Ishsoph: Jake the only challenge am having with ur story remain dates, seasons and years. These strengthens the vividness and persuasiveness in connecting dots left unattainded. For example u make it sound like u left Africa same year the rebels invaded Liberia but many months later. Now my question is how com Nick had been in Las Palmas for some two years before ur arrival(considering that he already had two kids or are u talking about his family in future terms)? Again u mention albeit passively that ur father happens to be late. Because this story is about ur major xperiences in life I think that such a seemingly controvercial man who stood as a centre-peice between his family and the church could hav been carried along until his demise in ur story. Instead u seem to dwell more on ur two wonderful grannies and mother. Is it because ur father died so early or what?

Ishsoph: noted, I truly value your authenticity and bravery.. unlike someone who shall not be named...she gave up on me because of a little spat with benjames--not talking about ishilove-- I will endeavor to flush out the discrepancies;though, some have already been made in the actual manuscript..

As for my father, I believe I dedicated enough paragraph on his sickness and subsequent death..keep in mind, I was not living with them when his sickness started and had just came back home months before he passed. Also, we cut off a lot of the story from the beginning in order to get the focus on me not my family..what was cut off was enough for another book.

as for nike, I thought it was clear that he has been living in las palmas for many years, number which I did not know..we met the first time when he came to earnest brown shop in salo.. and i did not have much interaction with him then( he looked down on me as i was not in their circle/level then)..next time was in palmas and that's when i eventually got to learn about him and his family..

Ishilove: in case you read this..have nothing but great respect for your intellect..just pissed on your silence

thx

Jakemond

#34,
****************
I didn’t know how long I could play this game with Nick and the other drug dealers who were expecting my goods to arrive. Time was passing by fast and I had already made several fake calls to my contacts in Africa to reassure Nick that my guys were coming with the goods and there was just a little delay. It became obvious that I had to make my next move fast, so I convinced Nick that I had to establish or legalize my stay in Spain so I could operate freely when my consignment arrived. We decided that I would go to Madrid and claim political asylum. Typically, when Africans claimed political asylum, it took two to four years for each case to be adjudicated. While the process was in motion, the asylum seeker was given an identification card that allowed him to stay in the country until his case was completed.
About two weeks after my group went back to Africa, Nick helped me buy a one-way ticket to Madrid. The day before my departure, I called my cousin Ike, telling him that I would mail my passport to him and that he should keep it for me. I also told him that it seemed like I would not be returning to Nigeria, since I was not repatriated upon entry and I had been living in Las Palmas for almost three weeks. I asked him to return all the money I had given him to my mother, so she could use it to sustain the family while I struggled to establish myself in Europe. Ike agreed and I mailed my passport to him later that day.
The next day, I packed my few belongings and tried to dress in hip-hop style, with sagging pants and earphones on my head. Apparently, the mainland immigration always observed passengers coming from the Canary Islands and could easily repatriate any illegal migrants. Even though it was a national flight and there were no immigration checks, I tried as much as possible to dress in a manner that wouldn’t raise suspicion.
A few days before my departure, Nick had called a friend of his in Madrid, asking him if I could stay at his place for a few days. As usual, he told the guy that I was a big-time dealer and that my consignment was on the way, and he would be rewarded if he agreed to house me. Nick’s friend had once been one of the big dealers in Madrid. He was pleased to know that I was a dealer and immediately agreed to accommodate me. He gave me his address and phone number, and told Nick that he couldn’t come pick me up at the airport because he was under surveillance.
When I arrived in Madrid that night, I had no problem at the airport. As soon as I got off the plane, I walked through the arrivals. The immigration officers were keeping a keen eye on the passengers, but I didn’t pay them any attention. I pretended to be listening to my music and walked right past them. I got into a taxi and gave the driver the address of Nick’s friend’s. We were there in less than forty minutes.
Nick’s friend welcomed me. He was married to a beautiful lady and they had a six-month-old child. They showed me to my room, and I immediately went to sleep and didn’t wake up until the next morning. The lady was gone—I think she had a job somewhere—and the child was wailing. Nick’s friend was locked up in another room. I was horrified to see a child crying like that, with no one to take care of him. Apparently, Nick’s friend was a junkie, unbeknownst to Nick. He spent all day and night doing cocaine and crack. He had degenerated from an important drug dealer to a junkie who was constantly under surveillance by the Spanish police, and he owed a lot people who now wanted him dead. Because he had a reputation as a big dealer, some other dealers who were unaware of his situation would give him drugs to distribute, and he would consume most of it and not return any money to the dealers.
The day after I arrived, I found out where the asylum office was, and was told that I had to spend a night queuing by the office if I wanted assistance. I couldn’t see why I had to spend a night outside in the cold, so I decided to simply wake up early the next morning and head over there. I couldn’t believe what I saw. There were hundreds of asylum seekers from different parts of the world: Africa, Asia, and South America, and I learned that some of them had been camping out there for two days. Obviously, from where I was on the queue, there was no way I would be attended to anytime soon. I made a few friends and decided to camp out with them. They were kind enough to allow me to move up to their position in line, which guaranteed that I would be attended to the next day. We stayed there the whole day, and through the cold night. If not for the bonfire, I would have frozen to death because I wasn’t wearing enough layers of clothing to stay warm.
The next day, I got into the asylum office. I told them my name was Jake Freeman and that I was originally from the Bahamas—the last thing I wanted was for them to repatriate me to Africa should they refuse to grant me asylum. Since I had no documentation that verified my true place of origin, the Spaniards would be in a dilemma and might be compelled to leave me in Spain. I told them that my mother was Liberian and I had been living with her in Liberia when the war broke out. I said I had no idea where my family was, and that I had traveled by road through Mali, Mauritania, and Morocco, and eventually to Cueta, where I took a ferry across to the mainland. The officer was touched by my story and did not interrogate me as much as was required. Immediately, my paperwork was processed and my picture taken, and I was given a card that identified me as an asylum seeker and a Bahamian, and that I was authorized to stay in Spain until my case was adjudicated.
However, the card had very specific instructions. I wasn’t allowed to work and I was assigned to one of the asylum refugee hostels. I wasn’t interested staying in the asylum camps. My goal was just to obtain a document that would allow me to move about in Spain. I exchanged contact information with the other Nigerian asylum seekers I had met, and even went to visit the hostel we were assigned. After that, I returned to Nick’s friend’s apartment.
For the next couple of days I went out every day to hang out with my new friends from the asylum camp. Even though they were not supposed to have jobs, some of them did. Some businesses preferred to hire them because they provided cheap labor and were paid under the table. Since the asylum seekers weren’t authorized to work in the first place, they dared not report the exploitation and inhumane practices of their employers.
After spending a few days at Nick’s friend’s place, I was exhausted. The situation was a nightmare. He was constantly fighting with his wife, who kept threatening to leave him and take their son with her if he didn’t seek help. She eventually left him a week after I got there. I was glad. My heart couldn’t bear the dangerous environment that their child was constantly being exposed to.
I would leave the apartment in the mornings most days. There was no sense staying home with my junkie host, who was getting tired of my presence anyway. To him, I hadn’t lived up to the hype. There was no consignment of drugs arriving; I had no money and I was living off of him. It was imperative that I come up with a plan fast. I didn’t have any money at all to buy food or use the bus or metro.
Each morning when I left Torrejón—a neighborhood in Madrid—I’d jump on the train, hoping the conductors wouldn’t catch me. I would roam around Madrid looking for work with my jobless, asylum-seeking new friends. We usually hung out at parks or plazas, where all kinds of people passed through, many of whom were tourists. Sometimes we would beg the tourists for money. In the evenings we would jump on the train again and go back to our various places of accommodation.
A few times I followed my friends to the asylum camp before going home, because each evening, when everyone was back, those who had jobs would cook a big meal and invite everyone to eat. In the camp, everyone was pretty much equal; there was no discrimination. Indians, Africans, South Americans—they all coexisted. A couple of times I was locked inside the camp and couldn’t go back to my apartment. The camp rule was that everyone had to be inside by 8 p.m., after which no one could come in or go out, and everyone had to leave the camp by 6 a.m. No one could stay there during the day. Given my precarious situation with my host, I considered moving into the camp with my friends. But the one thing that kept me from moving was that Torrejón had a United States Air Force base that was pretty close to Nick’s friend’s apartment. I always listened to the United States Air Force radio station. I enjoyed the sound of their jets taking off and landing. Each morning, before catching the metro, I would walk by and look through the fence of the base, marveling at the huge equipment and structures inside the base. I always wondered how great the United States itself would be if a base in Spain could be that beautiful. I would spend a few more minutes dreaming of going to America and becoming a part of that great country. It felt difficult to abandon Torrejón and move into the asylum camp—but my luck was about to change.
After two weeks in Madrid, I found a job with my fellow refugees in a sand-bagging factory. The job consisted of filling up five-kilogram bags with sand, which would be sold to construction companies. We got paid five cents per bag and we worked eight hours a day. One’s ability to make money depended on how fast one could fill up a bag. Some people could fill three hundred to five hundred bags a day. Working at the factory wasn’t easy. The Spanish factory owner took great delight in pitting us against each other. He instigated fights almost on a daily basis and would watch us beat each other up just for his amusement. Despite this brutality and the inhumane environment, I was grateful to have a job that could pay for my meals.
I had never been hungry before like I was in Madrid. To make matters worse, on each corner there were restaurants with outdoor tables. A few times I was so starved that I thought about grabbing the food out of people’s hands and running away. Other times I just stood and watched them eat, hoping they might offer me some food. Usually, when that didn’t happen, I would venture closer and ask them if they could give me their leftovers. The response was always “Fuera de aqui nigro, ijo de mierda.” (“Get lost, you negro son of bitch.”) Of course, I didn’t understand the language at that time. I would simply apologize, swallow my shame, and retrace my steps.
Now that I had a job, I could afford to buy my own little meal as well as pay the metro and bus fares. After being on the job for five days, I got worried one evening while returning to Torrejón. The previous night, Nick’s friend had given me an ultimatum to leave his apartment. He had woken me in the middle of the night and told me, in no uncertain terms, to leave his apartment. This was Europe, not Africa, he said, and nobody sponged or leeched in Europe; it was every man for himself. Lost in my thoughts, I bumped into a couple and was brought back to reality. I apologized and we started a conversation. I introduced myself and told the man that I lived with a friend nearby. He introduced himself as Nigel. The lady was his wife, Martha. They were both from Exeter, England, which explained their accent. Nigel was about six feet four inches while Martha was about five foot two—an odd-looking couple. They had sold their property back in England and moved to Spain two years ago. They loved living in Spain.
Nigel and Martha seemed like a lovely couple and were very nice to me. Before we said goodbye, they gave me their number and address, and told me that they had a spare room if I ever wanted to move in with them. I didn’t show my enthusiasm, though; I told them that they were very kind and I would surely get back to them if I needed a place to stay.
I was delighted by the offer. It seemed God had answered my prayers.
************
keep sending your critics cause they're very useful..will post more upon return this evening..

