Ladies and gentlemen, it's been both an honor and my distinct pleasure interacting with you all this last few weeks..unfortunately/fortunately, duty calls and I have to answer the call. Therefore, I'll be limited by space and time in my future communication from today on. Not withstanding though, I urge you all to continue the dialog/discus in my absence; as more and more people read the story providing new insight and analysis, it will become imperative to continue the conversation.

once again thanks for been a part this....

Jakemond

legendprac: Was held spellbound once I was done wt d prologue....... Wonderful..... Will PM for d cover

lege: don't understand why some people don't like the prologue, I kind of thought that it was necessary to give a little background on where I'm coming from, and some of the events that took place later on has a lot to do with what transpire in the prologue.
anyways, will send the cover as fast as you can send your email.

thx

Jake

kody-licky:
Hi Jake,

dis is a great work you have here.

Great descriptions, lots to learn.
In all its just an awesome work. Thumbs up.
I ll be looking out for your second book.
Kudos.


Btw. Wat happened to d kid with d nigerian lady. Did u ever find her?

have not started looking for him/her yet..who knows maybe he/she would read my book and come looking for me..that would be awesome, wouldn't it.

chinedumo: Onyenekwechinedu@gmail.com

sent..check your email.

Aidey05: Well done Jake,Ur book is simply put "Inspiring"..I enjoyed readn it..I refused 2 give my opine or criticism cuz I was rily enjoying d read..Howeva,I must say that synchronising d dates with d events wil av rily put sm bit of crediblity to the storyline and also help some of ur not 2 attentive readers to easily follow up and undastan d progression of ur memoir..I also agree with Isisoph's first point in hs last comment because I'v bn shairng ds link with some of my frends on bbm who rarely read bookz n few of them that managed 2 start d book cmplained bout d lengthy nature of d prologue..I'd like to see the cover page of this book my email addy is id_equere@yahoo.com...I must commend ur effort for sharing this book on this good forum..Thank you so very much and God bless you..

Thanks my brother, it really meant a lot to me that you've recommended others to read the story as well. Making a difference comes in different forms, and any meaningful contribution no matter how small goes a long way. No one lives in vacuum-- as was evidence in the story, how strangers play a significant role in my life...this book is my contribution to our society (Naija), if anyone can benefit from my experience, then my hard work was not in vain..
your words of inspiration and actions have greatly elevated the discuss and I truly appreciated it.

check your email for the cover!

thx,

Jake

chinedumo: Am yet to sEeeeee this cover picture

Nedu: send me your email and I will forward it to you.

Jake

Ishsoph: @ JAKE, I must tell you you have a story laddened with timely advices and lessons for your readers. Problem is, your target audience hardly opens a book talk more of reading it(Like they'll say: If you want to hide anything from an African, place/write it in a book). However, the onus lies on us the readers to watch out for potential victims and sound the needed warning either vabally or direct their attention to your memoir.

Moreover, I dont want to sound like am your editor cos am not paid for that neither am i profficient in that as am not particularly into literature(just an avid reader). Nonetheless am persuaded to point out these few suggestions/advice;

1. Your prologue is too lengthy and almost tasteless(Though the main story would hook an avid reader like myself, but the prologue does little to wet appetite). Am aware that Ishilove raised similar concern earlier and your response was that it was by design and your editor thought its cool. Pls tell your editor that your target audience are not bookwarmers and could easily beg off if they find the prologue excessively lengthy. Unless otherwise its extremely captivating(which I wouldnt say about this one especially the first few paragraphs).


2. You also made a comment like this "given Nigeria's reputation as the forgery capital of the world". This I considered tasteless too and every intended humour in it falls on unpatriotism. Your point could have been effectively passed without spiting anyone/nation like you did in some chapters where you made similar statements elbiet harmlessly. I made this observation not because am particularly offended but because I wouldnt want your book to meet with any form of resistance either from the government purview or individuals.

3. Finally, the cover page you sent me is oh so ammazing! But if am to suggest again I'll say that that your picture with Bill Clinton should be in the background while a world map dotting all the cities you'v been to while searching for the golden fleece comes to the view. However, like said the cover page is ammazing incase you choose to stick to status quo.

NB: The above suggestions and advises are what they're called - suggestions and advises! None was to spite you bro. Just an honest observation. Cant wait for your book 2 though!

Ish: thanks for the in-depth analysis..I truly appreciate your honesty and will take into consideration your suggestion in the subsequent writings.
Your idea for the cover has been noted, and I will ensure that book#2 has a map background reflective of all the countries that I've visited..

once again thx,

Jake

[quote author=repogirl] So glad to finally get to the end of book1.
Your story has been very inspiring and eye opening, that's a feeling every one who reads it would definitely feel.
[quote]

Thanks me lady..your support has been a great motivation... your own writings fantastic.. please keep up the good work cuz we need all hands on deck in order to create a literary/well-informed nation.

