At LAST!!!...juz wakin..*yawn*..

@jake..thks buh pls NO repeat performance of yesterday's show..

damn!...'m late for school..

Goodmorning/afternoon/evening depending on which continent you're on.

Thought I should share this before my next post (in 2 mikes)

Someone asked me not long ago what my focus, goal, or motivation was for writing this book. I tried articulating an answer but gave what may be considered at best evasive response. I did not want to sound like a broken record “don’t want anyone to suffer what I went through”… the fact of the matter is that, I do want to sound like a broken record if it means that someone will benefit from my experience.
Thousands of young men/women leave Naija every single day in search of greener pastuere…ill prepared and not knowing about the danger along the way. I made a conscious decision to spare readers of the more grotesque/traumatic details/incidents--many dead, many in prison, many ran mad and many enslaved--family have no idea what have become of their child/children. ..
Bottom line, I’m leaving conclusions as well as take aways up to you,the reader…but to me personally, my book is simply a travel guide for those aspiring to embark on the journey..
I had the pleasure of flying with Prof Wale Soyinka (yes that one.. don’t mean to drop names either cuz in my line of work I do meet people)from Nigeria to a Atlanta. I told him about my book, and his words were that we have to make this book available to our people…I don’t intend to make any money from the book..(obviously that’s why I’m posting it on Nairaland before the book actually comes out); however, according to the prof we need a wider dissemination of the story in Naija…so please do your part, get involved by recommending this reading to anyone who thinks that he/she wants to travel abroad… a wise man learns from other people mistakes not his/her own.

It's all up to you now..you can chose to do nothing, which is perfectly OK, or become part of something that you can be proud of;though, it might not be transparent to you, but be rest assured that someone out there has already been saved/helped just by reading this story....from the bottom of my heart to you all.
Jakemond