Ehya, poor you, watching people eat, while your own tummy was growling from hunger. *sniffs*, u've suffered no be small!

repogirl: Ehya, poor you, watching people eat, while your own tummy was growling from hunger. *sniffs*, u've suffered no be small!

me lady..it was terrible at the time..I use to think that those were the worst times in my life..but boy oh boy! how wrong I was, not even close as we are yet to find out in book#3 or better yet in this book as we go along..off to training me lady and you have a wandapru day

JAKEMOND1: #34,
************
keep sending your critics cause they're very useful..will post more upon return this evening..

You may then have to wait until evening before my analysis/criticsm.

JAKEMOND1:

Ishsoph: noted, I truly value your authenticity and bravery.. unlike someone who shall not be named...she gave up on me because of a little spat with benjames--not talking about ishilove-- I will endeavor to flush out the discrepancies;though, some have already been made in the actual manuscript..

as for nike, I thought it was clear that he has been living in las palmas for many years, number which I did not know..we met the first time when he came to earnest brown shop in salo.. and i did not have much interaction with him then( he looked down on me as i was not in their circle/level then)..next time was in palmas and that's when i eventually got to learn about him and his family..

Ishilove: in case you read this..have nothing but great respect for your intellect..just pissed on your silence

thx

Jakemond

Nwoke, please don't be pissed o. I have been very busy of late, my dear. I haven't even been able update my blog and Iyawo story because of time factor. Work tinz and all that. I will continue from where I stopped asap.

I wasn't aware I had a spat with benjames o . That was no spat, that was just us expressing varying opinions. My dear, if I have a spat with somebody, the thread will catch fire

Ishilove:
Nwoke, please don't be pissed o. I have been very busy of late, my dear. I haven't even been able update my blog and Iyawo story because of time factor. Work tinz and all that. I will continue from where I stopped asap.

I wasn't aware I had a spat with benjames o . That was no spat, that was just us expressing varying opinions. My dear, if I have a spat with somebody, the thread will catch fire

jake: i'm in complet agreement with ishilove..that was no spat at alll, besides no one messes with ishilove.

Okay, its about time again , waiting for your update.

repogirl: Okay, its about time again , waiting for your update.

Me lady, I just walked in the door a minute ago..I will be all over it in a minute