Jake

#50..

Ladies and gentlemen we have finally arrived to the beginning of the main event...However, before we head on with book#2, I'm opening up the thread for readers participation. this is where you get involved and not be a silent reader/follower. You will not be derailing the thread by participating, since we have just finished with book#1"Conflicted destiny chronicle of a natural born warrior"

The goal here is two, perhaps many folds: a complete analysis of book one, focusing on lessons worthy of learning, writing style, request clarification for confusing chapter(s), your own experiences similar those in the story, in-depth critic on any topic related to the story.

Also, if you like the story, then recommend it to a friend...while all this is going on, I will be all over book#2..I have done my part, now you need to play your part cuz your full participation is required in order for book#2 to come online..

Last both not least, book#1 will be available in Amazon.com and book stores around the US, 30 July 2013.

I humbly yield the floor now. Opine opine opine.... thanks all you wonderful people to include me lady,larry,nedu,ishsoph,ishilove and you that is reading right now, yes you, thanks and i mean it...

#49
******************
Afterword

My story continues in my next book, More Conflicted Destiny: A U.S. Marine Made in Africa, which chronicles my experiences in America and more than 40 other countries; how I joined the elite fighting force called the United States Marine Corps, went from the rank of private to major, and commanded troops in Iraq and many other places; the role I played before and during the January 12, 2010, Haiti earthquake disaster as the United Nations military spokesman/public information officer for the UN mission in Haiti (MINUSTAH); my interaction with prominent figures including President Bill Clinton, UN Secretary General Ban Ki-moon, Ambassador Susan Rice, General Chikadibia Obiakor, General Floriano Peixoto, General Peter Pace, General P.K. Keen, Academy Award-winning actor Sean Penn, and Academy Award-winning producer Fisher Stevens, with whom I collaborated on two documentaries; and my eventual return to Liberia as part of the U.S. military observer contingent for the United Nations Mission in Liberia (UNMIL).


Acknowledgments

First, my sincere appreciation goes to Oprah Winfrey, who, unbeknownst to her, has inspired me tremendously ever since my arrival in the United States. Her goodwill efforts through her Angel Network, as well as her other endeavors, have been a great source of motivation to me. While I was serving as chief military public information officer/spokesperson for the UN peacekeeping mission in Haiti, a group of children living in the slums of Citѐ Soleil, Port Au Prince, handed me a bunch of handwritten notes to deliver to Oprah. A few weeks later, on January 12, 2010, a devastating earthquake struck Haiti, killing most of those children. I was eventually able to mail their notes to Oprah’s production company in December 2011. I hope that Oprah received them.
I owe a lot to my good friend, Academy Award-winning producer (The Cove), actor, and director Fisher Stevens, who motivated me to start writing my memoir before it was too late. Fish, it was a great pleasure working with you on the Culture Project film The War Against War. The memory of our good friends who died in the plane crash and in the earthquake will live on.
To my beloved hero and grandmother Nwanyi Burunnu—you have a special place in my heart. May your soul rest in peace. To my father, Monday Amadi Onyechere, I wish you were here to assess whether I indeed lived up to your image of me; rest in peace “Dede.” Uncle Francis, rest in peace.
Special thanks to the entire families of Amadi, Onyechere, Ewurum, and Ihetu.
Last but not least, a very special thank you to my dear friend Liz Rooney, who has been in my corner for a while now, urging me to join forces with her in her showbiz operations (Orange County TV).