#39
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more than pleased to send me there to see how long I could survive. I told them I had nothing more to say to them and that they could send me wherever they pleased, but I’d prefer if they would send me home to the Bahamas.
They weren’t kidding. A few hours later, some security types barged into the room and ordered me to go with them. They put me into a security vehicle and sped away from the airport.
That was my first time seeing London, and I was not impressed with the little I saw. All my life, I had imagined London as a fantastic, absolutely beautiful city, but the London that I saw wasn’t even close to what I had pictured. There were many bumps in the roads and the weather was gloomy. What seemed like a multitude of poor people roamed the neighborhood and there were countless run-down houses.
After what seemed like an hour, we arrived at the detention center. I was processed and they searched me and my belongings, but they never found my asylum card hidden in my boot.
The first two nights at the detention center were absolutely horrible. The officers’ narrative about it wasn’t far from the truth; in fact, it was actually a lot worse than they described. It was one of the scariest places I had ever been. There were all kinds of people in the center, including drug dealers who had been detained for immigration violations. The most vocal and aggressive group was the Jamaican group. Unfortunately, one of the leaders of the Jamaican group found it offensive that I was claiming to be Bahamian; he kept insisting I was a Nigerian. He said he could tell a Nigerian when he saw one, and he knew their reputation. He even said I was specifically Igbo. I didn’t argue with him, given the number of followers he had, but I was never known to be one who shied away from a fight. I respectfully told him that he was full of shit, and that infuriated him. Apparently, no one at the center had ever talked to him like that.
Before I knew it, a handful of Jamaicans jumped me. I fought back, but I knew it was no use because of their sheer number. Nonetheless, I wasn’t going to sit back and let them beat me. I did my best to defend myself, but not even Superman could have fended off ten angry Jamaicans. However, my pride wouldn’t let me stop. In the end they left me alone, either because they admired my courage or because they were tired, but certainly not because I gave up.
When I was a child, my father used to beat me, but I always fought back. I would scream and kick until he would get tired. In my adolescent years, my Uncle Francis used to beat me whenever I presumably did something wrong, but I never yielded to him, either. It was understandable, then, that I was not about to give in to a bunch of no-good Jamaican criminals. They had beaten me up, but I was very satisfied with myself for fighting back. That was the important thing, and I was sure at least some of the other detainees admired my courage.
Things did not get better at the detention center. There was no food and I went hungry for two days. At the end of the second day, I kneeled and asked God not to let me be detained for more than three days. After my prayers, I relaxed and went into deep reflection. I finally came to the conclusion that it was best to return to Spain.
I asked the security officers who managed the center to call the immigration officers at the airport and tell them that I was ready to talk. That same day, I was whisked back to the airport, but before leaving the detention center, I had retrieved my asylum card from my shoes. When I got to the airport, I was taken to the same room where I had been interrogated two days before, and minutes later, the same two officers from the last time walked in. I calmly explained to them that I was ready to return to Spain, where I lived. I pulled out my asylum card and showed it to them. They had a smug look on their faces, but it didn’t matter to me. The two officers left—I assumed to call the Spanish authorities to confirm the authenticity of my asylum card. When they returned, they told me I would be going back to Spain the next day. I sarcastically responded, “That’s where I want to go anyway. I live there, for crying out loud. So should I be excited and give you kisses for sending me back to where I live?”
With that out of the way, I had nothing else to hide. I demanded to make a call to my girlfriend so she could pick me up from the airport, and they obliged me. I called Maria Joana and explained that I’d had some problems and was returning to Spain the next day; I would give her the details when I arrived. I doubted that she understood a word I said to her. At this time my Spanish was still rudimentary, and she didn’t speak a word of English. Nonetheless, she seemed glad to hear my voice. She had been very concerned because I hadn’t called since I had left Spain. I finally got her to understand that I needed her to pick me up at the Barcelona airport. An officer drove me back to the detention center, where I spent the night, and I was put on a flight to Barcelona the next morning.
Two hours later, we landed in Barcelona, and I had no problem going through immigration. Maria Joana was waiting for me outside the airport. I got into the car and we drove back to her place. She didn’t particularly care to hear my explanation; she was just pleased to have me back.
The next few weeks in Barcelona were the most challenging for me. I had no job and no money, and was completely dependent on Maria Joana. I tried as much as possible to find work, to no avail. My days began with a run along the beach. There was an open-air gym at the beach, where I would work out after my run. I tried a few other things to keep myself busy; I bought Rollerblades and skated every day with a female friend from Belgium. After a nasty fall, I decided to give that up and stick to running. Usually, after my run, I would spend the rest of the morning and the afternoon watching Spanish and American soap operas and American sitcoms like The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and Family Matters. In the evenings, Maria Joana would return from work and make us dinner, and after that, we would take her dog on a long walk. Occasionally, I would convince her to let me go out and party as I used to, and she would grudgingly let me. Knowing my reputation, Maria Joana must have been afraid that some other girl would snatch me. Of course, she had reason to fear because each time I went out, I would hang out with other girls and do what I normally did.
Sometimes in the afternoons, as much as I hated dogs, I would end up playing with Quis out of boredom, and he grew very fond of me. I walked him every evening, too. For some reason, my new relationship with the dog didn’t go over well with Maria Joana. One day we were having a conversation and I asked her, hypothetically, if her apartment were on fire and she could only save one life, who would she save: me or the dog? Of course, Quis, she said, and that did it for me. I decided to turn the dog against her. I got much closer to Quis and he became more attached to me, walking behind me instead of her, and listening to me rather than his owner.
Maria Joana became very jealous of my relationship with Quis, and became infuriated one day when we were walking him. She had yelled for him to come to her, but instead, he ran up to me, and she broke down and started crying on the street. After that day I stopped trying to interfere between her and her dog. It was obvious that the dog had a special place in her heart, and as for me, as long as I lived under her roof, I needed to understand my place.
An idle mind, they say, is the devil’s workshop. As I continued wallowing away with nothing to do, I gradually started to drift back into my old ways. Sometimes, after my morning run, I would spend some time walking on the beach or along Las Ramblas, interacting with beautiful girls. On one occasion, I met an absolute beauty from France called Muriel, who was a tourist visiting Barcelona. We got along well and spent the entire afternoon at the beach chatting and laughing. She was a year or two younger than me. Muriel told me that she was in Barcelona for the summer, but would perhaps stay through the fall so she could enroll in a Spanish university to learn Castilian. Later that day I accompanied her to Plaza Reyes, where she was staying in a rooming house. After that, I invited her to my apartment, knowing Maria Joana would still be at work at the time. In the apartment, I explained to her that I was living with a girl, and she seemed to understand. We spent a while kissing and making out, and she left just before Maria Joana came home. I continued seeing Muriel on a regular basis while Maria Joana was at work.