#35

Chapter Fifteen

The next morning I woke up as usual and went to work. Returning to Torrejón in the evening, I noticed lots of cars around the apartment complex. As I got closer, I observed more than a hundred police officers and twenty to thirty police cars. I slowed down and ducked into a side street so I could observe from a distance. It became obvious that they were raiding the apartment I was living in. This was confirmed just two minutes later when I overheard a conversation about the police and drugs. I didn’t need to speak Spanish to put two and two together. My junkie drug-dealer host had been busted.
I had nowhere else to go, so I stayed outside, hungry and tired. I waited for several hours. At about midnight, the coast was clear. The police were gone and apparently they had taken my host as well as a few of his friends who were with him at the time. Obviously they didn’t think anyone else was living there.
When I got into the apartment, it was a complete mess; everything was ransacked. In the room where I was staying, my belongings were all over the place. The police must have thoroughly combed the apartment. I immediately put my stuff together, afraid that the police would come back to get me. I didn’t even shower or eat; as soon as I was done packing, I ran outside with my bag. I slept outside in the cold that night. It was better than to be caught dead in a drug dealer’s house.
As soon as day broke, I found Nigel’s house. I arrived there at about 7 a.m. and knocked on the door. Nigel opened, not seeming a bit surprised to see me, and invited me in. I narrated my ordeal to him and his wife, and they both said I was welcome to stay with them. They showed me the spare room and told me to make myself comfortable, which I did. I was a little late for work, so I jumped into the shower, and by the time I was done, Martha had breakfast waiting for me. I ate and rushed to work.
I got to know Nigel and Martha better after living with them for a few days. The sweet, loving couple that I thought they were was a lie. They had put up that facade just to lure me into their lives. It became obvious that the couple had an agenda for inviting me to stay with them, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. They were always arguing and fighting, and often Nigel would beat Martha up and she would lock herself in the room and cry. Nigel grew to trust me a bit and felt he could say or do anything in front of me, so he would call Martha names and slap her in my presence. Apparently, he wasn’t happy moving to Spain. According to Nigel, it had been Martha’s idea to sell all their property, including their house in Exeter, and move to Spain. They had hoped to find jobs when they got to Spain and live a decent life, but after two years of unemployment, they had exhausted all their money. They owed a lot of people and hadn’t paid their rent for the past six months.
This was a peculiar situation for me. Here I was again, running out of the frying pan and into the fire. According to them, they still had a few more months to stay in Spain before heading back to England, and as long as they were still in Madrid, I would have a place to stay. I chose not to worry about anything. I would not let their dysfunctional marriage affect me. I was friendly with both of them and became a confidant to each. They would come to me saying ugly things about each other, and that upon their return to England, they would get divorced. In a way, I enjoyed my position of power in their house.
As the days went by, their relationship kept deteriorating. They couldn’t afford food anymore and, by default, I became the breadwinner. Every day, on my way back from work, I would buy food for us. Later, they started selling their possessions, including their television. That should have been a sign to me that something was up, given that Nigel loved television so much. I just thought they were ashamed of relying on me for food and wanted to sell their things to help pay for meals.
One fateful day, I went to work as usual. I worked long hours and hadn’t eaten anything all day. The night before, I had prepared a delicious stew and rice, and I was really looking forward to going back to the apartment so I could eat. When I returned that evening, I put the keys Nigel had given me into the lock and tried to open the door, but it didn’t work. I checked the key again and checked the number on the apartment, just to make sure I hadn’t missed the apartment. It was the right apartment and the right door. As I was fiddling with the lock, somebody opened the door from the inside: a middle-aged Spanish man. He was aggressive and threatening, yelling something at me that I couldn’t understand. I spoke to him in English, asking where Nigel and Martha were. He didn’t understand and kept yelling at me to leave. From all indications, he was the landlord and had changed the locks of the apartment.
Apparently, when I went to work that morning, Nigel and Martha had used the money they had made from selling their stuff to flee back to England, abandoning me. So now, the landlord, who hadn’t been paid in six months, was furious, and also had to deal with an African squatter. All I wanted was to go into the apartment, quickly have something to eat, take my belongings, and leave his apartment. But the more I pleaded with him, the more aggressive he got. He started to yell for the police, and I thought maybe that was a good idea. The police would be able to resolve the situation and allow me in to get my belongings. So I started yelling with him for the police. He got out of the apartment, locked the door, and we both walked to the nearest police station.
When we got to the station, he narrated in Spanish what had happened. I had no idea what he told the police, but I tried to explain my side of the story: all I wanted was to get my belongings from the apartment and leave. But the entire police station—more than thirty officers present—wouldn’t listen to or even look at me. When they did, it was with disgust. A few of them called me “negro de mierda” (“fucking nigger”). I continued to plead with them, but they decided to escalate the situation. They started yelling at me and laughing, and motioned me to go away. When I wouldn’t budge, about ten of them approached me menacingly. They slapped me, punched me, and spat on me. In my confusion, I didn’t know what came over me. I knelt and started praying to God in a loud voice, telling Him to forgive them because they did not know what they were doing. They carried me outside their station and threw me on the ground. Luckily, I landed on my buttocks. I got up and positioned myself to fight back because I thought they were going to beat me up, but they left me alone. I dusted myself off and wandered around the streets that night, cold, hungry, and confused. The only thing I could think of was my family and how wonderful my home was, even though I didn’t want to go back.
The next morning I went to work and narrated the incident to my friends, and they urged me to move into the asylum camp with them. Since I had no other option, I swallowed my pride and moved into the camp that evening. Living in the camp brought back memories of my secondary school days, when I used to live in the dormitory. The only difference with the camp was that there was no leadership structure, no guaranteed meals, and everyone was of a different nationality. The people at the camp were miserable and hopeless, with no inclination of what the future held for them. After spending one night there, I was more than ever determined to make my next move.
Through my association with the refugees and asylum seekers, I had learned that it was a lot easier for migrants to succeed in Germany than any other country in Europe. It was said that asylum seekers in Germany got more than one thousand dollars per month from the German government while they were waiting for adjudication of their cases. It was also said that the German government had a better housing scheme for refugees and asylum seekers. Individual apartments were provided, depending on the size of the family involved.
I remembered that in 1991, a relative of mine, Benjamin, had traveled to Germany. Before his plane landed, he went into the bathroom and destroyed his Nigerian passport, and upon arrival, applied for political asylum. Within a year of his arrival in Germany, he was sending a lot of money and cars to Nigeria. We later found out that Nigerians in Germany had devised a perfect way of scheming the German asylum system. They would apply for asylum under different names in a number of German states. They also had a way of manipulating their fingerprints so that when the states crosschecked their names against their fingerprints, there would never be a match. In Germany, the different states were responsible for paying allowances to the refugees and asylum seekers living in and registered in their states. Benjamin and his group would travel around the states every month, collecting allowances in their different names.
I had no intention of joining this unholy scheme. Rather, Germany simply seemed to be more asylum-friendly than Spain. If I could get there, I would probably live better and be able to save money to take care of my family, as well as pursue my education. So I asked the guys who had been in the camp for a long time how I could best get to Germany. In no time, I found out that it was nothing new—people from the camp had been going there and many other places on a regular basis. Apparently, Spain was merely considered a stepping stone. The final destination for most of these guys was Germany or the United States.
Through my inquiries, I found a whole new world that existed within the walls of the asylum camp: an underground operation in fake documentation and traveling papers. If one had the money, one could get whatever traveling documents one needed. With this knowledge I was determined to work harder and save money for fake documents. After one week, I saved enough to buy a laissez passé. My Nigerian friends tried to dissuade me from traveling to Germany. They warned me that there was no guarantee it would work, and that some of them had tried in the past, but were caught at the point of entry and repatriated to Spain. But by this time, I could not be discouraged.
On May 1, 1992, I left Madrid by train, heading to Dusseldorf, Germany, with my fake laissez passé. I was anxious to leave Spain. It was a very long journey. We traveled from Madrid to Barcelona, passed Costa Brava, and then on through to France without incident. The border agents came on board the train, conducted their routine checks, and never batted an eye at me. We continued our journey all the way to Strasbourg and on toward Stuttgart. At the French-German border, the train stopped for the border inspection on the German side. One of the immigration officers requested to see my documents, and I immediately handed them over to him. He asked me to follow him. I got off the train and went into their office with him, where they told me I had a fake document and could not be allowed to enter Germany. They spoke very good English and were quite firm but polite. They explained that I would be sent back to my point of departure. Meanwhile, they would detain me until the arrival of the next available train to Spain. I was completely devastated.
After what seemed like half a day, a train heading to Madrid arrived and the German border agents escorted me on board. Within minutes, I was on my way. The thought of going back to Madrid to face the miserable life there was unthinkable, but I had no other option. I had no money left on me, and during the several hours of detention in Germany I was offered neither water nor food. As the train churned along toward Spain, I kept thinking of what my next move would be. A few hours later, we arrived in Barcelona to pick up passengers; we were to depart in one hour. All of a sudden, I decided to get off the train in Barcelona, even though I had no idea what the city was like.
I walked out of the train station and into the street. By this time it was already late at night, but the streets were filled with people. I wandered around from Plaza Cataluña through Las Ramblas. There were so many people, and it seemed like there were parties going on everywhere.
Then I remembered that the 1992 Summer Olympics was scheduled to take place in Barcelona and would kick off in the next two months. There would be all kinds of people, including tourists from all over the world.
I don’t know what I expected to happen next. I knew no one in Barcelona. After roaming around for several hours, I finally decided to find a place to lay my head down. I ended up outside of a Catholic church, tired and hungry. I woke up the next morning, feeling lost and confused. Life had never been this miserable to me. I was still starved and thirsty, and I couldn’t beg anyone for food; I had too much pride for that. I started wandering the streets again.
Then I remembered why I had decided to get off in Barcelona: I had a strong passion for the ocean, and Barcelona was located along the Mediterranean Sea. I decided to go down and take a walk along the beach. I had always had a sense of calm whenever I was by the sea. As I walked along the beach, thinking about what the future might hold for me, I ran into a beautiful girl who started a conversation with me. She told me she was visiting Barcelona from Germany, and I told her that I was stranded in Barcelona. We hit it off and ended up spending the day together.
There was something about her that didn’t seem right. Though she was kindhearted and had the physical features of a girl, she behaved oddly like a guy. I liked her as a person, but I had my suspicions that she might be a transvestite. At this time I still wasn’t very knowledgeable about those kinds of things, given that I had just left Africa, where such things were not the norm. My intuition told me that something wasn’t completely right about this person. Nevertheless, I was reluctant to give up the one friend I had in town because of a mere suspicion. So I continued to hang out with her, telling myself that as long as there was nothing sexual to our relationship, everything would be okay.
As we were hanging out that day, we ran into an African guy who was originally from Mali. He lived in Barcelona and was apparently unemployed. He spent the afternoon with my newfound friend and me. At the end of the day, my German friend departed and agreed to meet up with us the next day. When my African friend learned about my situation, he was kind enough to invite me to spend a couple of nights at his apartment, which I gratefully accepted. His house was a four-bedroom apartment, which he shared with four other people. Three of his flatmates were from India, and he was a little concerned as to how they would feel about my presence. However, when we got to his apartment that night, everyone was very welcoming.
Contrary to my initial assumption, my African friend actually had a part-time job: He was employed illegally in a bakery/grocery store. For the next few days he provided me a place to sleep and also fed me; after work, he would bring home some food from the store. I wasn’t sure if the food was given to him by the store proprietor or if he just helped himself; either way, I couldn’t care less and I never bothered to ask. Every morning I would get up early and wander around Barcelona, looking for any kind of job, and in the afternoon I would go down to the beach and hang out with my German friend. On the third day of my stay, I went down to the beach, but my German friend wasn’t there. However, I ran into a group of female tourists from England. I hung out with them at the beach the whole afternoon. We all exchanged personal stories and had a wonderful time together. Later, one of the women suggested that I try to get a job at the Hotel Villa Olimpica, and everybody in the group agreed.
By this time, there was a lot of construction going on in Barcelona in preparation for the Olympics, especially at the Olympic Village. For these construction works, it was a race against time. The Olympics would start in six weeks, and some of the infrastructures and amenities still weren’t ready, so construction was going on twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, in order to meet the deadline..

Ishilove:
Nwoke, please don't be pissed o. I have been very busy of late, my dear. I haven't even been able update my blog and Iyawo story because of time factor. Work tinz and all that. I will continue from where I stopped asap.

I wasn't aware I had a spat with benjames o . That was no spat, that was just us expressing varying opinions. My dear, if I have a spat with somebody, the thread will catch fire

no worries my sis..however, you need to try by all means to update IYAWO..readers have started rioting cuz of lack of update.

jake jake jake u never seize to amaze me oooh!! undermining your own thread by plugging in for ishi...nna na u biko..i like you selflessness..

[email]

...Still following...BTW, will PM you concerning the book cover.

Its better imagined than experienced......

repogirl: ...Still following...BTW, will PM you concerning the book cover.

will standby me lady. bon jour

oyestephen: Its better imagined than experienced......

thx bros but I humbly disagree..desperate times calls for desperate measures..sometimes life deals a hand and you have to take the plunge even if danger locks within..

