by Abosede Omoakholo

Everyone calls me Bose. I’m a reluctant illegal immigrant. I never planned to leave Nigeria. Lagos was good to me. I had a good job. . . in Nigeria. But, love brought me to America. . . . .

read more here: http://bosediary.com/2011/01/01/coming-to-america/

Wow I can't wait to read more

. . .all these links/blogs.Can anyone copy and paste here.Thank you already. 

ifyalways:

. . .all these links/blogs.Can anyone copy and paste here.Thank you already. 

Exact same thing that crossed my mind.

ifyalways:

. . .all these links/blogs.Can anyone copy and paste here.Thank you already.

here you go. . . . .

About MeMy name is Abosede Omoakholo. Everyone calls me Bose. I’m a reluctant illegal immigrant. I never planned to leave Nigeria. Lagos was good to me. I had a good job as the deputy branch manager of one of the biggest banks in Nigeria. But, love brought me to America. My fiancé, Tunde, was in Baltimore. Now, love has shredded my heart to pieces. My only refuge is my diary. I started writing it on the plane three and half months ago. It’s taken me until now to have the courage to share it.

I will share a NEW ENTRY EVERY MONDAY.

Read my story from the beginning


Coming to America
I woke up for the third time in five hours. I’m flying across the Atlantic Ocean. I’m going to America to meet the love of my life, the father of my unborn children.

I woke up because the flight attendant was offering me another meal. They feed you a lot on these international flights. Anytime I flew within Nigeria, all I got was a bun that could shatter the plane’s window if you fling it at it.

But on this flight, it was food every two hours. Good food too. I couldn’t even pronounce some of the meals on the menu.

Now I know why all those rich and powerful Nigerians travel abroad and return with puffy cheeks and potbellies. It’s the airline food.

I took the warm meal from the hostess and shoved it in my mouth. Unlike the other meals, this one was tough on the teeth.

“It’s a hot towel, ma’am,” the hostess said as she tried hard not to laugh. “You use it for the face.”

I almost died out of shame.

Back home, I was what you’ll call a city girl. I grew up in Lagos, the city that is really a metropolis but we call a city because that was what the British colonialists called it and someone has not thought it was time to call it a metropolis. I went to the University of Lagos, one of the most urbane universities on the continent. And, I was an assistant branch manager in a bank on Broad Street, a place some call the financial capital of Africa.

In Lagos, I was an “it girl”. But, on this plane, I had just acted like the ultimate bush girl.

I smiled sheepishly at the hostess as she moved on to the next passenger. I looked around; saw everyone wiping their faces with their towels. I did the same.

“Don’t worry about it,” says the middle-aged white woman next to me, “I used to do that all the time too”.

I knew she was trying to make me feel better. No one chews a hot towel twice. But, it still felt nice to hear it. I nodded my thanks.

“Where are you flying from?” she asked.

Well, there goes my attempt to blend in. I was hoping people would think I was from England because I boarded the plane in London.

“Lagos,” I answered.

“Where is that?” she asked.

“Nigeria,” I replied.

“Oh, the place where they send those fraudulent e-mails and faxes,” she added.

“Pardon, me?” I shot back with a frown.

“I get the e-mails all the time,” she continued like a doctor passing the death sentence on a patient.

All of a sudden, I’m angry with his woman. I have watched a lot of MTV, BET and CNN to know enough of the American culture. I know a lot of Americans are good people. But, I also know some of them like to pass judgment on things they know little about as if they were Jesus Christ on the throne. I wasn’t going to let this woman off the hook.

“So, where are you from?” I asked.

“Roanoke, Virginia” she answered proudly.

“Ah, the American South!”

“Yeah”

“Your great-grandfathers came to my country with the Bible and stole millions of my people. Turned them into slaves.”

I had never seen a white woman turn morbid pale that fast.

“That is not a nice thing to say,” she fumed.

“You think what you said was a nice thing?” I asked,

“You think everybody from the South was a slave trader?” she shot back.

“You think every Nigerian is a criminal?” I asked. This was funny; we were answering questions with question. Maybe she’s a Nigerian in disguise because that is what we do in Nigeria, we answer questions with questions.