One day, Muriel found an apartment and asked me to help her move her things from the rooming house, and I agreed. Unfortunately, the move was supposed to take place in the evening, when I usually spent time with Maria Joana, and on the day of the move, she was in an emotional state. I couldn’t leave her like that, and besides, there were no good excuses for leaving the apartment that night. Muriel waited for me, and when I didn’t show up, she started calling our house phone, something I had specifically told her not to do in the evenings. Each time she called, I would pick up the phone and pretend it was a wrong number. After a while, Maria Joana became more relaxed and I was able to convince her to let me leave the apartment briefly.
I rushed over to Plaza Reyes and met Muriel on the street. The expression on her face was one I had never seen before; she was fuming. She asked what I was doing and why I hadn’t taken her calls. I told her that I had been busy, but she didn’t accept that excuse. She became more agitated and kept asking me to tell her the truth. She asked if I was making love to Maria Joana and if that was the reason I couldn’t talk on the phone. I said no. Then she started yelling at me, accusing me again. She called me a bastard and, before I could utter a word, she slapped me across the face several times.
I was too shocked to react. I noticed people on the street watching us. I had a flashback to my last fight with a girl, back when I was in secondary school, when the girl had injured my head with the heel of her shoe. As I was recovering from my confusion, Muriel slapped me again, insisting I admit that I had been making love to Maria Joana when she was calling. To stop the humiliation, I told her that she was right and I was sorry. Then she stopped. She ordered me to carry her luggage, and I obeyed. We were supposed to have moved her belongings with a taxi, but she said that because of my actions, we would have to walk five miles. As we walked, I begged her to forgive me and remain friends with me, but she wouldn’t say another word. When we got to her new apartment, she opened the door, took her luggage from me and, without looking at me, walked right in and slammed the door in my face. That was the last time I ever saw Muriel.
I got tired of being idle. I wasn’t satisfied with sitting in the house, expecting someone else to take care of me. I continued searching for a job. Every day I would go out, and at times I would join my friends who were street performers on Las Ramblas, putting on a dancing show for tourists. Sometimes we would make reasonable amounts of money. But street performance was not my thing. I couldn’t imagine doing it on a regular basis. I wouldn’t want to be seen by people who knew me. One day I came up with a brilliant idea: selling cold water at the beach. The weather was still hot like it was the middle of summer, and there were always lots of people at the beach, but I didn’t remember anyone selling directly to the sunbathers there. When the people at the beach wanted to buy cold drinks, they had to walk back two hundred to three hundred meters to the stores to get them. Why not bring cold drinks directly to them? I discussed it with Maria Joana, and she thought it was a good idea.
In the evenings I would buy boxes of cold water and soft drinks, and put them in the fridge. The following afternoon I would carry the beverages to the beach. I would take my shirt off to expose my highly athletic body and get the attention of all the females, since majority of the people at the beach were young women. It worked like magic every time; my products were always sold within minutes of my arrival. After four days I thought I had finally found a way of making a living, but on the fifth day the police intercepted me, confiscated my wares, and told me that I couldn’t operate at the beach without a license. They threatened to throw me in jail if I ever showed up at the beach again. That was how that adventure ended.
As time went on, I became increasingly restless. I came to detest depending on Maria Joana and knew it couldn’t go on forever. She could get tired of me and throw me out of her place, even though so far there was no indication that she would. She seemed to understand my plight. Fortunately, the apartment we lived in belonged to her, so she wasn’t paying rent. She and her friend Jessica had moved from Mallorca to Barcelona right after college and bought different apartments in the same building. Maria Joana’s apartment was on the fourth floor, while Jessica bought one on the third floor. Jessica had also bought a building adjacent to our apartment complex. She was an American from Florida and had inherited a large sum of money from her grandfather, who was a millionaire. Right after her parents got divorced, her mother took her to live with her in Mallorca.
I got along very well with Jessica and sometimes I wished I were with her instead of Maria Joana. She was single, and if I married her, I would become an American citizen. And it wouldn’t hurt to marry someone wealthy. Unfortunately, she had a nice boyfriend, Nike, whom I liked very much. They were good for each other. Jessica also had an annoying little dog, one of the smallest I had ever seen. Though tiny, she barked more than any other dog I had heard and always attacked dogs ten times her size.
Maria Joana also came from a very wealthy family; her grandfather had died and left a substantial amount of money and property, which she and her brother shared. She owned a house in Mallorca and had used part of her inheritance to buy the apartment we lived in. I had never met her parents. From time to time she would visit them, but she never invited me. Her whole family was white and very racist, particularly her brother, who ran a successful business. She was afraid that if she introduced me to them, they would disown her.
After much pressure from me, she told her parent that she was seeing a black guy. She said her mother had almost fainted and told her never to mention it to anyone, especially not her brother or her father, and that she must never bring me to their house. After she told me this, I became infuriated and had no interest in meeting the hopeless bigots. I didn’t care too much about people who refused to accept me because of my race. I respected people’s freedom to choose who they wanted to associate with. Maria Joana’s parents’ behavior wasn’t too surprising to me, though. At the time Spain was still embroiled in bigotry and racism. On a daily basis the police harassed me on the street for documentation just because of the color of my skin. This racist behavior existed in every institution in Spain. Whenever black people were riding on the metro or a train, for example, it was not unusual for the conductors to assume that they hadn’t paid their fare. They would rudely ask for their tickets, while ignoring all the white passengers who may or may not have bought tickets.
Since I moved to Spain, I could hardly remember a day that had passed without being stopped by the police and asked to show my papers. Sometimes I would walk down the street and people would yell at me, calling me “fucking Negro monkey” and telling me to go back to Africa. I would just smile and marvel at their ignorance. It never bothered me so much because each time someone tried to insult me with a racist comment, I would compare myself to him and conclude that I liked what I saw in myself and had no reason to be offended by his comments. I had a body to die for and considered myself highly intelligent. More so, I had tremendous intellectual capacity and could compete and excel overwhelmingly better than any of my detractors in any challenge, be it physical, mental, or academic.
On one occasion, during the Olympics, I ran into a TV crew along Las Ramblas. They were covering the issue of racism in Barcelona, and they picked me from the crowd and wanted to interview me. At first I was a little reluctant, but I later agreed to be interviewed. The reporter never told me what questions I would be asked before they turned the camera on me, and I was offended when they started filming. The reporter asked me all sorts of idiotic questions and went into very personal questions. I finally lost it when she asked me to say how I felt when racist white people threw derogatory comments at me. With disgust in my voice, yet without losing my composure, I said, “Excuse me, lady, why do you assume that black people are always the ones on the receiving end? Why would you conclude that racism is always directed at black people? Did it ever occur to you that a black person could also choose to be racist? I could be the one saying racist things against nonblack people. I completely reject the notion that black people are the ones always on the receiving end of racism and bigotry. I think there needs to be some balance; I’m sick and tired of playing the defense. I want to be on the offensive and have people of other races....
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Commentaries and critics very welcome...yabis of any kind more than welcomed too!!