#36
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Hotel Villa Olimpica was a brand-new, twenty-five-story hotel being built in the Olympic Village. My group of English friends said that lots of tourists were being hired at the construction site, and most of the construction companies were from England and America. Therefore, they would prefer to hire English speakers—so I wouldn’t have much of a problem getting a job there. I was motivated by their encouragement and immediately headed to the construction site.
By the time I got there, the construction workers were returning from their lunch break. There must have been more than three thousand people working there, and in order to get to the site, one had to show a badge. Since I didn’t have one, I mingled with a group of workers and was able to sneak through. As soon as I got in, I asked some of the workers to show me who the supervisors were. Someone pointed to a gentleman from Ireland called Dave. I walked right up to him and asked for a job. Dave happened to be one of the supervisors in charge of the day-shift cleaning crew. Without much said, he asked for my name, which I gave him, and he immediately welcomed me aboard, asking me to start immediately. I thanked him, and he asked someone to take me to the office, process my badge, and take care of other requirements. I was to be a part of the day-shift crew, working twelve hours a day from 6 a.m. to 6 p.m.
I was assigned to be part of a six-man team. There was Michael from Germany, Steve from the United States, Pedro from Mexico, and two other guys. Our job consisted of cleaning up debris on the floor. Even though we were working twelve-hour shifts, we really didn’t do much for the ten dollars per hour that we were being paid. All the guys on my team were tourists, and just like the other two thousand people who worked at the construction site, none of them had a good work ethic. It was no wonder that these facilities were behind schedule. People basically pretended to be working and got paid for it. But who was I to complain? As they say, when in Rome, act like the Romans, and as long as I was getting paid, it was all right with me.
In my work team we were pretty close. I became good friends with Michael. Steve was the default leader of my team. Since he was an American, everybody kind of looked up to him. I was sad to learn that he was HIV-positive. I later found out that Pedro was gay, and unless you were told, you would never know it. He came across as abrasive and hostile, but he was a very nice person when you got to know him better. I also learned that he was in love with Steve. Homosexual relationships were a bit too much for me, coming from my background, but since I was now living in a society that accepted it as a norm, I had no option but to keep my opinions and feelings to myself.
After a week working at the site, I received my first pay. It was a lot of money and I decided it was time to find my own place. I would have loved to keep staying with my African friend, but my relationship with him and his flatmates had become a little strained. He had become jealous of me because I had gotten a well-paying job just a few days after I arrived in Barcelona, whereas he had been living there for two years and could barely make ends meet. I tried to chip in for meals as well as rent. When it came to food, I never held back. I always bought the best food, irrespective of the price. My lavish taste didn’t quite sit well with my flatmates, and their resentment led to subtle attempts to get me out of their apartment. By this time I had started hanging out regularly with Michael, my teammate; we had become the best of friends. Sometimes he would invite me to sleep over at his apartment, which he shared with a guy from Argentina, and we would go to clubs and bars.
One of those nights, I met Jenny, a beautiful professional dancer who worked in the clubs. She was adopted from Equatorial Guinea when she was a baby, had grown up in Spain, and spoke fluent Spanish and English. She had never known her biological parents. She and her adopted family had lived in Madrid, and after her eighteenth birthday, she started searching for her biological family. She was able to trace them back in Equatorial Guinea. She now lived in Barcelona because her Aunty Petosa, from her biological mother’s side, had just migrated to Spain and was living in Barcelona. Jenny had come down to spend some time getting to know her.
When I met Jenny at the club that night, I danced with her for a long time, after which we exchanged phone numbers and agreed to meet the next day. After work, I hung out with her and we had a great time. We made each other laugh. It seemed like I had known her all my life. I had never met anyone like her—someone I could relate to on all levels. She was astonishingly beautiful and a very good dancer. That night I stayed at Jenny’s apartment with her Aunty Petosa. We spent most of the night talking, and I watched her practice her dance moves. Aunty Petosa also liked me and invited me to hang out with them anytime. That night Jenny and I slept in the same bed, but nothing happened. We were like brother and sister. I think what had drawn us together were our traumatic life experiences.
For the next few weeks I slept either at Jenny’s or Michael’s apartment. My life revolved around Jenny. I loved her so much, I couldn’t think clearly anymore. We kissed a lot, but we never had sex. Jenny was a virgin, in spite of her active social life. She refused to have sex with me, but that was okay by me. My feelings for her went deeper than that. She had become my confidant, and I wasn’t willing to jeopardize that for momentary sexual satisfaction.
Michael was from Germany, but did not consider himself German. He told me he was a proud Swabian—from southwestern Germany. His hometown was about fifteen miles from Stuttgart. He was visiting Barcelona for the summer when he landed the job at Hotel Villa Olimpica. He traveled a lot and had been to America. He told me he spent the last summer living on an Indian reservation. He was fascinated with Indian culture and tradition, and we ended up arguing about what he perceived as the United States government’s neglect of Native Americans. He also tried to perpetuate a debunked conspiracy theory that the U.S. government was deliberately trying to eliminate the Native Americans through the introduction of alcohol into their closely guarded society. Even though I had never been to America, I refused to accept his argument. Though Michael and I argued from time to time, our friendship remained solid. Our difference in race had never mattered to us. We were together most times, but sometimes he worried that I spent too much time with Jenny instead of hanging out with him.
After a few weeks, Jenny left Barcelona and went back to Madrid. I was devastated. We had grown very fond of each other and were practically inseparable. I tried to console myself with the knowledge that I would eventually see her again; she had given me her address in Madrid, which happened to be in my old barrio (neighborhood).
Two weeks before the Olympics, our work ended at Hotel Villa Olimpica. Though construction was not completed, some temporary measures were put in place to make the hotel usable for the Olympics, after which work would resume on the hotel. By this time, I had saved about ten thousand dollars. After staying idle for a few days, Michael and I decided to go to Saragossa, an hour and a half train ride from Barcelona, to work on the farms, picking apples and grapes. We arrived at a small farming village, but couldn’t find jobs or accommodation, so we ended up sleeping on a farm. That night we stole some pears from the trees and ate them for dinner. In the morning we walked around the village and bought fresh milk for breakfast. We roamed around the entire day looking for a job, but no one was interested in hiring us. We spent another night in the fields. The next morning we gave up and returned to Barcelona.
Since I had money saved, I decided to enjoy myself doing what I did best: traveling and adventure-seeking. I opted to travel to Spain’s Balearic Islands by ship. I went back to my African friend and got my belongings, which were contained in one small bag. I went down to the port and bought a ticket for the trans-Mediterranean cruise ship that went from Barcelona to Palma de Mallorca, departing that evening.
It was my first experience on a passenger ship. As I went from floor to floor admiring the ship, I met a couple from Sweden. They were around my age. His name was Haas and hers was Viola. They both had very long hair and typical Scandinavian looks, with blue eyes and a weird sense of humor. Back in Sweden, they were part of a rock band; Haas was the drummer and Viola was the lead singer. They were going on vacation in Palma. I hung out with them the entire trip and we had a lot of fun together. Before we arrived in Palma, we exchanged addresses and phone numbers, and they said that they would come and spend the next summer in Barcelona with me. We got off the ship at Palma and said our goodbyes. I decided not to stay in Palma, but to go to a holiday resort instead, preferably a camping ground. I got on the bus to Ca’n Picafort. There, I met a few young people going in the same direction: two beautiful German girls, and one French girl, a real tomboy. By the time we got to our destination, we had all become good friends, and since I had no idea where I was going, I decided to join them at their campground.