“It’s not the same thing,” she said.

“Oh yes, it is,” I responded.

She pouted, turned away and looked out the window at the bluish skies. I closed my eyes and let my mind drift back to how I came to be in a plane headed for Baltimore Washington International Airport.

I had dreamt of this trip for four years. But, it was coming two years sooner than I had planned. Or, we had planned.

^^Eche gan

Plssssssssssss where is the conclusion of the story? Make una no vex oooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I need to be educated.

r231:

here you go. . . . .

About MeMy name is Abosede Omoakholo. Everyone calls me Bose. I’m a reluctant illegal immigrant. I never planned to leave Nigeria. Lagos was good to me. I had a good job as the deputy branch manager of one of the biggest banks in Nigeria. But, love brought me to America. My fiancé, Tunde, was in Baltimore. Now, love has shredded my heart to pieces. My only refuge is my diary. I started writing it on the plane three and half months ago. It’s taken me until now to have the courage to share it.

I will share a NEW ENTRY EVERY MONDAY.

Read my story from the beginning


Coming to America
I woke up for the third time in five hours. I’m flying across the Atlantic Ocean. I’m going to America to meet the love of my life, the father of my unborn children.

I woke up because the flight attendant was offering me another meal. They feed you a lot on these international flights. Anytime I flew within Nigeria, all I got was a bun that could shatter the plane’s window if you fling it at it.

But on this flight, it was food every two hours. Good food too. I couldn’t even pronounce some of the meals on the menu.

Now I know why all those rich and powerful Nigerians travel abroad and return with puffy cheeks and potbellies. It’s the airline food.

I took the warm meal from the hostess and shoved it in my mouth. Unlike the other meals, this one was tough on the teeth.

“It’s a hot towel, ma’am,” the hostess said as she tried hard not to laugh. “You use it for the face.”

I almost died out of shame.

Back home, I was what you’ll call a city girl. I grew up in Lagos, the city that is really a metropolis but we call a city because that was what the British colonialists called it and someone has not thought it was time to call it a metropolis. I went to the University of Lagos, one of the most urbane universities on the continent. And, I was an assistant branch manager in a bank on Broad Street, a place some call the financial capital of Africa.

In Lagos, I was an “it girl”. But, on this plane, I had just acted like the ultimate bush girl.

I smiled sheepishly at the hostess as she moved on to the next passenger. I looked around; saw everyone wiping their faces with their towels. I did the same.

“Don’t worry about it,” says the middle-aged white woman next to me, “I used to do that all the time too”.

I knew she was trying to make me feel better. No one chews a hot towel twice. But, it still felt nice to hear it. I nodded my thanks.

“Where are you flying from?” she asked.

Well, there goes my attempt to blend in. I was hoping people would think I was from England because I boarded the plane in London.

“Lagos,” I answered.

“Where is that?” she asked.

“Nigeria,” I replied.

“Oh, the place where they send those fraudulent e-mails and faxes,” she added.

“Pardon, me?” I shot back with a frown.

“I get the e-mails all the time,” she continued like a doctor passing the death sentence on a patient.

All of a sudden, I’m angry with his woman. I have watched a lot of MTV, BET and CNN to know enough of the American culture. I know a lot of Americans are good people. But, I also know some of them like to pass judgment on things they know little about as if they were Jesus Christ on the throne. I wasn’t going to let this woman off the hook.

“So, where are you from?” I asked.

“Roanoke, Virginia” she answered proudly.

“Ah, the American South!”

“Yeah”

“Your great-grandfathers came to my country with the Bible and stole millions of my people. Turned them into slaves.”

I had never seen a white woman turn morbid pale that fast.

“That is not a nice thing to say,” she fumed.

“You think what you said was a nice thing?” I asked,

“You think everybody from the South was a slave trader?” she shot back.

“You think every Nigerian is a criminal?” I asked. This was funny; we were answering questions with question. Maybe she’s a Nigerian in disguise because that is what we do in Nigeria, we answer questions with questions.

“It’s not the same thing,” she said.

“Oh yes, it is,” I responded.