jake bros, don't even worry...all my guys don start to de read the story and they don begin the spread word around too..keep up the gook work.

Your profligacy is legendary bro! One will expect that the ten thousand dollars u made from the hotel construction will wheel your life around 180degrees. Alas you blew it on tourism and trivialities!(Quite disappointing cos its unAfrican to put the horse before the cart). Many a Nigerian would stick to the basics till they get what they wanted. Again,although you still sound ambitious during your sojourn in Spain but you were completely taken by the new life style you discovered there which detract from the ambitious you while in African continent(but you sound so ignorant of that fact, your various attempt at getting to your final destination - USA notwithstanding).

What still held me glued to your story is the seeming honesty and sincerity. Have'nt seen any element of coloration or distortion of facts yet. Keep it coming brah!


PS:Why didnt you go back to John your barber master for job upon your return, atleast I see him as your best bait?

Ishsoph: Your profligacy is legendary bro! One will expect that the ten thousand dollars u made from the hotel construction will wheel your life around 180degrees. Alas you blew it on tourism and trivialities!(Quite disappointing cos its unAfrican to put the horse before the cart). Many a Nigerian would stick to the basics till they get what they wanted. Again,although you still sound ambitious during your sojourn in Spain but you were completely taken by the new life style you discovered there which detract from the ambitious you while in African continent(but you sound so ignorant of that fact, your various attempt at getting to your final destination - USA notwithstanding).

What still held me glued to your story is the seeming honesty and sincerity. Have'nt seen any element of coloration or distortion of facts yet. Keep it coming brah!


PS:Why didnt you go back to John for job, atleast I see him as your best bait?

Ishsoph: Had to respond to this one quick..still got a few hrs before my meetings.

while, I disagree with your assessment..I do agree that sometimes it does seem as if was caught up with the life style.. but you should know because, you yourself live overseas too..you have to explore options and make sacrifices..as you read along, you would realize that each move (trip, party any social activity) was a clear calculated move intended for meeting people.. that potential someone/person or event that will culminate to elevating me to the next level..

As for John, I could not go back to his shop not after the send off part and lies.though, he was a good man and would have understood but I always move forward and not backwards..

thx man,

Jakemond

repogirl: 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.

-very funny me lady..you're catching on too quick;however, the best is yet to come or shall I say written...

-as you will see from my profile pix which I by the way inserted yesterday, you will notice that I'm still a good barber

Lol, indeed you are, I see. .

I do agree with ishsoph's analysis though. You blew the 10k on frivolities! Yeah, you said it was all a calculated move but me thinks you get carried away and loooove to have fun.
And at ishsoph, you said Africans put the horse before the cart? Really? I don't think so, I think that's a personal thing. Speaking for myself anyway!I'm totally hopeless with money.

During this time in spain, did you have any contact with your family?

As usual, looking forward to the next post.
BTW, Chinedum, where are you?

repogirl: Lol, indeed you are, I see. .

I do agree with ishsoph's analysis though. You blew the 10k on frivolities! Yeah, you said it was all a calculated move but me thinks you get carried away and loooove to have fun.
And at ishsoph, you said Africans put the horse before the cart? Really? I don't think so, I think that's a personal thing. Speaking for myself anyway!I'm totally hopeless with money.

During this time in spain, did you have any contact with your family?

As usual, looking forward to the next post.
BTW, Chinedum, where are you?

me lady, once again you tickle my intellect..I humbly yield to you and ishsoph i must admit, that was not the last time i had to blow a few grands but you will find out in the near future(subsequent writings)

As for my family, you're about to find out soonest..patience me lady.