I had tried my best to look like a tourist before going on the journey, and I brought all the stuff a typical tourist would need. I had bought a backpack and a sleeping bag, and I had my Walkman, which I brought with me from Africa, but I forgot to get a tent. At the camp, one could bring one’s own tent and just pay for the space to pitch it, or rent a tent, which was expensive. Luckily for me, the French girl invited me to stay in her tent. It was a small two-person tent, but a beggar had no choice. I accepted her offer, and all four of us pitched our tents close to each other. For the next few days, all we did was spend time at the beach, eat, and sleep. I was being careful with my money, though. Things were very expensive at Ca’n Picafort.
Ca’n Picafort was predominantly German. It was like a German city in the middle of Spain. Most of the businesses—including the resorts, restaurants, and hotels—were owned by Germans. Half of the tourists in the area were Germans as well. Our little foursome rented bikes and rode around town. Everything was lovely until the fifth day. I went to the beach and, after reading for a while, did my normal three-mile run along the beach, after which I jumped into the water for a swim. As I was swimming, my leg cramped and I felt myself going under. I stretched my hand to hang on to the person near me, but as I grabbed his shoulder, he pushed me off and I went under again. I thought to myself, Is this how I will die? My life flashed before my eyes and I started to shout, “The Blood of Jesus!” And somehow, I got to shallow waters where I could sit without drowning. I was relieved and furious at the same time—furious that all the people around me had just watched me struggle, but did not attempt to come to my rescue.
Before this incident I was never conscious of my color. All of a sudden, I was rudely awakened to the fact that I was the only black person at the beach and everyone else probably saw me as a nuisance that deserved to drown. As soon as I had fully recovered, I gathered my things and went back to the camp. The next morning I left Ca’n Picafort for Palma. I checked into a hotel there, and that night I went to a club and had a wonderful time. I mingled with other tourists from all over the world. Some of them talked about two other islands they had visited: Minorca and Ibiza. Minorca was predominantly English, and Ibiza was more like a party island, a “must visit” for young people. When I returned to my hotel, I thought hard about which island to visit first. The following morning, I went off to Minorca. It was a beautiful island, very laid-back. I was a bit disappointed, as I had expected it to be more lively and bustling with activities. There were not as many bars as in Ca’n Picafort and Palma, just a few English pubs. It felt like a retirement island, a place for those over fifty. I returned to Palma the next day. Since I was running low on cash and getting a bit tired of traveling, I decided to postpone my trip to Ibiza and head back to Barcelona.
Once in Barcelona, I went straight to Michael and asked if I could spend a couple of days at his apartment until I could find my own place. The next day, I went to the University of Barcelona to look at the announcements on their notice boards, hoping I would find students looking for roommates. I found a couple of numbers and made phone calls. Luckily, there was a room available in a six-bedroom apartment near Plaza Catalunya, so I went over there. It happened that all the residents were exchange students from different countries. There was Debra from Ireland, Giles from South Africa, Gomez from Colombia, and two British ladies. They accepted me and I paid for my room. I picked up my stuff from Michael and moved into the apartment. The next morning I roamed Barcelona searching for work, but couldn’t find anything. I gave up trying, since I still had a little money left.
I decided to enjoy the festivities in the city—the Olympics had just started. The city was packed and the mood was lively. I had never seen anything like it. I met people from all over the world. All the young people were bragging about different athletes they had met or seen. I had never been starstruck, but since everybody seemed happy with these star encounters, I decided to join the bandwagon. I went to all of the events to try to meet VIPs. I ran into Michael Jordan, Charles Barkley, and Magic Johnson. I couldn’t be bothered to get their autographs, though; I was satisfied with just seeing them. I also met Bill Cosby’s sitcom wife, Phylicia Rashad, which pleased me since I was a fan of The Cosby Show.
As I roamed the streets of Barcelona, I noticed that some of the tourists would stop me to ask for directions. It occurred to me that I could become an unofficial tour guide. So for the next few weeks I took people around Barcelona without asking for any money, showing them where all the Olympic activities were going on. Personally, I had no strong desire to see the Olympic events; I couldn’t afford to anyway. But sometimes, when I had the urge to see an event, I would go to the stadium and climb up a nearby street lamp or peep through the cracks in one of the stadium’s entrances. I couldn’t see much this way, but it was good enough for me. Also, I found the activities inside the stadium were not as exciting as those outside. There were so many festivities and unofficial Olympic events, and I captured most of them with my camera.
One day, as I was playing tour guide, I went into McDonald’s to eat and met two beautiful African American girls. I spent the whole day with them, and we talked about all the celebrities we had met. Later that night I took them to a club and we had a fantastic night. The next day we all hung out again and talked about our live. When they learned about my situation and my desire to continue my education, they suggested I go to the United States. They told me that in America, there was a two-year college system, a community college system that made it easier for low-income earners to obtain a higher education. They suggested that I could easily get a job in a fast-food restaurant like McDonald’s or Burger King, and with the money I made, I could easily sustain myself and put myself through school.
I was immediately sold on the idea, even though I didn’t know anyone in America. My ambitions changed from that day on, thanks to these girls. I would be forever grateful to them. We exchanged addresses and phone numbers, since they were returning to the United States the next day, and we promised to stay in touch. After my encounter with those girls, my plan became to find a way to get to the United States.
Meanwhile, life in my new apartment was very interesting. Apart from my brief encounter with the couple from Exeter, I had never lived with Westerners before, so I took my time to learn their behaviors and way of life. Except for one of the English ladies, who was over forty, the rest of us were under twenty-two. Every night we would have parties in the house and there was usually plenty of drinking. Gomez was a great cook and would whip up terrific Columbian dishes. And Debra, the Irish girl, would provide some Irish drinks. Everyone else would bring wine and beer, and we would all party. Usually, their other female friends would join us. There were always more women than men. We did the same thing every day, and sometimes I would try hard to excuse myself.
My first movie experience was with the girls. One evening, after we finished partying, the girls wanted to go to a movie. Basic Instinct, featuring Michael Douglas and Sharon Stone, had just come out and the girls desperately wanted to see it. Giles and Gomez were tired and didn’t want to go, so six girls and I ended up going. I couldn’t tell them that I had never been to a movie theater before. I marveled at the larger-than-life images on the screen. The girls were a bit of a handful, though. Some of them were drunk, and would pinch and touch me while we were watching the movie. I couldn’t say I didn’t enjoy it, though. The girls were wasted, and I could have slept with any one of them if I had wanted to. However, I considered myself highly principled when it came to girls and sex. I simply couldn’t engage sexually with any girl who was under the influence. So, despite all the advances made by some of the girls that night, I behaved, in my opinion, like a gentleman.
I continued to provide unpaid services as a tour guide, and I made friends with many street performers. Las Ramblas, the famous promenade of Barcelona, was a beehive of activity, from street dancers to clowns. Lined with shops and bars, and ending at the waterfront, it was a major tourist destination. There was a popular myth that anyone who drank from the fountain of Las Ramblas would eventually return to Barcelona. There were many other attractions in the city, including the Barcelona Zoo, which had the world’s only albino gorilla. Sometimes I would take my tourists to the newly completed Barcelona port, where they could see a drawbridge and the famous Christopher Columbus statue nearby. From there, I would take them to the cable car station, where we would ride the cable car across the port of Barcelona to the beautiful Montserrat mountain. Then we would go to the famous uncompleted church, La Sagrada Família, and from there, we would visit some architectural marvels. My route also included Park Güell, where there was a fantastic array of avant-garde art. I would also bring them to the Picasso Museum, located at Barrio Gòtic, and at the end of my tour, to Plaza Real, one of the famous squares in Barcelona. There was a fountain in the center of the square, surrounded by bars and restaurants. There were also two discos; one of them was called Jamboree, and I spent most of my nights there.
Life was far from perfect, but as long as I was dancing, I could forget my troubles for a while.
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***will not be updating today..worked related engagement this evening***
so will instead update right now before heading out