She pouted, turned away and looked out the window at the bluish skies. I closed my eyes and let my mind drift back to how I came to be in a plane headed for Baltimore Washington International Airport.

I had dreamt of this trip for four years. But, it was coming two years sooner than I had planned. Or, we had planned.

PMSL @ bolded

OWOLAYEMO:

Plssssssssssss where is the conclusion of the story? Make una no vex oooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I need to be educated.

come back next monday, same time same station. we are going for a commercial break.

OWOLAYEMO:

Plssssssssssss where is the conclusion of the story? Make una no vex oooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I need to be educated.

Cont.
The Day Before America

I have come to America for my Tunde. He is the love of my life, the ordained father of my children, the man I would spend the rest of my life with.

I met Tunde Oluyomi six years ago. I was 21 and he was 27. I was an advertising executive. He was a journalist. I was from the Ishan tribe. He was from the Yoruba tribe. I lived in Oshodi on the Lagos mainland. He lived in Sango Ota, on the outskirts of Lagos.

We had very little in common.

“Why you dey always show me your break light?” he asked me one day in Pidgin English after I’d dropped off an advert copy for his newspaper.

“What do you mean,” I replied in my polished English. I’d just graduated from the University of Lagos with a Second class upper degree in Economics and I wasn’t going to waste my tongue speaking Pidgin English. That language was for illiterates.

“Every time I say hello, you just whisper hello back and scram,” he complained.

“Okay, hello, “ I answered and proceeded to theatrically count from one to three.

“See, I’m not running away. I just have to go,” I told him after I counted to three.

He laughed, showing a perfect set of white teeth that contrasted beautifully with his chocolate skin.

“Can I take you to lunch some time? I really want to know you,” he asked boldly, as if he was rolling the dice.

“I’m a busy girl. I don’t do lunch,” I answered.

We both knew it was a lie. But, we both knew he wouldn’t call me out on it. That would be the ultimate romance deal breaker.

“Breakfast, lunch, dinner, weekday, weekend – name it. I’m there,” Tunde offered.

“I’ll see you around, Bros,” I replied as I walked away.

“Bros” was a romantic death sentence. It means “big brother”. It’s worse than the friend zone. It’s the “never ever” zone. Tunde knew it as soon as I said it. But, he never relented.

He sent me a romantic e-card every day. He sent me bouquet after bouquet of flowers. He bought me chocolates and sweets. And, he never showed his face to pressurize it. He always sent a driver from his office.

Most boys in Lagos don’t pamper girls. The older men do. But, that’s why they’re called sugar daddies. The girls are toys – mistresses who balance the drudgery of married life. The sugar daddies buy their mistresses cars, rent them posh flats and fatten their bank accounts. But, it’s never a permanent thing. One day, a younger girl always takes the place of the mistress.

Lagos boys are not romantic. They are bottom line guys. Dinner, movie, club then your back on the mattress. Tunde was different. He romanced me as if he was consulting a romance magazine. I am a good Catholic girl who had promised God and my mother that I would keep my legs closed until my wedding night.

But, Tunde grew on me. Two days before Valentine’s Day, I called him.

“Will you be my Valentine?” I asked boldly.

I was breaking another little dating rule for girls in Lagos. Never ask a guy out. It diminishes you. But, I felt really good about Tunde. I didn’t think about it. I just dialed the phone and said the first thing that came to my mind.

I will always remember Tunde’s joyous laughter on the phone. It was a delight. I wish I had saved it on my voicemail. It would have been the perfect ring tone.

My parents didn’t approve of him. He was a “Yanmiri”, a Yoruba boy that should not be trusted. I don’t even know what the word means. But, I know it’s a bad word.

His parents didn’t approve of me for the same reason. I was an “ajeokuta ma mumi” which meant “he who eats stone without drinking water”. It was originally meant to describe people of the Ibo tribe. I wasn’t Ibo. But, to a Yoruba in the Nigerian tribal politics, if you’re neither Hausa or Yoruba, you were Ibo. It came from suspicion built during the civil war.