#40

have to go now..will post upon return--depending if need to drive up to Phillei tonight..yes to see my mom and attend church on sunday. not to forget, eat ukasi soup too.
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speak of how they feel about black people’s racist attitude toward them. Ultimately, every human being has freedom of expression. As a black man, I also have the right to choose what race I want to associate with, though it may not be right. I could choose to be racist toward people of other races. So why don’t you stop whites, Chinese, and Indians, and ask them how they feel when a black person such as myself makes racist comments against them?” With that, I walked off.
Meanwhile, Maria Joana never insinuated that she didn’t want me in her place. We were living together as a couple and might as well have been married. At the time, although I hadn’t realized it, she was doing a lot for us. She went to work early in the morning and came back late and tired, but I would still expect her to cook for us. I never tried to help her in any way. The only things I did in the apartment were to clean the living room, make the bed when I woke up, and walk the dog; she did everything else. On top of that, she tried to make sure I was happy. Whenever I needed money, she gave some to me. I never showed her gratitude, though, and kept seeing other girls, sometimes socially, other times intimately. I didn’t see a reason to be faithful. I was young with high testosterone, and girls found me attractive. Spain had a fairly open attitude toward sex, and casual sex was the order of the day during this time. Still, though the other girlfriends I had were closer to my age and shared the same social interests, there wasn’t enough reason to leave Maria Joana.
Sometimes, just to help me relax from the stress of not having a job, she would take me camping on weekends. Sometimes we would go to Montserrat mountain, and other weekends we would drive up to the Pyrenees mountains by the border between Spain and France. We would camp up there for two days, enjoying the abundant natural beauty. We would leave her car at the base of the mountain and climb several hours to the highest point, where we would pitch our tent. The view from there was magnificent. There were waterfalls and many natural pools up in the mountains, and we would bathe there and then lie down for hours to read. The rest of the time we walked around the mountains exploring, eating, and sleeping. I always looked forward to these trips because after each one, I felt relaxed and refreshed.
My joblessness continued until one day, when I remembered that one of my clients at John’s shop suggested I try modeling. Indeed, a number of my clients at John’s shop were models. This guy believed I had the looks and personality to become a model. He had given me some contacts, so I decided to explore this option. I went to several agencies; each one interviewed me and thought that I had potential. They asked me to do a composite, a special photo album. When I got home that day, I told Maria Joana about the modeling idea. Fortunately, she had a degree in photography. She even had a darkroom in our apartment with all sorts of equipment and expensive cameras. Within days we had taken different pictures of me in different poses, outfits, and locations. It was very well done and the images were phenomenal. I looked like a professional model, like I had been doing it for years. With the composite completed, I started hitting up the agencies again. This time it was easier because I had my photographs.
My first job was modeling for a watch. It didn’t pay much, but it was a start. I was encouraged and kept going from one agency to another. Next, I was called by one of the agencies, but to my surprise, they didn’t call me for a modeling job. They wanted me to be a stagehand at a Guns N’ Roses concert. I didn’t mind that this had nothing to do with modeling. As much as I disliked rock concerts, I took the job because I needed the money—the equivalent of one hundred dollars. On the day of the concert, I went early to the venue. The other stagehands and I were given stage passes and we set up a stage. It turned out to be a great concert, and when it was over, we tore down the stage. The most important thing for me was that we were allowed to take the leftover food and drinks.
A week later, the modeling agency called me again. This time, they wanted me as a stagehand for a Prince concert. I was so excited; Prince was very popular in Spain and I liked his music, especially “Purple Rain.” I was paid the same amount as for the Guns N’ Roses concert, and I even got to meet Prince afterward. I also took home leftover food and drinks. But after that concert, I decided I was done with that agency. I wanted to work as a model, not a stagehand, so from then on, I just ignored their calls.
Not long afterward, I got a call from a different agency to appear at a movie premiere of The Crow in Barcelona. Usually, movie stars would attend the premieres of their films in different countries and cities. But the actors for The Crow weren’t able to attend their premiere in Barcelona, and the movie distributors in Barcelona had decided to use local talent to double as the stars of the movie at the premiere. One of the stars was black, and I was contracted to attend the premiere as his double. Two days after the premiere of The Crow, I was contacted by another agency. This time, I was to act along with a prominent Spanish TV character in a feature film entitled El Techo del Mundo. It was my first movie experience and the director (Felipe Vega)was very well known. We shot my part for two days. It was a tedious experience because one scene took a whole day and I had to run up and down a mountain many times before the director was satisfied. I even managed to say a few words in Igbo during the shooting. I was very surprised that they kept my line, and when the movie came out, my Igbo comment made the cut. I was only paid a hundred dollars, but it was very gratifying to be featured in a movie.
After the movie, modeling work became scarce and I started wandering the streets again, going from agency to agency. What happened next was a complete embarrassment. I had unknowingly given my information to agencies that claimed to be modeling agencies but were actually escort agencies. What they really did was connect their young, naïve model wannabes to their rich clients for sex. The male models were connected to rich older ladies and the females to rich older men. One day, I was called by one of these agencies for a modeling job. When I got there, the female manager explained that the job was not a traditional modeling type job, but it was related to modeling. She told me that I was to show up at a mixed bachelor’s eve party. The bride and groom and all their friends would be there. They had made an unusual request for a young black model as a surprise gift for the bride. She said the gig would pay two hundred dollars. I found the request a little weird. But my curiosity was aroused and I wanted to find out what was really going on, so I accepted the job. I was given the address for the party and was told to be there by 6 p.m. The party was to take place the next day, a Saturday.
I spend the entire day trying to imagine what the party would be like. What would my role be? Was I going there to make a monkey out of myself, and was this bizarre request racially motivated? Did the organizers of the party want a black man there so they could taunt him, call him names, and use him as their entertainment for the evening? My imagination completely ran wild with this possibility, but I did not have to wonder for long. At 6 p.m. I showed up at the party, dressed smartly as I was told to. I rang the bell and some ladies came to the door, clearly happy to see me.
The venue was a hotel and the party was going on at the bar. As soon as I arrived, the crowd started cheering. I had no idea why they were cheering or what was going on, but the next thing I knew, all the ladies were on their feet, flocking around me, touching and groping me. I was confused and embarrassed. I looked around, and there was no other black person at the party. Everyone was in their late twenties to early thirties, more than thirty people in all, partying, drinking, dancing, and having a good time. As the ladies gathered around me, one of the guys came up to me, grabbed me by the hand, and guided me to a seat where a nice, shy-looking lady in her early thirties was sitting. He asked me to sit beside her and keep her company. Someone asked me what I wanted to drink and brought me a glass of wine.
As I sat beside the lady, sipping my wine, she seemed a little nervous but eager to talk with me. Eventually, she summoned up the courage. By this time my Spanish had improved and I could carry on a regular conversation without much difficulty. As we talked, she said that she was getting married, and for her wedding gift, her friends had decided to give her a black man. She explained that this was not in a demeaning way. As I later found out, this bizarre idea of a gift was a somewhat misguided compliment to black men. The party went on and I danced with her and a few other ladies. I was the life of the party. I thought to myself that there was nothing wrong with being paid to socialize with people who were perfectly okay with me. But I was completely wrong.
Barely a few minutes later, two ladies walked up to me and asked me to follow them. They led me to a room upstairs. Inside was the bride-to-be, sitting awkwardly by the bed. The two ladies showed me to the room, turned around, and locked the door behind them. I was surprised, but I didn’t want to rush to judge because I didn’t yet know her intentions. She had already mentioned that I was her wedding present, but I had no idea how far I would have to stretch that notion. I gave her an awkward smile and sat on the chair. I asked her if everyone knew that we were there, and she said everyone was in on the plan. I asked her what her intentions were; I was not a marriage counselor or a pastor, so what could she possibly want to talk to me about? Before I could say any more, she was all over me, kissing and tearing off my clothes.
I was enraged and completely disgusted, but I recognized the dilemma I was in. Here I was, a black man without immigrant status, and if I offended her by refusing her advances, she could easily claim that I had tried to rape her. I calmed myself and told her to relax; I would give in to all her demands. Fortunately, she had brought a condom with her. We had sex and apparently she was blown away by my performance and complimented me on it, saying her friends had been right about black men.
Despite her flattering words, I felt completely humiliated. I felt very small as I got up and walked into the bathroom to scrub myself thoroughly. When I came back out, everybody, including her husband-to-be, was in the room, laughing and talking loudly. The lady was still lying on the bed, now with her clothes on. She was smoking and chatting away with her girlfriends. As I entered the room feeling awkward and embarrassed, some of them tried to put me at ease, but it didn’t help. I’d had more than I could take, so I told them I was leaving. One of the ladies who had let me in when I arrived took me by the hand and walked me to a corner. She took out some money, which I supposed was my fee, because I was told by the agency that I would be paid at the party. She tried to hand me the money, but I told her to forget about it. Losing my dignity was one thing, but getting paid to lose my dignity was a lot worse. I never told anyone about the ordeal.
Meanwhile, I kept getting calls from that modeling agency, as well as other agencies. Apparently, word had gotten around about my performance at the party and a lot of people wanted to use me for similar occasions, but I had learned my lesson. After that humiliating experience at the party, I abruptly ended my “modeling career.” I had too much self-respect to continue. Maria Joana wanted to know why I had quit. I told her I was tired of running around to the agencies and that the jobs weren’t coming as regularly as I would have liked. I would look for a new job—one that didn’t require me to sacrifice my dignity and compromise my principles...

**********************
opine opine opine

Just one word, 'Shocking!'. These guys have definitely lost their values... And their heads too!

Thanks Jakemond, this should keep greedy people like benjames till you return.

