up in a 
strict moral and religious environment. He inculcated the virtues of 
kindness, respect and a deep love for people. A very unassuming man, 
Mr. Winfrey was humble and caring. He graduated from Lincoln 
University, and became a company executive rising to the position of a 
vice president. He served as chairman and board member in various 
corporations and non-profit organizations. He also had a distinguished 
military career serving in the war in Vietnam. Mr. Winfrey was the 
epitome of a black person who succeeded in America.

         “Are we all set?” Mr. Winfrey asked. “We have to get going now. 
Let’s get our coats.”

         Mr. Winfrey left a hefty tip on the table for the waiter. He 
led Omadi and Mrs. Winfrey out of the restaurant and to the parking 
lot...


    Rene


                                                                   *

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