Fear and Loathing in Immigrant America
A house full of hustling outsiders turns on one of their own.
WASHINGTON—In a creaky rowhouse on the edge of D.C., where the air smells of curry and desperation, Mustafa from Ivory Coast is trying to keep his head above water. He’s got a laugh like a warm hearth, but his eyes are red-rimmed, darting like a cornered animal. He’s here on an F-1 visa, chasing a doctor’s coat, but the dream’s fraying at the seams. Tuition’s bleeding his family dry—$4,000 a semester, a fortune when your folks back home scrape by on $228 a month. They’re pooling every cent, betting it all on him, and he’s drowning in the weight of it.
Mustafa’s university was a bust—wrong fit, wrong vibe—so he transferred to another, clinging to legal status. But the new school’s got rules: wait a semester, keep a 3.2 GPA, then maybe you’ll get a $10-an-hour gig. Until then? He’s got $415 to his name. Rent in D.C. laughs at that. So he leans on a church, bouncing between strangers’ couches, until he meets Christopher, another Ivorian, at a cattle-call for 15 university jobs swarmed by hundreds of international students.
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Christopher’s a big-hearted dreamer, fresh in America, married back home, with plans to be a businessman. Back in Ivory Coast, he ran an NGO for kids, so he’s got a soft spot for strays like Mustafa. He offers him a room in his apartment, a cramped spot shared with eight other immigrants—students, workers, all hustling to stay afloat. There’s an empty downstairs bedroom; nobody’s using it. “Just a few days,” Christopher says, not asking the roommates. Mustafa moves in, grateful, his luggage tucked neat, his smile wide.
The house hums at first. In the kitchen, someone’s frying plantains, another’s chopping onions, and Mustafa’s welcomed like a cousin. But days stretch to a week, then two. He’s eating their food, using their bathroom, taking long showers that steam up the mornings and piss off the early risers. Nobody says much—until a Turkish guy shows up at midnight, claiming the downstairs room. Mustafa’s sprawled there, clueless. The house wakes up, and Christopher’s caught, stammering out Mustafa’s story.
The vibe sours fast. The Turkish guy bolts, spooked by the chaos. Upstairs, two roommates fume over Mustafa’s showers clogging their routine. They snitch to the landlord: There’s a guy here, causing trouble. The landlord texts Christopher: He’s got till Wednesday. Christopher’s gut twists, but he can’t bring himself to kick Mustafa out. Mustafa stays, feeling the glares, his $115 dwindling, banking on June when the semester starts. He’s sure he’ll be fine. The roommates aren’t.
In the backyard, cigarette smoke curls as a Pakistani guy vents. “I bust my ass for rent, and this guy’s freeloading? Sell his damn laptop!” An Indian roommate nods, muttering about Mustafa using his stuff. “I’m not racist,” he says, voice low, “but I’m starting to hate Africans.” The house splits—some see Mustafa’s struggle, others smell a scam. Whispers grow: Is he even legal? “Bet he just got into school to sneak into America,” one says. “Now he’s stalling, figuring out how to stay.” The Africans aren’t around when the real venom spills. “Call ICE,” a guy snaps. Gasps follow. “You crazy? ICE’ll screw us all, legal or not.”
Trump’s second term looms like a storm cloud—deportation sweeps, visa crackdowns, anti-immigrant rhetoric cranked to eleven. The economy’s tanking, jobs are scarce, and every immigrant’s in a foxhole, scrapping for survival. A house meeting’s called, rare and tense. “We gotta stick together,” one pleads, but it’s hollow. Cultural rifts widen—some shrug, “I’ve been there, didn’t beg,” while others see Mustafa’s red eyes and wonder who’s gaming who.
Mustafa’s still there, past Wednesday, a ghost in a house turning on itself. Christopher’s trapped, torn between loyalty and the mob. Outside, the city grinds on, indifferent. In Trump’s America, the walls are closing in, and immigrants like Mustafa aren’t just fighting for a room—they’re fighting a country that doesn’t want them. And in this house, where hope used to cook alongside dinner, they’re tearing each other apart to survive.
Editor’s Note: Real names and ethnicities have been changed to protect the identities of the those who were interviewed and written about.