The funny thing is, although I am Ishan, I was born in Lagos and I have lived there all my life. I have only made two trips to the village. The first time was for an ill-fated Christmas vacation that was cut short because my grandmother claimed one of my grandfather’s other wives was a witch and had promised my head at a big witches’ meeting. The other trip was for my grandmother’s funeral. But, in Nigeria, you’re from where your forefathers were from.

Tunde’s mother told him I am an “Ogbanje” because I was fair-skinned. An “Ogbanje” is a child that made a pact with the spirit world to die young. They come to this world to torture their parents. They always die at very important periods in their life cycle. Since I already had a university degree, Tunde’s mother was convinced that I had made a pact with the spirit world to die on my wedding day.

“You’re just postponing sadness, Tunde. You will remember what I’m telling you on your wedding night when she drops dead,” she counseled Tunde.

But, nothing could come between Tunde and I. We had two great years together in Lagos. We were inseparable. He was one of the rising stars in political correspondence in Nigeria. Politicians called him every hour of the day.

With Tunde’s encouragement and active support, I went back to school part-time, got a masters degree in Banking and Finance and got a job in one of the new banks in Nigeria.

Tunde was very ambitious. He set goals he had to meet at certain ages. He wanted to be an editor by 30. He wanted us to be married when he was 31. We would have our first child when he was 32. All I had to do was say Amen. I loved my man and I thanked God everyday for him.

Then, Tunde decided to write a weekly column about the plight of the people in the oil-rich but devastated Niger Delta. In Nigeria at that time, it was the easiest way to die. During the brutal Abacha regime, journalists were jailed. In the new political dispensation, journalists simply disappeared.

Tunde was offered bribes and political appointments if he’d simply report the speeches and press releases of the politicians and let the Niger Deltans continue their decades of suffering. But, my man had a conscience as big as the ocean. He stayed on the side of the people.

After a couple of attempts on his life, Tunde and I decided it was time he fled the country. He would go abroad, study for a master’s degree and return when the situation was better. We even had dreams of owning our own newspaper. He would run the publishing side and I would run the business side.

While he was gone, I also embraced my new life as an emergency nun. Men offered me the world if I would go out with them. I always said no. I was going to wait for my Tunde.

“The way you’re going, this useless boy you’re waiting for will need a drill to get inside that vagina when he gets back,” one exasperated colleague told me after six months of trying to get me to go out on a date with him.

My father also had plans of his own. He wanted a man that would take care of me, not a boy who ran away from his country. He promised me to a politician from my state who was a few years older than my father, had three wives and had a breath that stank like rotten cheese.

“If it’s abroad you want to go to, I can re-locate you to New York after we marry. I have a house there. You’ll be my American wife,” the politician told me the first time I met him at my father’s house.

It all came to a head one, weird day two months ago. My father had called me that morning and said I should make sure I come over to his house after work. I was worried all day. I thought something was wrong. I thought for the briefest of moments that someone in our family had died or had a terminal illness.

When I got to my father’s house, the politician was waiting. There was a used car outside the house too. It was a gift for my father. My father was over the moon. He had worked for the government for thirty years and he couldn’t afford a bicycle. Now the politician had given him a car. My fate was sealed. I would marry the old man. I had no say in this matter. My father’s word was law.

“He can’t do that. My family brought him wine before I left. We are traditionally married,“ Tunde cried on the phone when I told him later that night.

“I think the politician’s money has made him crazy. He now has selective amnesia. You have to save me, Tunde,” I cried back.

“What are we going to do?” he wailed on the phone.

“I don’t know! I don’t know! If I can get a visa, I would come over there,” I replied between sobs.

“Don’t even try those embassy people. It’s just another heartache,” he advised.

“You have to come up with a plan, Tunde. My father man is planning to marry me off before Christmas,” I pleaded.

“I’ll work something out. I promise. No one can take you away from me,” Tunde professed.

But, Tunde could not come up with a good plan. For our sake and our future, I had to take matters into my own hands.

One morning in September, I rounded up my brother and two sisters. We went to the American embassy and applied for a visa.

We had to go to the embassy before September runs out because the politician decided he wanted to do the traditional wedding during Independence Day in October. He was running for office and he wanted to use the wedding as a rally for his supporters.