[quote author=repogirl]Just one word, 'Shocking!'. These guys have definitely lost their values... And their heads too!

Thanks Jakemond, this should keep greedy people like benjames till you return.[/quote

touche sis!!

[quote author=JAKEMOND1]#40

Despite her flattering words, I felt completely humiliated. I felt very small as I got up and walked into the bathroom to scrub myself thoroughly. When I came back out, everybody, including her husband-to-be, was in the room, laughing and talking loudly. The lady was still lying on the bed, now with her clothes on. She was smoking and chatting away with her girlfriends. As I entered the room feeling awkward and embarrassed, some of them tried to put me at ease, but it didn’t help. I’d had more than I could take, so I told them I was leaving. One of the ladies who had let me in when I arrived took me by the hand and walked me to a corner. She took out some money, which I supposed was my fee, because I was told by the agency that I would be paid at the party. She tried to hand me the money, but I told her to forget about it. Losing my dignity was one thing, but getting paid to lose my dignity was a lot worse. I never told anyone about the ordeal.

CLASSIC!
Before you made the bolded comment I'd already convinced myself that if I were you, I will not accept whatever amount of money they hand me. More like selling oneself(and cheap at that!). **pukes**.

repogirl: Lol, indeed you are, I see. .

I do agree with ishsoph's analysis though. You blew the 10k on frivolities! Yeah, you said it was all a calculated move but me thinks you get carried away and loooove to have fun.
And at ishsoph, you said Africans put the horse before the cart? Really? I don't think so, I think that's a personal thing. Speaking for myself anyway!I'm totally hopeless with money.

During this time in spain, did you have any contact with your family?

As usual, looking forward to the next post.
BTW, Chinedum, where are you?

Repogirl misses my teasing

did u recall d part jake said that he had a body to die for?

Said not i to THEE that jake is like Tekena?

Come think of it

those martial art moves Tekena has , jake got them as a US marine.

I got silent when you called my observation 'forced love'..

I didnt want the tease to get sour.

Ishilove pointed out that jake was acting like he had a crush on u

it occurred to me that Tekena had a crush on diefa!

*wags finger* you ehn, anyway I blame myself for looking for trouble. Shaking my head as I choose to ignore you, I don't want to derail again.

repogirl: *wags finger* you ehn, anyway I blame myself for looking for trouble. Shaking my head as I choose to ignore you, I don't want to derail again.

repogirl my sis, just admit it and be free..you're falling for our "gentle warrior"..i dn't envy u but u need to admit it simple

benjames:

repogirl my sis, just admit it and be free..you're falling for our "gentle warrior"..i dn't envy u but u need to admit it simple

You sure you don't envy me? If you were female I would have said the same of you judging by your 'adoring' comments so far and by the way you attacked Ishi on his behalf.
I don dey suspect you since but I no wan talk am.

repogirl:

You sure you don't envy me? If you were female I would have said the same of you judging by your 'adoring' comments so far and by the way you attacked Ishi on his behalf.
I don dey suspect you since but I no wan talk am.

we no dey talk about my feelings, we dey talk about yours. everybody here know say u like the guy and em self dey pretend too, cuz he likes you too
.sis wake up and smell the roses. read between the lines

repogirl:

You sure you don't envy me? If you were female I would have said the same of you judging by your 'adoring' comments so far and by the way you attacked Ishi on his behalf.
I don dey suspect you since but I no wan talk am.

my lady, don't worry I'm cool with the allegation and you should be too; everyone has the inherent right to exercise his/her 1st amendment right

Jake

benjames:

we no dey talk about my feelings, we dey talk about yours. everybody here know say u like the guy and em self dey pretend too, cuz he likes you too
.sis wake up and smell the roses. read between the lines

benjames: as much as I like you enthusiasm, I think you might want to tame the rhetoric down a notch or two..you've been both a loyal and aggressive follower and I genuinely admire that about you, but we have to consider other people feelings too. thx

Jake

, I smile in French

#41,

Once again I'm back from the hustling and bustling of the beltway life..so lets get right to it...42 more pages to go before I turn the thread loose for analysis and start living book #3..with that said, let get to to work..
****************************
Chapter Eighteen