#37
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Chapter Sixteen

The Olympics were winding down, but the festivities continued in Barcelona. Since I had no job, I kept playing unofficial tour guide when I got the chance, and I spent my nights going from one club to another. I loved to dance. I would go to Studio 54 and from there to Jamboree. When all the clubs closed, I would go to the after-hours clubs, which stayed open until eight in the morning. There was a popular place called Oveja Negra (“Black Sheep”), a traditional Catalunyan bar that had several pool tables and made the best sangria in Barcelona. It always attracted tourists. I spent many evenings there waiting for the clubs to open.
One day as I was strolling through Las Ramblas, I had a chance encounter with an attractive girl about my age. Karen came from Ireland and worked in Costa Brava. She had decided to visit Barcelona on her day off. We spent the entire day together. She told me how frustrated she was with the Spanish family she was living with, and that if she had the choice, she would leave them. Misery loves company, I thought to myself. I told her that whenever she decided to leave the family, she would always have a place at my apartment. We exchanged numbers and she went back to Costa Brava.
A week later, I was having dinner with Michael and my roommates when I received a phone call. It was Karen; she had left the family that she had been living with and was now taking me up on my offer. She was waiting for me at the station. I immediately left the others and went to fetch her. I introduced her as my girlfriend, and she did not object. Everyone welcomed her, and Debra was the most excited because they were both Irish, and from the same region. I showed Karen to my room, and she made herself comfortable. She immediately joined the others drinking. Since I had only met her once, I had no idea she was a heavy drinker. During the course of the evening, she got completely drunk. I didn’t like what I saw, but it was too late by then. That night, unfortunately, she and I were intimate and that kind of validated the relationship.
For the next few weeks, since Karen neither had a job nor money, I became responsible for her. She looked for work, but was unable to find anything. She was very outgoing, like me, and in the evenings we would hit the bars and clubs. Sometimes Debra and Michael would go with us. By this time, Michael had developed a soft spot for Debra, and I welcomed it. I reasoned that if they started dating, he would spend a lot more time at our apartment and wouldn’t be a third wheel every time we went out.
I enjoyed my relationship with Karen, but I started to get weary of her drinking habit; for one, it was expensive. In my opinion, she was an alcoholic, and was literally drinking me dry. I had no job and my savings were drying up fast. Because of her drinking, we were always fighting. A few weeks after the Olympics, Karen had rendered me broke and my relationship with her had become strained. Every day I hoped and prayed that God would make her go away. I started pounding the streets in search of a job. This was an embarrassing period in my life. I was so destitute that I had no shame.
Coming from Nigeria, a completely different culture, there were certain European tradition that baffled me. One of them was throwing coins into fountains. One day, at the height of my desperation, I noticed a fountain that was a tourist attraction. It had always been there, but I suddenly saw it with new eyes. As I looked into the fountain, I noticed that the bottom was littered with coins, mostly of high denominations. I immediately jumped in to help myself. To my greatest surprise, there were many more coins in the water. I couldn’t understand how this miracle happened, but who was I to question God for providing for me through a fountain? It was much later that I came to understand that people threw money in the fountains to make wishes. Nonetheless, there was no harm done. The people may or may not have gotten their wish, but I sure did benefit from them.
After a few days of job hunting, I found a Ghanaian-owned barbershop. It was a decent shop, and since I used to cut my own hair and my friend’s hair in Africa, I felt that qualified me as a barber. I went in and told the owner of the shop that I was a barber and I needed a job. It would have been easier for me to tell him that I was from Nigeria, but I continued with the lie that I was from the Bahamas. He told me that he would give me a trial period of two days to show my skills, and I gladly accepted.
On the first day we didn’t have many customers, and the ones who showed up were old clients who were already used to having the owner cut their hair. The next day my opportunity came: there were a few new customers and the shop owner asked me to take care of one of them. By the time I finished with his hair, everyone’s faces were frozen in horror. I had completely brutalized his hair to the extent that even when the shop owner came to the rescue, it was too late to make the man’s hair look any better. It wasn’t surprising that when I showed up the next day, the shop owner told me that he couldn’t keep me. He said his former employee had come back to the job and he couldn’t afford to have both of us. Of course, I knew he was lying. He was too polite to tell me that I had performed horribly the day before. He was nice enough to refer me to another barbershop where the owner, John, was looking for a helper. He said that John was from the United States and would be more than pleased to have me since I was from the Bahamas. I went home depressed that day instead of going immediately to John. It was three days before I regained the confidence to claim that I was a barber.
When I got to the barbershop, there was a tall black guy, about six feet two inches, who spoke American English, and another guy who looked like an Arab. I told them I was looking for John, and the tall black guy identified himself as such. I told him I was from the Bahamas and was looking for a job. He said he knew of me; apparently, the Ghanaian shop owner had told him I was a good person and that I was looking for work. John was very welcoming and immediately offered a job. Because of his kindness, I felt I owed it to him to be truthful. I confessed that I wasn’t a professional barber, but that I knew how to cut African hair. He told me not to worry, and asked me to take a few days and watch him cut hair. He explained that eventually he would start me off with little kids, and as I got better, I would move to adults. He also explained that he didn’t pay salaries; I would get fifty percent of whatever I made and he would take the other fifty. That was fine with me.
I noticed the Arab man glaring at me. He wasn’t friendly at all, and I couldn’t understand why. I would find out what his grievances were much later. For the next couple of days, all I did was observe how John worked. He was a very skillful barber, the best I had ever seen. I later found out that he had studied cosmetology at the University of North Carolina. Each day there were more customers than we could fit in; the schedule was always fully booked in advance. Everyone who came into the shop wanted no one but John to do their hair. The Arab guy didn’t seem to do much but answer phones, make appointments, wash the ladies’ hair, and put them under the drier. I couldn’t understand how he could be doing so little while John did all the work. I was also struck by how self-absorbed he seemed, looking in the mirror every minute.
I really liked John’s shop. It was a beehive of activity every day. At any given time, we would have more than five clients, and there was always a lot of gossip. By the end of first week, my skills had improved tremendously, and by the second week I was on the road. I soon became so popular that word got to the Ghanaian man’s shop and he started looking for me. He begged me to come back to work for him, but I had to turn him down. I liked John and couldn’t leave his shop. I was dedicated to my job, and I wanted to save money so I could go to the United States and study.
In the matter of Karen, God finally answered my prayer. By this time practically no one in my apartment liked Karen anymore; she had made enemies. She got drunk one day and slept with Gomez, who was then in a relationship with Debra. The next morning, Debra confronted Karen, and she attempted to defend her actions, which made things worse. That same day, I told her that she had betrayed everyone in the house and my trust in her was completely gone. I said that she had to move, and she did. But as fate would have it, she didn’t move far. One of our flatmates left, and she moved into that room. By this time she had gotten a job and could afford to pay for her own room. I had long suspected that Karen had been sleeping around, and that was one more reason to end our relationship. I suspected that she was cheating on me because of the way she would always flirt with guys, and a couple of times I caught her kissing guys at the club. Alcohol had taken over her life completely, and I didn’t want to be any part of that. I had no choice but to break up with her. The good thing was that, with no one else to take care of, I could afford to pay for my room and save a little money from what I was making.
I knew that it would be virtually impossible for me to get into the United States without a passport. So I thought that since I was still claiming to be Bahamian and my asylum card validated the claim, maybe I should try to obtain a Bahamian passport to get into the U.S. I still needed a passport to go from Spain to the Bahamas, but coincidently, one of my clients, Kofi, specialized in faking documents. He told me that he had all kinds—British, American, and so on—but he recommended that I use a diplomatic passport to go to the Bahamas. Kofi had a box full of Liberian diplomatic passports. Apparently, during the war in Liberia, boxes of official and diplomatic passports were stolen after the offices of immigration and naturalization were destroyed. Therefore, there were thousands of both Liberian official and diplomatic passports circulating around the world. I told him I was interested and would let him know when I was ready to travel. In the meantime, I continued working at John’s shop.
After one month, John really came to trust me and started opening up to me. I had always wondered why he had no girlfriend. He was always polite with the girls, and clients flirted with him often, but he never responded the way I would have expected of a man. John was gay, but I never could have guessed by looking at him. He probably thought I was gay and may have hired me for that reason. John told me that his Arab employee was also gay, and was jealous of me—that’s why he was always mean to me. He was very possessive of John, even though they weren’t in a relationship, and feared that John would fall in love with me and not pay attention to him anymore. He was threatened by my presence, and his envy and hatred grew worse when I become a skillful hairstylist and clients began asking for me by name. After he realized how popular I had become at the shop, he told John that he, too, would like to start cutting hair. When John told me all of this, I begged him to let the Arab know that I was heterosexual and he had nothing to worry about from me. John didn’t seem to understand, and I think he still believed I was gay.
Everyone had a tale. Before I met John, I was very homophobic. Still traumatized by my encounter with the gay pedophile who violated me in secondary school, I disliked and wished ill toward homosexuals. But with John, it was entirely different. He didn’t flaunt his homosexuality. I found out that John had a successful business in North Carolina, where he had fallen in love with a bisexual man, Lester, who was married. He must have thought Lester was also in love with him. John went into a joint venture with Lester. Lester then moved to Barcelona with his family, and convinced John to also move there and open a barbershop with him. John, foolishly in love, followed Lester to Barcelona. They opened the shop and were very successful, but John was the only one running the shop and working for all the money, while Lester focused on his other businesses and his family. He paid little or no attention to John, except when he went to collect his share of the profit. The situation was eating John up inside and he had been miserable for the three years he had been in Spain. I felt sorry for him, but couldn’t help him. I had my own problems to worry about. I continued working at the shop and saving for my trip to the Bahamas, and on weekends I was able to squeeze in some partying time.
One Saturday, as usual, I started the evening at Plaza Real, had a few drinks at a bar, and later moved on to Oveja Negra, where I drank sangria and shot pool until midnight. Then I headed to the most famous club at this time, San Francisco. All my club friends were already there, and as soon as I stepped in, everybody hailed and welcomed me. At that moment, there was a dance-off going on in the center of the dance floor. Everyone knew I never passed on a dance competition, and I immediately swung into action. From the applause coming my way at the end, it was obvious that I had won.
Everyone took to the floor again, and because of my excellent display during the dance-off, most of the girls came to dance with me. As usual, I picked a beautiful girl, danced with her, and moved on to the next one. Suddenly, as I was dancing, I felt a hand groping my buttocks. I tried to see who it was, but the club was too crowded. I continued dancing, and the hand grabbed my buttocks again, squeezing tightly. I whirled around and there she was: a girl about five feet four inches tall, with a white round face, deep brown eyes, and short brown hair. She looked like she was in her late twenties. She stood there looking longingly at me. Before I could say a word, she untangled my hands from the girl I was dancing with, dragged me close to her, and whispered in my ears, begging me to dance with her. So I left my current partner and started dancing with this girl. She wouldn’t let go of me the whole night. We talked while we danced, then continued the conversation outside, where it was quiet. I told her my name and gave her my usual story, changing the narrative a little bit this time. I told her I was from the Bahamas, but was living in my mother’s country, Liberia. When the war started there, I had to escape, and had ended up in Spain. I also told her that I was currently working as a hairstylist.
Her name was Maria Joana, and she was from Manacor, Mallorca, in the Balearic Islands. She lived in Barcelona and worked at a bank. She had seen me a few times in the club and liked me very much, though I never seemed to pay attention to her. On a few occasions she had wanted to come over and speak to me, but she had been too shy.
As we were speaking, a friend of hers appeared whom she introduced as Blanca; they lived in the same apartment. I noticed that they were chain smokers. Maria Joana had smoked more than ten cigarettes since we started our conversation. Normally, that would be a turnoff for me, but I was intrigued by Maria Joana’s boldness. By 4 a.m. the club was still rocking and both Maria Joana and Blanca were more than tipsy. I was getting a little tired because my conversation with Maria Joana had broken my club routine, which was to dance all night with as many girls as possible. I thanked Maria Joana and Blanca, and said it was a pleasure hanging out with them, but it was time for me to head home. They also said they were tired and were about to leave anyway. I went back into the club and said farewell to my friends, and then I walked back into the street with Maria Joana and Blanca. I headed off to catch a bus and the girls headed for their car.
A few minutes later, as I was walking toward the bus stop, a car pulled up behind me: it was Maria Joana. She insisted on giving me a ride home. I noticed Blanca wasn’t with her and asked where she was. She said that Blanca had decided to stay at the club. Without much argument I got into the car and told her where to drop me. She sped off, and minutes later I realized that she had completely bypassed my route. I asked her where she was going, and she said she wanted to show me her place before dropping me off. I let it go because I was too tired to argue. We got to her apartment complex, which was on Pasaje Escudellers, a street right behind my favorite plaza, Plaza Real. She lived on the fourth floor, second apartment. She invited me in and brought out some wine. We had a few glasses, and by the time we were done, I was too exhausted to go back to my apartment. She asked me to sleep over, and we ended up having sex. The next morning, by the time I got up, she had already made breakfast for me. She pampered me and treated me like a king. I spent the entire Sunday at her place.
Later in the day, Blanca returned to the apartment. She wasn’t too pleased to see me there, for reasons I didn’t find out until months later: Blanca was a lesbian and was in a relationship with Maria Joana. By the end of that evening, I was completely taken with Maria Joana’s kindness and her complete devotion to me. Before I left, she made me promise to visit her as often as possible.
Back in my apartment, things were not as they used to be. The friendly atmosphere that had existed before Karen moved in had completely vanished. Karen had a way of sowing hate and discontent. She pretty much wanted to sleep with every guy she met and kept bringing strange men into the apartment. After her fight with Debra over Gomez, the two had remained estranged. She tried to turn our forty-year-old flatmate against me, but it didn’t work; the lady always told me everything Karen said about me. Eventually, Giles moved out of the apartment, and it became increasingly intolerable for me. Though I didn’t spend a lot of time there, I preferred to have a friendly environment like we used to have. From time to time Michael visited the apartment. He and Debra still got along well, and since Debra had dumped Gomez after the affair with Karen, she was now available. I was happy for both of them. I believed that they were suitable for each another. They were both mild and kindhearted people, and they seemed to enjoy each other’s company. Sometimes, when Michael visited, he would cook for Debra.
As the days went by, I realized that if I had to move to the Bahamas, I couldn’t keep living in the apartment. I could barely afford to pay for my room, much less buy a plane ticket or the fake passport that I needed. I became worried and increasingly doubtful that I would be able to make the trip. It was almost the end of August 1992 and I was determined to travel before October. I thought hard about what to do, but couldn’t come up with a viable solution.
A few days later, Kofi came to the salon and said he had a fake diplomatic passport for me. He showed it to me, and it looked very professionally done. I was satisfied and paid him three thousand pesetas, which at the time was equivalent to two hundred US dollars.

