NOTE: This is part of a continuing online novel. Here is the Table of Contents.

The America Diaspora is a sequel to The Chinese Century.

The survival of Virgin Maverick was celebrated long into the night.

But we knew we were far from being out of the woods.

Americans were still coming in. Most major consulting firms had opened branch offices in Johannesburg. Witwatersrand University was being bombarded with requests from major American institutions, who wanted some way to maintain contact with faculty who were determined to leave Bush’s America.

America’s mistakes were our salvation. Bush had re-packed the courts with religious fanatics, gained total control of the means to count votes, burst the real estate bubble to reveal the hollowness of the economy, and found himself forced nearly to rule by decree over a restive population.

Dr. Richard Florida’s prediction, that the Creative Class could actually leave America, that it was indeed mobile, was coming true. And we were the prime beneficiaries.

But all was not bliss. Cyril Ramphosa represented a good chunk of black opinion, and our endorsement by Moeletsi Mbeki did not guarantee clear sailing. Thabo’s refusal to condemn Zimbabwe, his continuing ignorance of the AIDS crisis, and the ANC’s governing style all spelled trouble.

Newcomers were not finding a land of milk and honey. There was resentment about high real estate prices, even among those who now had jobs building new houses. Some felt displaced from the new Virgin Maverick Central Business District, comparing it to Sandton and other Boer enclaves.

Then there was the common attitude toward the environment, that it existed only to fill the belly and the purse. Our people were distressed by events like Botswana’s move against its Bushmen, and private hunting parks which brought in great animals only to make trophies of them.

Robin was especially distressed. There was a lot here to distress her.

In Atlanta, she would be finishing her junior year of high school, preparing to apply for college, and part of a winning Robotics team. She would have had her prom, and have transformed into a beautiful, caring young woman with a mission, to help animals however she could.

Now she was in a strange city, in a strange country, and because the seasons here were backward she was re-doing 11th grade, in a cramped atmosphere dominated by technology rather than human contact. Virgin Maverick had chartered a small American School for its newcomers, and I had immediately enrolled her there. I even saw a good side in her repeating her junior year, because she’d been late to reading and could now go forward with more confidence.

But there wasn’t any confidence. Because then there was the plight of the animals.

Americans romanticize the African experience. We see it as the last refuge of the wild. But that refuge is being systematically destroyed, by hunger and by greed. Animals here are being herded into ever-shrinking reservations like Kruger Park, and even here they are not safe. There are poachers, who kill them for money, and tribal members who kill them for food or to walk back in time among their ancestors.

And then there are the domestic animals.

I drove Robin down to Alberton, to the offices of the NSPCA. The authority of the NSCPA was established under law in 1993, I explained. In Georgia, you couldn’t be an Animal Cop, but here you may become one.

There was much excitement when we arrived. The government was debating a new policy on large predators and the NSPCA was very unhappy with the result. A PDF statement had been issued but whether the government would listen to the concerns of the animals was an open question.

Because of my fame here I was able to get a brief meeting with Christine Kuch, the NSPCA national director who frequently acts as the group’s spokesman. I asked about volunteer opportunities, explained that Robin wished to make her life in this area. She looked at Robin, and Robin looked away. I looked at Robin and nudged her a bit. Robin asked a question. Ms. Kuch answered it. Robin nodded, then looked to me as though saying, I did what you asked, now take me home.

An assistant showed us around, but there was not much to see. The NSPCA’s work isn’t done in its national office, but in over 100 branches around the country, some of them direct affiliates, others linked to other organizations. There’s a JSPCA in Johannesburg , she said. I asked if she could give Robin some sort of recommendation. She gave me two names, Mike French and Jane Barnes, but she warned us that links between the NSPCA and affiliates are fairly weak.

So we took another drive, this time to Benray Road in Reuven. Here we found Ms. Barnes absorbed in her own problems, namely the coming adoption, on May 30, of new bylaws covering the treatment of wild and domestic animals. Like Ms. Kuch, she too was troubled, because cruelty was becoming harder to prove, custody of abused animals harder to come by. And of course there were immense worries about money.

Once more Robin was quiet, shy, pensive, polite to the point of withdrawal. But when we went back “home,” to our apartment in the Sun Building where we would be until we settled on a new home, she grew increasingly excited.

“I have an idea,” I suggested. “Could Virgin Maverick launch its own SPCA chapter?” I decided to pursue the idea online, and she agreed to help. At least one kid seemed to have a purpose.

Our son would be another matter. While Robin had gone backwards, to 11th grade, John had been advanced up to 9th. But he had lost his summer vacation, and was completely at sea in the new culture surrounding him.

I meant to talk with a teacher about him, but when Robin and I returned I found they’d been in touch with me. And they were not happy.

John is brilliant. He is also argumentative, certain of himself, completely disorganized and oppositional. While Robin’s female ADD leaves her with dyslexia, diffidence, and difficulty explaining anything simply, John’s male form of the condition leaves him angry and uncoordinated, as his father was. He had played soccer in Atlanta, but increasingly poorly, and showed no interest in any other exercise. Left to himself he played video games, or read, and ate. Despite growing six inches in a year he still edged toward pudginess.

The note was accompanied by an angry teenager. John began growing his hair out this year. It’s red, ringletted and alternates between framing his face like an “anglo” (when it’s dry) to hanging down toward his chest like a Medusa (when it’s dirty). He wears glasses and a perpetual near-scowl, waiting for you to knock the chip off his shoulder.

“They won’t listen to me,” he said.

I looked at the note. He had been disruptive. He had been removed from the class. He had online assignments, but would not be allowed back in the classroom until he straightened up.

“I don’t want to go to school,” he added.

“You can’t live alone,” I said. “You need to be around people.”

“Why? You didn’t see anyone until you came here. You went from the YMCA to your desk, drove us to practices, you rode your bike alone. The only people you saw for more than a moment were us and Mom. Of course you can live alone.”

This was his style. Deny everything, attack the accuser. And in this case he was right. My life in Atlanta was monastic. So was Jenni’s. We liked our lives.

“Well, I was wrong, and I don’t want you making the same mistakes,” I said finally. “Just because I did something, just because I act in some way, doesn’t mean you have to.”

“What if I want to? Don’t I have a right to my own life?”

I sighed. “When you leave here, of course you do. Until then, we’re responsible. And we want you to grow up as part of a community.”

His eyes took me in, looking for a sign of weakness. When I finished, he pounced. “I want to go back home,” he said. “I don’t belong here. I belong in America, with my friends.”

I could have said “what friends,” because he was as much trouble to be with there as anywhere, but instead I just said, “It’s impossible. I wish it were possible but it’s just not. We’re here now, we’re staying here, and we all have to make the best of it.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I didn’t either, at first. Robin has had a hard time. Jenni didn’t want to come here. You just have to find something that interests you. You can learn languages or programming or…I know you loved history back home, why don’t you start studying South African history?”

He was still defiant, but at least he looked interested.

“Tell you what,” I added. “We need a new place to live. We can’t stay in this little apartment forever. Why don’t you learn all you can about Johannesburg, its people and its neighborhoods, its history and its culture, and help us find a place where we’ll be happy. How does that sound?”

And he looked a little more interested.