The embassy rejected my application. But, they gave my youngest sister a visa. There was no logical reason why she, a jobless graduate, got a visa while I, a gainfully employed banker, did not.

But, it all worked according to my grand plan. The reason we all applied for a visa was a shot in the dark that one of us would be lucky to get a visa. My siblings and I look alike. If my brother had gotten the visa, all I had to do was cut my hair.

Three days before my traditional wedding to the chief, I jumped on a British Airways flight bound for America.

During the stopover in London, I made two calls.

The first was to my father. I thought he would blow a lung or rupture his kidney in anger. But, all he did was curse me. I didn’t mind the curse. In Nigeria, we all know curses are local – they don’t travel across the ocean.

Then, I called Tunde. He was so stunned I was on my way to him that he couldn’t quite express his happiness.

I was happy. I was free. I was going to meet my man. In America.

Copying and Pasting does not do the story justice,no wonder the poster put a link instead. Read and be Spell bound, as for me i just found a new addiction.

This is the most interesting piece I've read in a long time. All of a sudden, I'm looking forward to next's Monday's entry,

In America
“The World Bank, huh? Is that like Bank of America or Citibank?” asked the Immigrations Officer as she looked at my passport.

She looked black. But, she could also have been Latina. Or, bi-racial. You can never tell with these Americans.

But, my bigger problem was that I couldn’t really make out what the woman was saying. No matter how much CNN, BET and MTV you watch, nothing prepares you for an American accent when you hear it face to face.

“Pardon me,” I said.

“You’ve not done anything wrong, no need to ask for a pardon,” she replied.

“I meant can you repeat the question,” I said.

“Is the World Bank like Bank of America or Citibank?” she asked.

“It’s like the Bank of America, only this time for the whole world,” I said because I had no clue how to answer the question. There are no two World Banks.

But, this woman was no ordinary cookie. She takes her job seriously. She cannot be fooled easily.

“You traveled all the way from Africa for a two day meeting?” she queried.

“They won’t let me stay away longer in my office,” I lied.

Her smile faded by a slight shade. Trouble. I dug in.

“Plus, my sister is due any day now. She’s married to a no-good guy who is in prison. I’m on standby on three flights every day. If she goes into labor right now, I’m turning back,” I lied.

It’s crazy the things you do for love. I am a church going girl who gives ten percent of her salary as tithe to the church. And, I’m Catholic – they don’t enforce those Old Testament rules in the 21st century. I always frown at lying and deception. Now, I was Ms. Deception. All because of my Tunde. All because of love.

The immigrations lady shot me an affectionate look. I could swear I saw tears floating in her eyes.

“I so know what you’re saying. My sister is pregnant too and her man is in jail. I don’t know what she’s going to do,” she blurted out.

She stamped my passport and passed it to me without another question.

My heart raced with delight. My palms were sweating. Even though the hall was fully air conditioned, I could feel a line of sweat dribbling down the back of my neck.

I am officially in America!

“Thank you,” I said.

“I love your accent by the way,” the immigrations lady said.

“Thank you,” I replied and hurried away before she realized I was an impostor.

I wanted to jump up in joy. But, I had to be composed for a few more minutes.

Just to show me how lucky I would be in this America, God arranged it that as I got to the baggage carousel, my bag was rolling down the chute. America is going to be good to me.

I got my luggage and strolled towards the arrival hall. I could see people in the arrival lounge waiting to receive their guests.

Then I saw him. My Tunde. He was holding a bouquet of flowers and several balloons. He had the biggest smile on his face. I was so happy I wanted to cry. I would have run to him if my luggage wasn’t slowing me down.

I was a few steps away from the arrival lounge when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around and saw the glowering face of a customs officer looking at me. His dog bared his fangs at me.

“Please come with me,” the custom officer said.

It was an order. Not a request. He turned sharply, took his place beside me and marched me to a room at the far corner of the hall. As I walked beside him, I could feel my heart slipping into my stomach.

The door opened and I stepped into a room with poor, shadowy lights. Two large, intimidating men stood at either end of a table. They stretched their rubber gloves for effect, as if choreographed. I saw a sinister smile curl up on the face of one of the men.