okay..I coNFESS

okay..I coNFESS.yea,bro u got me hooked.the main problem i see in the write-up is that i keep coming for more...what happened to your waec nd ume?also,what about your 'supposed' son?

JakeMond I've bin reading from day one buh held onto myself nt to make a comment or plea till I reach the end of the post, as u've sin now I've broken the resilence mode.

The fact that you've tryd wit the editorial part, kudos to yu and ya in-depth nt holding to the lies.. Good work bravo

Guess you must a spare life in ya next world..Nine Lives like a cat

jake stop am oooh!!! how u go do us like this na? a beg make sure double the update when u come bck ooo!!

we're still waiting ooooooooooo!!!!!

guys don dey pARA ooo..this is 1 reason why i hate reading series..whr ar u sef?

then oga,na make ur next update long wella to make up 4 this

and the humble warrior returned, feeling a bit tipsy from a pleasant encounter with caborne savignon..now feeling very sleeping and marvelously contented with stomach filled up of crusted tilapia and sweet potato couscous... however, could not go to sleep without responding to his loyal readers/follows...rudeness is no longer in his nature..will post in a minute.

#38
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Now that I have a passport, there was no going back. I told John that within the next few weeks I intended to travel to the Bahamas to visit my family. He told me that it was okay with him as long as I could give him a week’s advance notice. The next morning, I used the money I had reserved for my September rent, plus everything else I had, and bought a ticket to the Bahamas. That left me completely broke. So far, I hadn’t told my flatmates that I was leaving. According to my flight itinerary, I was to depart Barcelona on September 10. I had no idea how I was going to pay my rent for September.
I had visited Maria Joana a few more times since our first encounter and she had taken a special liking to me. I had spent a few weekends at her apartment, and thought perhaps she would allow me to stay at her apartment for the next two weeks until my departure date. One day after work, I decided to talk to her about it. That night when I arrived at her place, I put on a sad face. She asked what the problem was and I acted coy, telling her there was nothing wrong. As I had hoped, she didn’t believe me and continued begging me to tell her. I hesitated, knowing I had to play it very carefully since I didn’t want to make her think that I was with her because of what I could get from her. I told her it was nothing that I couldn’t resolve on my own. As we went to bed that night, she pleaded with me to tell her what was bothering me. Eventually she started crying, telling me she loved me and whatever affected me also affected her.
As she cried, her dog, Quis, a two-year old Chinese chowchow, started barking. I had never been a dog lover—as a child, I’d had a traumatic experience with my grandmother’s dog—and was surprised that I could date Maria Joana in spite of her dog. Quis’s barking irritated me. I always wondered why she allowed her dog to sleep with us in the bedroom, but I tried not to complain since I knew how much she loved it.
To make her stop crying—which would hopefully get the dog to stop barking—I decided to tell her what the problem was. I explained that I couldn’t afford to pay my rent for September because I had used all my money to buy my ticket to the Bahamas, and also had no money left for my trip. Immediately, she stopped crying and smiled, but she said nothing. The dog stopped barking and we went to sleep soon afterward. By the time I woke the next morning, she had already left for work. She left me a beautiful note in which she begged me to move in with her until I traveled, along with an envelope containing 70,000 pesetas. I was dumbfounded. I suspected she would do something like this, but I had never anticipated it would be so soon.
I went to work that morning rejuvenated. I sang as I rode the subway, counting my blessings. When I got to work, I immediately informed John that I would be traveling to the Bahamas on September 10. He said my job would be waiting for me when I returned. After work, I went straight to Maria Joana’s house. She had prepared a lovely dinner for us. Before she could say anything, I hugged her tightly, kissed her all over, and thanked her profoundly for her kindness. The next evening, she drove me to my place, and I packed all my stuff and moved into her apartment.
Life with Maria Joana was beautiful. Apparently, the apartment belonged to her. She seemed to be living very comfortably, with a well-paying job as a cashier and her own car. She also seemed genuinely in love with me. For the next few days, my life involved going to work, returning in the evenings, and taking walks with Maria Joana and Quis. It was quite a different experience for me—I partied less and kept away from my friends, devoting all of my attention to the lady who had been so kind to me.
The only problem I had was Blanca. She acted neglected, not unrelated to the fact that since I had started seeing Maria Joana, their relationship—or lesbian experiment, as I liked to think of it—had ended. When I had found out about their relationship, I confronted Maria Joana. After a few minutes of my probing, she had finally blurted out that they had been having a relationship before we met. She said she had never been in a lesbian relationship before Blanca. Blanca was her schoolmate, and when she needed a place to stay, Maria Joana had decided to rent her a room in her apartment. They went out together often. One night, they went out partying, got drunk, and one thing led to another and they ended up having sex. They had sex a few more times, and Blanca automatically assumed that they had become lovers. Maria Joana never tried to discourage Blanca’s assumption. When Maria Joana and I started seeing each other, it was a blow to Blanca, an ultimate rejection. In spite of Blanca’s antagonistic and hostile behavior toward me, I was undeterred. I told Maria Joana not to worry about the past, as long as she was true to me.
As for Blanca, there was no love lost between us. I wanted her gone as fast as possible since I saw her as a threat, my competition. It didn’t matter too much to me, though, granted that I was going to the Bahamas in the next few days anyway and might never return to Spain. My intention was to stay in the Bahamas and hustle my way into Miami, USA.