I remained unwavering in my desire to leave Spain and travel to America. Meanwhile, Maria Joana’s work leave was fast approaching, and she wanted us to travel to the Bahamas so we could see my family. By this time she knew I didn’t have a passport and all I had was my asylum card, which stated that I was Bahamian. She encouraged me to find a way of getting a passport so we could both travel to the Bahamas. Luckily, I was well connected in Barcelona and knew how to get whatever I wanted.
To show her support, Maria Joana gave me enough money to cover the passport expenses. I immediately contacted Kofi and told him that I needed a British passport. I could have asked for an American passport, or any other passport, but if I intended to end up in America, it wouldn’t be prudent for me to try to go through immigration again with a bogus American passport. Within a few hours, Kofi brought a bunch of passports, including some old British passports. I told Kofi to try harder—I specifically wanted a British European Union passport.
Within a day or two, Kofi came back to me with the British EU passport that I wanted. The name on the passport was David English. I had never lived in Britain, but I doubted that there were many black people in England with the last name English. Nevertheless, I had to take it; I was running out of time. Maria Joana’s leave started in a few days and we couldn’t afford to wait any longer. I handed some passport-size photographs to Kofi and paid him. A few hours later, he returned with the passport with my photo in it. I had become David English, 32. The age was about ten years off, but it was a problem that could be overcome, as most Westerners, in my experience, had difficulty discerning the age of black people. The next day, Maria Joana bought tickets for both of us to the Dominican Republic. We made sure it was a direct flight. I wanted to avoid a repeat of what had happened on my last attempt, so we chose to fly to the Dominican Republic and island-hop from there to the Bahamas.
During our twelve-hour flight I was a bit worried, since I wasn’t sure what would happen at immigration, but I was somehow reassured by Maria Joana’s presence. The fact that she was European would likely reduce suspicion as to my British nationality. Also, the Dominican Republic was predominantly mixed race—black and Spanish—so I figured my chances of being singled out by a black or mixed-race Dominican official were very slim.
As we went through immigration, I was confident. I collected Maria Joana’s passport from her and handed both our passports to the immigration officer. There was no indication that he was suspicious about me. The officer flipped through our passports and put an entry stamp on them. There was no visa requirement for Europeans going into Dominican Republic for less than three months. The officer handed back our passports, and we went outside to catch a taxi. I was incredibly relieved. I felt like I had just won the lottery, but I maintained my calm exterior.
Before leaving Barcelona, Maria Joana had made contact with someone in Sosúa, Puerto Plata, to rent a room in her place, so we took a taxi and headed there. Sosúa is a huge tourist spot and the locals capitalize on it by renting out rooms in their houses. We arrived at the location and checked into our room. The city was bustling. I was told it used to be a Jewish neighborhood. The majority of the people were mixed race, but there was also a large number of black and Spanish people; the rest were tourists from all over the world. Our plan was to stay in the Dominican Republic for three days before heading to another island.
Sosúa had fantastic beaches, so we indulged ourselves there. We also toured the town in the evenings and went to a club or two. It was three days well spent. After that, we flew to Providence Island and spent one day there, enjoying the serenity of the island. The next day, we flew out on a single-engine plane. The majority of the islands didn’t have big planes, so people generally traveled by boat, single-engine plane, or helicopter. Most airports on the islands were very small and the one on Providence Island was no exception. There were no regular flights and most airlines had only one scheduled flight out of the islands per day. So, if one missed one’s flight, one would have to wait a day or two before getting the next flight out. We hadn’t planned to go to Providence Island at first, but there was no direct flight from Puerto Plata to the Bahamas, or any islands close to the Bahamas. We left Providence Island the next day and arrived at Grand Turks and Caicos. We had to spend one day there because there was no flight that day going to the Bahamas. Grand Turks was one of the most beautiful islands I had ever seen. It’s a small island—about ten to twenty-five square kilometers— predominantly black, with magnificent beaches and very shallow water. The beach is incredibly clean and the water so clear that if you dropped a pin in it, you would be able to find it easily.
When we arrived on the island, Maria Joana and I were famished. We eventually found a burger shop, owned by a black guy who gave us a detailed history of the island, its population and demography. After that, we tried to find a hotel for the night, but everything was either fully booked or too expensive for us. The island was ridiculously overpriced. We had been astonished at how much we had to pay for the burgers we’d had for lunch. We weren’t willing to pay the exorbitant price for a hotel room, so we decided to enjoy nature instead. We went to a beach to camp, and I was surprised to find nobody there. In a stretch of almost five kilometers of pure beauty, there was only one man with his horse. We took a swim and, later that night, found a beautiful corner by the beach to pitch our tent. The next morning, we headed back to the airport and took a beach plane to Nassau, Bahamas. I didn’t anticipate that I would have any problems with my passport. At this point, my confidence was extremely high since I had gone through the Dominican Republic, Providence, and Grand Turks without a problem, and indeed there was no trouble getting through immigration at Nassau.
All the while we had been on this trip, my only preoccupation was what I would do when I got to the Bahamas. I had been living a lie telling Maria Joana that I was from there. She would expect me to know what to do and where to go. But I had never even visited the Bahamas and I barely knew what the people looked like. All I knew was that the island had a large percentage of black people, and it was about ninety miles away from Florida’s Key West. So before leaving Spain, I did a little research about the Bahamas so I would at least know the names of places. I also found a guesthouse at Cable Beach in Nassau.
As soon as we got out of the airport, we hailed a taxi and headed off to Cable Beach. The first bit of trouble was something I hadn’t anticipated. I did not speak Bahamian English, and when we arrived at the guesthouse, I could barely understand the lady who welcomed us. Nonetheless, we managed to get a room for two days. The plan was to stay there until I could reconnect with my family and get my Bahamian passport. After we settled in, I told Maria Joana that I had to go into town and see my folks. In reality, I was going to study the town, learn where different places were, see if it was possible to convince some people to play the role of my family members, and find out how to get a Bahamian passport.
I walked all over the city and even went to the adjacent island, Paradise Island, which had some of the most beautiful hotels. I talked to many people, trying to get a feel for how things were done in the Bahamas. My quest for a passport would have been more possible to accomplish if it had been in an African country, especially Nigeria, where everything goes. In Nigeria, if you had the money, you could not only get a passport, but also a whole family to play the role of your family. However, the more I tried, the clearer it became that I would not be able to pull this off here. Though the Bahamas was a predominantly black country, its culture was more Western. Things were more organized and the rule of law prevailed. Even though some corruption and fraudulent activities might have existed, they were not obvious to me. I didn’t have much time, and that made the situation worse. In the past, I had been able to pull off the most impossible schemes in the shortest periods of time, but that wouldn’t be the case in the Bahamas.
By evening I was exhausted, so I gave up and headed back to the guesthouse. On my way back, I decided to come clean with Maria Joana, but I had to find the right moment and do it in the least humiliating way. First, we went out to enjoy ourselves. We ate at a restaurant that I had discovered in the afternoon, and after that, we explored the nightlife in Nassau.
When we returned to the guesthouse, I decided it was the right time to tell her the truth. She went to take a shower, and I sat on the bed and started crying like a baby. When she came out, she asked why I was crying. After some hesitation, I started by telling her how I didn’t deserve her at all, that I had betrayed her trust in me. I said I hadn’t been entirely honest with her all this time, and that I would understand if she didn’t want to talk to me or see me ever again. She said she didn’t understand and asked what I was talking about. I continued to cry, and she came close and sat by my side, holding me in her arms. I confessed that I wasn’t Bahamian, and that I didn’t know anybody in the Bahamas—in fact, I was a Nigerian, and I had traveled from Nigeria to Liberia and had finally ended up in Spain. I explained that I had no choice but to claim refugee status so I could live in Spain.
I expected her to explode, but to my surprise, she calmly told me that she already knew. She said she had always known I wasn’t Bahamian and had suspected that I was actually a Nigerian, but since I kept insisting I was Bahamian, she had seen no reason to argue.
I was so relieved. I wished I had told her the truth all along, especially since it had clearly never mattered to her. The whole scheme had taken a toll on me. It was never easy having to live a lie—having to keep track of all the lies, and having to make up new ones to go with the ones already told.
With that matter settled, things became somewhat normal again between us. Still, I had a feeling that even though she wasn’t showing it, she was deeply hurt by my lies. Therefore, I thought it best not to return with her to Spain. When I told her, she didn’t seem to have any objection. We decided to enjoy and make the most of our vacation, and not allow my situation to ruin the trip. We switched to tourist mode. After a tour of Nassau, we went to Paradise Island and spent the rest of the day at beach. We tried the Bahamian delicacies, rice and peas, and the famous conch (pronounced “conk” in Bahamian English).
After two days in Nassau, we flew to the Grand Bahamas, another beautiful island. The Bahamas has seven hundred islands, most of which are not inhabited. The noticeable difference between the Grand Bahamas and the other Bahamian islands is that the people in the Grand Bahamas are mostly white. The demographic makeup of the Bahamas is eighty-five percent black, twelve percent white, and three percent Asian/Hispanic. From the Grand Bahamas, we flew to Governor’s Harbor, where we spent the night. After that, we returned to Nassau. We decided not to spend the next leg of the vacation in the Bahamas; we would continue on to Jamaica.
We sailed through immigration at the airport in Kingston, Jamaica. Milling just outside the arrival hall were some Jamaican big mamas who then teased me loudly, saying they wanted “a little piece of this brother man.” Their carefree attitude was a breath of fresh air--everybody was nice and friendly, and the people seemed happy and vibrant. There were plenty of cabs waiting at the airport wanting to give the “brother man” and his lady a ride to wherever they wanted to go. We chose a cab and asked the driver to recommend a cheap place where we could spend the night. One has to be careful what one wishes for; the cab driver took us to a ghetto-like neighborhood, and since it was late, we had no choice but to stay at the hotel he took us to.
The next day, we went on a tour of Kingston that included all the important places, including the Bob Marley Museum. However, we were both unimpressed with Kingston and didn’t want to spend another night there. But we did obtain some good information from a tourism information center and were intrigued by Montego Bay and Ocho Rios.
The next day, we left the hotel and took one of the bush taxis to Ocho Rios. After hours of driving through winding roads and around mountains with spectacular views, we checked into one of the hotels that provided breakfast and dinner. Ocho Rios was everything the book said it was: beautiful and touristic without losing its Jamaican flavor. There were many foreigners and sweet-talking Jamaicans wanting to sell us one thing or the other. The Jamaicans were smooth and reminded me of Nigerians, Igbos in particular. We settled in at the hotel, grabbed some food, and started exploring the city. It was challenging walking around because there was always somebody looking to be our tour guide. We finally hired one of them, and he showed us around and took us to an outdoor market. I was surprised to find stalls at the market where people openly sold different species of marijuana. It reminded me of afro-beat king Fela Ankulapo Kuti’s Kalakuta Republic, a place in Lagos founded by Fela where everyone from ordinary citizens to diplomats can go and enjoy not only Fela’s afro-beat music, but also freely smoke marijuana.
As we toured the market, I noticed that Maria Joana and our tour guide seemed to really be enjoying their conversation. At some point while we were at the marijuana section, I left them both to buy something elsewhere. Then we continued our sightseeing and returned to our hotel. Maria Joana said that she wanted to rest a bit, and I decided to go and hang out with other tourists. When I returned to the room later, I got the shock of my life. In bed, under the sheets, was Maria Joana. The lights were turned off and she was laughing uncontrollably. I was confused and couldn’t tell if she was alone or with someone. I immediately turned on the light and found her alone. I asked her what was going on and, looking at her closely, I noticed that her eyes were red and glassy. She kept laughing and wouldn’t respond to me. Then I smelled the marijuana. Apparently, after I had left the room, she had indulged in some weed. I investigated a little and found some wraps of marijuana lying around. I realized then that our tour guide must have helped her buy some at the market when I had left them alone.
The whole incident, though irritating, was also funny. The weed must have been very strong because she laughed the entire night. At some point I became concerned, but given my own experience, I knew she could come out of it. I made her drink some milk and raw eggs. The next morning, she was okay and told me exactly what had happened. Indeed, our tour guide had convinced her to try some weed and had helped her buy some.
******************************
the only dump question is the one not asked, so fire away!!