I swallowed hard. I’ve seen this before. In the movies. Anal probe. It all adds up. I’m from big, bad Nigeria. I must surely be here with some drugs hidden in my bowels.

I set down my luggage, took off my jacket and started undoing the zipper of my trouser.

“What are you doing?” the man who had not been smiling barked at me.

“Getting ready,” I answered tamely.

“Getting ready for what?” the smiling agent who was no longer smiling shouted.

“You want to do a search, right?”

“You hiding something?”

“No”.

I zipped my zipper back up. Perhaps the Americans have a new, more sophisticated way of searching for drugs that didn’t include anal probe.

The officer who had led me in took my luggage and dumped them on the table. For the first time, I noticed the yellow tag on my bags. It wasn’t there when I left Lagos. My mind was racing with a hundred thoughts. What did I do wrong? After all I’d gone through to run away from Lagos, I couldn’t go back. Besides, my father’s curse was waiting for me too.

“Do you have any banned food, agricultural produce or dairy in your bag”, one of the officers asked.

“No,” I replied.

One of the officers unzipped one of my bags. He flipped through the neat rows of clothes, magazines and books until he discovered the five bounded herbal roots in a plastic bag at the bottom of the bag. The second agent grabbed what looked like an x-ray of my bag from the top of a file cabinet. They compared the plastic bag and the x-ray image and nodded in agreement. Then, they turned to me with that snarling smile of a boxer who has just shoved his helpless, hapless challenger into a corner and is winding up for the kill.

“What is this?” the agent with the sinister smile asked.

“Herb,” I replied.

“Like weed?”

“No, it’s a drug”.

“A drug!” they chorused.

“Yes. A traditional drug,” I replied.

“You know penalty for trafficking drugs in the United States?”

“I am not trafficking. It’s for my private use”.

“Finally, a honest criminal!” the agent with the sinister smile declared.

I didn’t have to be a genius to figure out that my medicinal drug, albeit of the traditional variety, was being confused for a hard drug. At that moment I didn’t know that in America, a herb can be a weed and a weed can be a herb. I also didn’t know that in America, a drug was called a medication.

Panicked, I told my first truth in America.

“I brought it as a precaution, in case I have malaria,” I said.

“You take drugs for malaria?” the non-smiling agent asked.

“Yes. It’s an African treatment. It’s faster than normal drugs,” I replied.

“You’re calling a medication a drug?” the agent who brought me in asked.

“Yes. We call a drug a drug or a medicine. But, medicine is too long,” I told him.

The agents shared a curious look. I could tell they were confused. Working at an airport like this, I’m sure they’ve heard a lot of things. But, I guess they’ve never heard this.

“I tell you what, you prove that thing is what you say it is and we’ll let you go. If not, your ass is off to jail,” the agent with a sinister smile declared.

“Can I have two bottles of sprite or 7Up please?” I pleaded as two lines of sweat dribbled from my scalp and down my neck.

“What for?,” the smiling agent asked.

“To prove myself,” I replied.

“You sure you don’t want a coca-cola? You know, ‘coke is it,” the agent with the sinister smile said with a sneer.

“I’m sure, sir,” I muttered.

“How long is it gonna take?” he asked

“At least four hours,” I responded.

My mind was in a riot. I was not going to bring the herb. But, my mother had insisted. She said she read once that when people had malaria overseas, they sent them to Liverpool. Thanks to the game Americans call soccer, my mother knew Liverpool was not in America because the city had a big football club in England.

She said the Americans would put me in a cage with dogs and send me to Liverpool where I would arrive with rabies and other diseases the English can’t treat. In the end, a very short end, she emphasized, they would dig me a hole and wait for me to die.

But, with these five bounded herbs, I can be my own doctor. Once I felt the chills of malaria, I can soak them up in a bottle of gin or sprite and wait a few hours until the medicine seep into the sprite. Then, I can let the herb-juiced sprite or gin loose on the malaria. It was better with gin but I know these agents will laugh me to prison if I asked for a bottle of gin.

The officer who had marched me in returned with two bottles of Sprite.

“You want anything else?” he asked

“Yes, can I have my Bible? It’s in my briefcase,” I replied tamely.

“Sure”.