Chapter Seventeen

Two days before my departure, I arrived at work to find that John and a few of my clients had thrown a little surprise party for me. The biggest surprise wasn’t so much the party itself; it was seeing my Arab colleague animated and doing everything possible to make the occasion a joyous one. I thought back and realized that he had been very nice to me during the past few weeks, and I wondered why the sudden change of heart. John must have told him I wasn’t gay—or maybe he came to the conclusion on his own—and therefore realized I wouldn’t interfere with his delusional, imaginary relationship with John. I had always maintained a purely working relationship with both of them, and never hung out with either of them after work, except for the few times John and I received courtside tickets from American basketball players to watch their tournaments. John’s shop was very popular in Barcelona and many U.S. basketball players got their hair cut there. On numerous occasions they would leave courtside tickets for us so we could watch them play.
We all ate and drank, and some of the customers thanked me for my professionalism, work etiquette, and especially my effort and ingenuity in creating fantastic hairstyles that later became trends. They all said I would surely be missed, but they understood that I had to go and see my family—and besides, I wasn’t leaving for good. At the end of the party, I thanked everyone. Somehow I felt sad inside; these people thought I was only going to visit my family for a month, but in reality, this was goodbye. I knew I would never see them again.
Before leaving the shop that evening, I spent a long time in the back office with my special hair clipper. I wasn’t usually attached to inanimate objects, but I had a special connection with this clipper, which John had given me when I began working at the shop. I had a job thanks to the way the clipper felt in my hand. When I first started working there, I was terrified due to my disastrous experience at the Ghanaian guy’s shop. But here at John’s shop, my first haircut with this particular clipper was a great success. I held the clipper in my hand for a few seconds, then put it down and left the shop, never looking back.
After my party that Friday, I was able to relax the next day with Maria Joana. She was very emotional about my leaving. I had to console her, telling her that I would only be gone for a few weeks and I would be back in no time. That night we went to a nearby Italian restaurant, and afterward we went to see a movie. By the time we returned, she was a little more relaxed. The next morning she made us breakfast and after we ate, we lay down and listened to music. There was really nothing much to pack because I had been living a nomadic life, with all my belongings in one backpack that I took with me wherever I went.
We later drove to the airport, and as we approached the terminal, I told her to drop me off and not wait for me to check in. I got out of the car with my bag while she remained in the car. I walked around to the driver’s side window and gave her a kiss as tears rolled down her face. Quis barked from the backseat. I reassured her, telling her not to worry and that I would be back in a few weeks. But inside I was really saying, Thank you for everything. I may not see you again, so may you have a good life.
As she drove off, I went inside the terminal to check in. For some reason, I was very confident about this trip. I completely forgot that the diplomatic passport I was traveling with was bogus. I walked straight to the Iberian Airways check-in counter and presented my passport and ticket. The attendant checked me in without batting an eye. I collected my boarding pass, grabbed my backpack, and proceeded to the departure hall. By 9:30 p.m. we were on our way to London. We landed at Heathrow Airport two to three hours later for a layover.
After another two hours, I boarded my connecting flight to Miami, full of anxiety and expectation. I had a few bottles of wine, watched movies, and tried as much as possible to pretend that everything would be okay. In Miami, I got off the plane and went in search of my connecting flight. To get to the terminal where my connecting flight was, I had to pass through U.S. immigration.
I presented my passport to the immigration officer. He inspected it closely, his face showing his doubt. He questioned me about the authenticity of the passport. He wanted to know where I was going, and I told him that I was visiting the Bahamas. He explained that they had received information that during the war in Liberia, a lot of Liberian diplomatic and official passports were stolen and people had been caught traveling with them. They had seen an increasing number of cases of people who were not Liberians or diplomats traveling with such passports. He told me that mine looked real, but that he had his doubts. He said he had a young boy like me at home, and assumed I’d had a rough life and he didn’t want to make things more difficult for me than they had already been. He advised me that Bahamian immigrations wouldn’t allow me to enter with that passport, and asked me if I knew anyone in the U.S. I said no, and he told me that the best thing was to return to wherever I had come from, because even if he allowed me to continue, I would run into problems getting into the Bahamas. Once that happened, the Bahamians would most certainly deport me back to the U.S., and the U.S. would send me back to whatever country I had entered the U.S. from. He stressed that this would give me a bad record with the U.S., which would jeopardize my possibility of getting into the country later. He was the kindest immigration officer I had ever met, and I found his advice priceless. He concluded by telling me that the choice was mine.
It was practically impossible to overlook the consequences of my decisions. I decided it would be best for me to return to Spain. I thanked the officer and told him my plan. He handed me my passport, and I hurried over to the British Airways transfer counter. I explained to the attendants that I had to go back on the same flight that had brought me because I had some urgent matters that required me to return immediately to Spain. I doubted that they bought my explanation, but it didn’t matter. All I wanted at that point was to be out of the U.S. as fast as possible. America was my ultimate destination, and I couldn’t afford to ruin my chances of ever getting in.
Fortunately, they were able to get me on the flight. Since I had my backpack that contained all of my personal belongings, there was no issue of retrieving or checking in my luggage.
I was convinced that my sudden change of plan would never go unnoticed by British Airways. I felt dejected on the return flight. I thought I would be in the Bahamas by then. I never considered that I would be returning to Spain less than forty-eight hours after I left.
Luckily, I was not completely without a plan. Before leaving Spain, I had carefully hidden my asylum card under the insole of my shoe, so that if I encountered a situation that would require my deportation to a country, it would be Spain. Still, I felt completely hopeless and could barely tolerate the thought of returning to Spain when I had already told everyone I knew that I was going to the Bahamas to visit my family. I couldn’t go back to John’s shop since I didn’t know how to explain why I was back in Barcelona. The embarrassment was more than I could take. Worst of all, I would have to start all over again and I had no place to stay. As these thoughts kept playing over and over in my mind, I decided to make another bold move: I would stop in London.
A few hours later we landed in London and I proceeded to immigration, where I presented my passport to the officer. He asked where I was coming from, and I told him I was returning from the U.S. He flipped through the pages of my passport, looking for a U.S. stamp that wasn’t there. He asked me again where I was coming from, and I replied that I lived in Barcelona. I explained that I had left there to visit the Bahamas a couple of days ago, but upon arrival in Miami, I had changed my mind and decided to visit London instead. It was such a flimsy explanation that even I didn’t buy it. He called the attention of another security officer, and they asked me to follow them.
I was taken into a holding room at the airport. The two men began throwing rapid-fire questions at me and I gave them random answers. They weren’t satisfied with my explanations and had reason to believe that I was traveling with a forged passport; as a result, they wouldn’t allow me to enter London. They told me to stay in the room and that someone would come and speak to me later. I waited for what seemed like ages. Eventually, two menacing, heavyset white guys who looked like intelligence officers came into the room. They sat down across from me and started interrogating me. They wanted to know who I was, what I did for a living, where I was going, where I was coming from, and what I intended to do in London. Once again, I gave my story: my father was from the Bahamas, my mother was a Liberian who happened to be a diplomat, and I was just going back to the Bahamas to visit my folks. Obviously, they didn’t accept my explanation, but I decided not to change my story.
They kept probing and trying to get me to confess—something I almost began to enjoy as the drama continued to unfold. Seeing my nonchalant attitude, the two men started threatening me with jail time, and one of them got so furious that he grabbed me by the neck, shaking me and trying to knock the life out of me. But I wouldn’t budge; I looked him straight in the eye and asked him to go on and do his worst. The officers calmed down and tried to come at me from another angle. They told me that they knew I was Nigerian and they were pretty familiar with how Nigerians operated. Suddenly, I realized their intention. If I was proven a Liberian, they wouldn’t be able to deport me to Liberia because of the war there. But if they could establish that I was from another country—Nigeria, for instance—where there was no ongoing conflict, then it would be easy for them to deport me on the next available flight.
Armed with this knowledge, I decided to play their mind games. I told them I had no idea what they were talking about; I didn’t even know of any country called Nigeria. I locked eyes with them and stated that I was Bahamian. They threatened me a few more times, but the more aggressive they got with me, the more stubborn I became. After several hours of abusive, inhumane interrogation, the two officers decided to give up. They described a horrible detention center somewhere in London where there were a lot of hardened criminals, and said they would be.....

deemehjee: okay..I coNFESS.yea,bro u got me hooked.the main problem i see in the write-up is that i keep coming for more...what happened to your waec nd ume?also,what about your 'supposed' son?

thank you but pls no try m again oo..we're hooked and you can tease us..so take it all the way..no brakes

This was your best period since getting into spain, okay job, gr8 girlfriend. For many that woulda been enough.
Anyway if you ever get tired of being a marine, barbing is there...joking.
Looking forward to the next update.