Is this all for today?

repogirl: Is this all for today?

sorry me lady, was watch Scandal not traveling tonight so will be able to post a couple more times

#42
************************
The next day, we went to the Ocho Rios waterfall and walked the trail. It was very long, and by the time we got to the waterfall, we were exhausted. There were many tourists at the site, most of them from the U.S. The good thing about interacting with other tourists is that there’s always some new information to glean from someone. One of them told us that the biggest reggae splash in Jamaica was scheduled to take place in Ocho Rios in three days. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me because I had always wanted to attend one. Everybody seemed excited about the event and I wasn’t going to miss it for anything in the world..
Two days later, we decided to explore Montego Bay. The famous Montego Bay beach was exactly as it had been described. Maria Joana sunbathed on the beach while I went jet skiing. Later, we rode on a banana boat and in a two-person kayak. After a very pleasant day, we headed back to Ocho Rios.
The reggae splash was to take place on our sixth day at Ocho Rios at 5 p.m. and would go on all night long. Unfortunately, that morning I was struck by malaria and could not get out of bed. I tried everything humanly possible to make myself well, but it was in vain. By evening my condition had deteriorated, but I was still determined to go to the reggae splash. I had never been one to allow sickness to deter me from accomplishing my goals and was also a firm believer in the saying that sickness is just a weakness leaving the body. With that in mind, I kept drinking lots of water and eating to regain some energy. Maria Joana was hopeful that I would get better because she also wanted to go to the event. By four o’clock I convinced myself that I was well enough to go. I staggered up from the bed and got dressed, and as we were about to leave our room, I felt lightheaded, but I continued pushing. When I got to the street, I blacked out. Fortunately, Maria Joana was by my side and I was able to hang onto her to keep from falling. Moments after I recovered, she made the decision for us and we returned to the hotel room.
The next morning I felt much better. After breakfast, we decided to confront the elephant in the room: our impending separation. I told her that I had decided where I wanted to go from there. My confidence in the David English passport was boosted after traveling to so many countries without a problem, so I thought I should try my luck in Canada. After much deliberation, it was settled: she would pay for my flight to Toronto and give me some money. She said she loved me unconditionally and would always be there for me. I thanked her for her kindness and for everything she had done for me. I told her I would never forget her, and if I become successful in the future, I would come and find her.
On the eighth day, Maria Joana left Ocho Rios and returned to the Dominican Republic, then flew back to Spain from there. As soon as she departed, I bought my ticket to Toronto.
I spent the five- to six-hour flight wondering what would happen to me when I arrived in Canada. At the Toronto airport, I disembarked like the other passengers and went successfully through immigration. Just when I thought I was home-free, I was asked to go for a secondary check at customs. Apparently, Canadians paid special attention to flights from Jamaica because Jamaicans were known as the biggest drug pushers in Toronto. All my bags were opened and emptied. Before the search, the customs officer had asked for my passport and looked closely at it. After a while he called another officer to look at it as well. At that point I thought my game was up, but I maintained a straight face and did not show the slightest sign of nervousness. When they decided to go through my bags afterward, I was convinced they had caught me. When they asked me questions, I answered in a blend of Jamaican and British accents to justify my British passport. I calmly told them I was a British citizen and that I was visiting family members in Jamaica with my girlfriend, who had returned to Spain while I had decided to visit Toronto for a week before continuing on to Spain. They ransacked all my stuff for more than twenty minutes while I waited for them to tell me that I would be detained, but to my greatest surprise, they put all my things back in my bag, handed me my passport, and welcomed me to Canada. It took all my effort to contain myself. I calmly collected my bags and proceeded to the exit. I hailed an airport taxi and asked the driver to take me to any hotel in downtown Toronto.
The taxi driver dropped me at one of the most expensive hotels I had seen so far: the Marriot Hotel. I paid one hundred and thirty dollars for the night, but I didn’t mind. I desperately needed a good night’s sleep. By the time I checked in and got refreshed, it was late. I went out and walked around the downtown area, asking where the refugee asylum camp was located. I also tried to find out where the Jamaican neighborhood was. The Jamaicans in Toronto seemed notorious and I assumed they would know a thing or two about how I could get into the U.S. from Canada, as well as how I could go about getting refugee status and a place to stay. I gathered all the information I needed in a few hours. On the way back to my hotel, I noticed that the people on the streets were in a jubilant mood. Apparently, the Canadian hockey team had just won the hockey championship. I joined in the celebration for a while.
I checked out of my room around 11 o’clock the next morning and went straight to the Canadian Political and Refugee Asylum Administration Office. During the interview, I said I was a Liberian seeking political asylum, and that I had nowhere else to go or stay. They asked me how I had arrived in the country, and I replied that I had flown in, but didn’t have my passport anymore. The officer expressed doubt at my story. He told me that the process usually took a long time, but in the meantime, they would give me a place to stay for a few days. That was perfectly okay with me since I hadn’t come to Canada to seek political asylum, but to get on the other side of the border, into the U.S. I just needed a free place to stay. Nevertheless, if my goal of getting into the U.S. proved to be unattainable, Canada wouldn’t be such a bad alternative. It was an English- and French-speaking country and was bordered by the U.S.
I was assigned to a hostel for asylum seekers. On my first night there, I met other asylum seekers from India, Africa, and Arab countries. For some, their motivation was the free money. Apparently, once a person was granted asylum, the Canadian government would pay them a certain allowance every month and provide housing and other benefits. All of that sounded very enticing, but that wasn’t why I was there. I spent the next few days walking the streets, talking to people, trying to find connections and the best way to get across the border and into the U.S.
A few people tried to take advantage of me. First, I ran into a middle-aged black guy who invited me to his apartment and wanted me to stay with him. He told me that he would help me, but in reality he was gay and looking for a live-in boyfriend. I told him in no uncertain terms that he was barking up the wrong tree. Then I started hanging out with a bunch of Jamaican street gangs. I broke off with the gangs when I met a white middle-aged lady from Greenland. She took me to her place and tried to be nice to me, but as desperate as I was for a place to stay, I couldn’t stand her. Her skin was so pale you could see through it to her blood vessels, and she was also so skinny I thought she might be sick. She tried to persuade me to be her boyfriend, and I tried working my brain around the idea so I could at least have a place to stay. But as much as I attempted to convince myself that she was a human being, there was just no way to make her attractive in my mind. The mere sight of her repulsed me, and I couldn’t understand why I had agreed to go to her house in the first place. I had known right from the start that I could never be with her. But people do crazy things in times of desperation. I finally found the courage to tell her that I had to go. I hated to be rude or offend people, so I added the lie that I would return later. As soon as I walked out of the apartment, I thanked the heavens because I didn’t know what I would have done if I had let that lady trap me. I went back to the asylum hostel.
That evening I met someone who knew a guy who drove people across the border for a small fee. I was delighted. The next day we contacted the guy, and it was agreed that he would take me across the border within the next four days, as long as I could pay. Apparently, there was a wide range of crossing points along the U.S.-Canadian border with very lax security. The guy warned me that it was a hit-or-miss situation, though. Sometimes, one could just drive across the border without being checked at all, and at other times, all the passengers were thoroughly checked.
As I waited a few days for the guy to pick me up, I began to realize how different my life in Toronto was from my life back in Spain. In Toronto I lived like a vagabond, begging for food and shelter, whereas in Spain I lived like a king. I shared an apartment with a girl who took very good care of me and I had nothing to worry about. It dawned on me that if I eventually got into the U.S., I would be undocumented and illegal, which meant that I would have to depend on menial jobs for survival. I also wouldn’t be able to go to school and explore my full potential.
After considering all this, the idea of going to the U.S. undocumented became less attractive. The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that I would be making the wrong move. As much as I wanted to go to the U.S., I didn’t want to have to spend twenty to thirty years there before legalizing my status. By this time, I had already paid the guy who would be taking me across the border and we seemed to have a solid plan in place. I was absolutely convinced that it would work, but the night before we were to make the move, I reached a decision. I would not go to the U.S. illegally. I would go the right way when the right time came. For the time being, I would go back to Spain and start all over again.
Having made that decision, I needed a way back to Spain. I called Maria Joana, crying and telling her that I was suffering in Canada and that life in Toronto was terrible. Before I could say more, she said to me, “My love, come back to me. Return to Barcelona.” Of course, she didn’t have to convince me; I had been ready to leave before I made that phone call. I told her I didn’t have money to buy a ticket, and she said not to worry, she would pay for my flight back. She sent me money the next day and I bought the ticket. Within two days I left Canada for Barcelona and met Maria Joana and Quis waiting for me at the airport.
When I returned from Canada, I became some sort of renegade. I had no job, but considered myself the mayor of Barcelona because of my vast knowledge of everything that went on there, both legal and illegal. I became a one-man gangbuster. Unable to find a job, I decided to run around Las Ramblas and Plaza Reyes, playing vigilante against pickpockets and robbers, the biggest problem in Barcelona, especially for tourists. I happened to know all the perpetrators. There was a large concentration of North Africans, especially Moroccans, in Barcelona, and some of them preferred robbing and picking pockets to legitimate work. They usually targeted tourists on Las Ramblas, whom they would track all the way from Plaza Catalonia to Plaza Colon, seeking the right moment to grab their handbags or wallets. Other times, they would go to the plazas and sit among the tourists at the cafés, and at the slightest opportunity they would grab a bag and run away. They would keep money and valuables for themselves, sell any passports they could find—usually to Ghanaians—and then take the bags to the Barcelona lost and found office. I watched them do this many times and had seen Kofi buy passports from them, and I decided I’d had enough of it. I could no longer watch unsuspecting tourists get robbed. I started patrolling the city, and as soon as I saw somebody about to get robbed, I would alert them. Sometimes they would thank me, and others, not understanding my intent, would get burned.
The Moroccans were well organized; they operated in groups and had an elaborate communications system. Once they had a target, the communication would start. One person would follow the target around the block and another person would communicate ahead with the description of the target, and they would switch at the end of each block. Once the target had been robbed, the loot would be passed through many hands. Therefore, if the police or anyone else happened to catch the actual snatcher, there would be no way to pin the crime on him since the stolen item would no longer be in his possession.
A few times I got into fights with them for disturbing their operations. Since I couldn’t be everywhere at the same time, I did run into tourists who had already been robbed, and in such cases I would tell them not to worry and assure them that I would do my best to locate their belongings. Many times I was able to retrieve people’s passports and help them find some of their things at the lost and found office. People were always grateful for my assistance, and their gratitude motivated me to keep doing what I was doing, despite the danger of being targeted or killed by the Moroccans.
I did this every day for three months, and in that time was able to understand how the robbers worked. I saw the vulnerability that existed within the Spanish society. In my opinion, those hoodlums could have become radicalized and evolved into a terrorist organization, and that could have been potentially devastating. They had become part of Spanish society and had a very good understanding of the language and culture; therefore, they could use their knowledge to exploit security gaps and cause tremendous damage.
Three months after returning from Canada, I still had no job and needed to somehow make my stay in Spain legal. Maria Joana had been very accepting of me so far, but I wasn’t sure how long she would keep it up. I had to do everything possible to get a job and a place of my own. My desperation for a job led me everywhere. During my search, I discovered that work had commenced again at my previous job at the Olympic Village and, through my contacts, I was fortunate to be hired again. The work was the same as before. The job was a piece of cake; twelve-hour shifts and more than one hundred dollars a day. I never knew I could love construction work after my experience working with my uncle, but who wouldn’t if one pretended to be working while roaming around doing nothing? We spent hours at lunch and clocked out at the end of the shift. Most of the construction firms were from England and the U.S., and the majority of the people who worked there were also foreigners, many of whom were on vacation and wanted to use the opportunity to make some easy money. The idea was that as long as the Spanish government was footing the bill, the job must be slowed down to make as much money as possible.
Who was I to complain about work ethics when everybody was scheming the system?....

Okay then, that's great, waiting....

jake were are u na..we dey still wait oooh

more post now

Maria Joana
Mari Juana

Its alphaa: Maria Joana
MariJuana

hehehe..rhYMES?...

Hi people, jake was banned last night and his post hidden. Not sure why but I've appealed to the mod and hopefully he'll be released soon.