He opened my briefcase, removed my Bible and handed it over to me.

I soaked two sticks of herb in a bottle of Sprite, closed the lid and opened my Bible to the book of psalms. I may be in the land of Christopher Columbus. But, even Columbus bowed to one God. I was going to pray to that God. I opened my Bible to the book of Psalms.

“Psalm 23 ain’t gonna help you,” the officer chuckled as he and his colleagues left the room and shut the steel door.

I was on Psalm 122 when the door opened again. The agent with a sinister smile and the unsmiling agent entered.

“What you got?” asked the agent with a sinister smile.

I opened the bottle of sprite with the herbs. The color had changed. I grinned. I can now prove my case to them. Then, I tasted it and cringed. There was still too much sprite and too little herb.

“It’s not fully ready but a pharmacist can confirm the medicinal content,” I told them, spewing what I later learn was called bull shitting in America.

“In this place, we’re the doctors, lawyers, nurses and pharmacists. As a matter of fact, we’re the judge and jury too,” the unsmiling agent said.

The unsmiling agent grabbed the bottle, smelt it and frowned.

“It don’t smell like sprite no more,” he declared.

“Well, if you put shit in water, it’s gonna smell different,” the agent with a sinister smile answered as he fished a handcuff out of his pocket.

The unsmiling agent tasted the herb-juiced sprite and flexed his jaw.

“It kindda have a kick,” he declared.

Curious, the agent with a sinister smile took the bottle and examined it for several seconds.

“Bleep it, I have insurance. Might as well use it if I have to,” he declared.

He takes a sip. Then a little more. He sets the bottle down, shoots me a confused look for a few moments then turns to his colleague.

“It sure tastes like a goddamn syrup,” he said.

The agents looked at themselves for a few seconds. It felt like a lifetime. Finally, the unsmiling agent shut my bag, put the handcuffs back in his pocket and smiled.

“Welcome to America”.

America at Last
Five hours and forty-three minutes after the plane landed, I was finally free. I was in America. Tunde was waiting and worried.

“What happened?” he asked as soon as I walked out of Customs.

When I told him, he laughed so hard tears were streaming down his eyes. Then, he grabbed me in those firm, muscular arms of his and lifted me up right outside the arrival hall.

“Welcome to America, my darling,” he said in a soft, happy voice.

I looked at America in the fading light and shrugged in surprise. I had imagined a sunny city with people so happy it’s infectious. I had even glimpsed the sun and seen the people from the customs area.

Now, it was dark and gloomy and a little bit chilly. It was late September. I’m told this is the fall season – the prelude to winter. People were wearing knickers and shorts. But, I was freezing.

If it ever gets this cold at any time of the year in my country, they may well declare a national emergency. Not that it would help much though because the last time a president declared a national emergency, it was about the infrequent power supply. At that time, we had power six hours every day. After he declared it a national emergency, we were lucky to have power six hours every week.

But, why worry about the cold, I told myself. I was with the love of my life.

“I told you, didn’t I? Our children will be Americans,” Tunde said, reminding me of a promise he made to me on the phone during one of his thousands of calls.

“And I told you, there is no place like home. We will stay here for a few years and go back home,” I responded.

“You call that place a country! With all those illiterates in power,” he hissed.

At that moment, Nigeria was the farthest thing from my mind. I was in God’s own country. Why worry about the devil’s backyard? I pulled Tunde closer and kissed him. His lips were cold and chapped. But, it was the best kiss I’ve had in four years. Heck, it was my first kiss in four years.

“I’ve made the best plan for your start in America,” Tunde announced. “Tonight, we sleep at the Hilton. Tomorrow, we’re going to Atlantic City for the weekend. It’s going to be a blast”.

I wanted him to keep talking. I loved that he was still a romantic. I loved the sound of his voice. I even loved the faint lisp that creeps into his speech sometimes. He was cute. He could be sitting on a toilet right now and I’ll think he’s the cutest thing on God’s earth.

I didn’t want to go to a hotel or to Atlantic City. I wanted to go home and cook him a true Nigerian dinner. I wanted to get in bed with him. I wanted to start working on a baby as soon as possible. I wasn’t getting any younger. I was 27. And, I know a grandchild would heal the rift between my father and I.

“Just have a child as soon as you can, your father will forgive you. A new child solves every problem,” my mother advised me on my last night in Lagos.

But, Tunde has a plan and we have to stick to it. That’s what a good wife does.

Just so we’re clear, dear diary – Tunde and I are legally and traditionally married. He paid my dowry before he left Lagos. His family brought yams, wine and bags of rice to my family. Unknown to everyone but my two sisters, brother and Tunde’s best friend, we were also legally married.

On the morning before he left for America, we drove to the registry in Lagos Island and took out a marriage license. The reason we kept it a secret was because we are Nigerians and we like big wedding parties.

We had to get married before a priest then throw the mother of all parties – a party that was sure to disrupt vehicular traffic in our neighborhood. It’s the only way we know how to do weddings in Nigeria. It doesn’t matter if the next day, we’re as poor as church rats again. All that matters is that for one day, we were the talk of the neighborhood.

As soon as we got into the hotel room, I pounced on Tunde and drained every fluid in his groin. I woke up three times during the night just to catch up with my sex quota. Four years is a long time for a girl to go without. Tunde was so sore he screamed when water poured on his penis in the shower in the morning.

The next morning, we got in his car and headed for Atlantic City. My America journey was about to begin.

I am so loving your story, The part with the hot towel got me cracking.

Don't mind the lady on the plane, I'm from Virginia and most White Virginians can be raci(go figure) and it's good the way you challenged her back, job well done. My advice for you next time, if you don't know, just ask; but it's ok to show ignorance some times, we all have that's the fun part about it. Not many people have a joyous trip like you did, I'm glad you had your first experience. I'm sure you endured the winter that Baltimore saw this year; lots of snow falling, hope it was quite an experience. As for the short thing, don't worry give it three or more years, u'll get used to it. I wore shorts till early November, and now that's it's February, come March I'm going back to it, hehe. I really GLAD you enjoyed from your trip to your stay.

You talked about BWI, I hope you fly from IAD Dulles, they not as strict as BWI. I've flown from BWI few times; I was flying to Long Island, NY with my younger brother and they were so intrusive that my younger brother kirked out on one of the TSA agents. BWI is jobless that's why, they don't have the amount of passenger traffic volume like other airports have so they have the time to bully passengers. They can be bullies at times, but hey if you assert your rights and do not object, you’ll be fine. Anyway I'm glad you arrived safely and welcome to America.

Somehow this blog reminds me of a thread posted sometime back by a white woman complaining that her Nigerian husband spends more time with his younger sister who had just arrived from Nigeria and that they were always together, either roaming around or at home,behind closed doors in her room.

Oh yes, Bose's blurred pic somehow makes me feel she resembles Ini Edo

loving it

So sad to read. i can imagine how hurt she is now

Ineresting!

aisha2:

So sad to read. i can imagine how hurt she is now

tell me about it

wow

Wow!! This is the loveliest of the stories that I have read in a while. The only difference is that 'This is a true life story', non-fiction. I am waiting for more dear.

Life is one long tough journey, eventually it is what you make of it. Millions of normal looking people have all sort of dirt in their private lives. She made hers public but please let's be real and stop acting like it couldn't be worse or that many NLanders don't know people in similar situations if not in their own personal lives

what a long story. is it real? i think not.

That's the concept ALWAYS.

A good story sells itself, innit? For me, all (oops) the few I've read seems to be the writer's imagination and fusion of stories from other people but sure it does get a major effect on the readers who tend to feel somewhat sympathetic. All of a sudden, she has these wonderful stories on her first flight/trip to the US of A. Ha!

The story is crap!!! City gyal wen nor fit distinguish face towel from towel kind of meat abi na fukun or shaki

somehow maybe na shaki jerky. it is possible sha

what a story interesting, just waiting to hear the end of the story before i give comment

The story is crap!!! City gyal wen nor fit distinguish face towel  from towel kind of meat abi na fukun or shaki Grin

hahahahahahahahahaha i nor fit laugh.

obviously a commercial work of fiction.

I am not someone who likes to read but damn am loving this.Please I want more.