#48
**************

Chapter Twenty-Two

My worries turned out to be baseless. A few days after my ordeal, the Spanish authorities granted my request and issued me a permanent resident’s permit. I was happy and willing to ignore the reason they had chosen to expedite the process for me. Obviously, their actions were a bit self-serving—to make themselves look good after the incident with the municipal police, which had brought about a potentially high-profile lawsuit—but it worked for me all the same. The authorities didn’t stop their manipulations at just issuing me a resident’s permit; they made sure that no stone was left unturned in manipulating the organization that was representing me.
After my release from detention, I kept visiting the organization’s office to find out the status of the lawsuit. At first, everyone seemed highly motivated and convinced that our case against the authorities was very strong, especially with all the evidence and the witnesses willing to testify on my behalf. However, as time passed, their enthusiasm started wearing thin. This started right about the same time the government issued my permit. Somehow, the organization became less straightforward with me and, once again, my hope for justice was dashed.
Meanwhile, the prospect of traveling to the U.S. for my education had never looked better now that I had my resident’s permit, and I wasted no time in getting the process started. First, I visited the American Institute in Barcelona, which was run by the U.S. consulate. I spent many hours in their library researching viable, affordable two-year colleges in the U.S. Finally, my efforts paid off: I found the Abraham Baldwin Agricultural College in Tifton, Georgia. It was a two-year college that offered associate degrees in many fields. Annual tuition and fees came to $7,500, much cheaper than every other school I looked at. I took down the address and other necessary information, and the next day I placed a crucial call to the dean of students. He seemed very kind and was pleased to help me enroll in the school. He told me the exact requirements and everything else I needed to facilitate the process. Apart from completing the enrollment application, I had to show proof that I had the money to finance my studies for one year. This basically meant I had to obtain a bank statement showing that I had at least $7,500 in my account.
I knew that this was it—my last opportunity to reach the Promised Land—and I wasn’t going to let anything stop me. I put on all my charm with Maria Joana. It took me several days to get her to deposit $20,000 into my account, and when she grudgingly did, she made it very clear that she would take the money back as soon as I had completed my enrollment process. However, she later agreed to let the money stay until after I obtained my student visa. I mailed the completed application and the bank statement to the school, and within a couple of weeks I received a copy of Form I-20, which showed that I was eligible to apply through the U.S. embassy for an F-1 student visa. A duplicate copy of the form was sent to the embassy to let them know that the school had accepted my application.
Having Form I-20 did not, by any means, guarantee me a visa. I still had to go through the interview and would be granted a visa only if I passed. I wasn’t willing to leave anything to fate at this point; I had to work extra hard to make sure I had covered all my bases before going for my interview. The best thing I had going for me was that I had been smart enough to return to Nigeria and get my own passport, with my legitimate name and information. It would have been a great tragedy for me to have finally gotten into the U.S. bearing somebody else’s name and living their life. The issue that might pose a challenge was that I now had a virgin passport. Apart from the Spanish visa, the exit stamp from Nigeria, and the entry stamp to Spain, there was no proof that I was a regular traveler. It was widely believed that most embassies, especially the U.S., tended to refuse visas to people who had no proof of being frequent travelers. With that in mind, I embarked on a quest to obtain as many visas as possible from European Union countries. The task wouldn’t be difficult, given that the resident’s permit issued to me by the Spanish authorities was the new European Union permit.
Meanwhile, Maria Joana received bad news from her job: she had been posted to Mallorca, effective immediately. I was devastated and had no idea what this new situation would mean for our relationship. However, she allayed my concerns and promised to not only support my effort to go to the U.S., but also help pay my first semester of tuition and fees. She would also allow me to use her property document and bank account as evidence that she was my sponsor when I went for my interview at the U.S. embassy. I was very pleased by her unending kindness and knew that it was God using her to help me. Within a week I had obtained visas from Germany and three other European Union countries. I had no intention of traveling to any of these countries, except maybe Germany, to see Chibuike.
That same week Maria Joana moved to Mallorca. We agreed that I would rent out two of the extra rooms in our apartment to raise money to sustain myself, pending the outcome of my U.S. visa application. My plan B was to move to Sweden if my application was denied.
Maria Joana’s move to Mallorca completely changed the equation of our relationship. I couldn’t move there with her because of her racist family and her fear that if they found out about us, she would be disinherited. To me, this was the final play. I could either get it right and pursue my future in the U.S. or play it wrong and live in perpetual regret in Europe, which, to me, was an environment where black people had little or no meaningful chance of freely exploring their full potential.
On the day of my interview, I arrived at the U.S. embassy in Madrid full of anticipation and anxiety, knowing that my future would be determined by what happened there that day. I had prepped myself well for the interview; I had relaxed my hair and trimmed it nicely, and bought new clothes and shoes just so I could project responsibility. As I sat waiting to be called for my interview, pondering what the future held for me, I noticed the officer in a booth in front of me going through the passports dropped for him to process. At one point he picked up my passport, looked at it, and flipped through the pages. He then called the attention of the officer next to him. I knew that Nigerian passports always attracted attention, given our reputation. The officer showed my passport to his colleague, and I heard him say, “Another one.” His colleague looked at it and they both laughed, saying that Nigerians would stop at nothing in carrying out their fraud. They wondered why anyone who had recently gotten married would leave his wife to travel to another country to study. When they were done, they tossed my passport aside. My heart immediately sunk to my stomach, and I wondered if this was how the journey would end for me.
I prayed silently in my seat and waited. A strange calm and inexplicable confidence came over me when my name was called, and I walked up to the booth. Already knowing what the officer thought of me, I decided to take charge and do things my own way. He asked for my Form I-20 and other documents. As he looked them over, I started to explain how supportive my wife had been all the while, and as I spoke, I handed him the documents for our apartment, Maria Joana’s bank statements, and paperwork to prove that she worked in a bank. Suddenly, the officer looked up from checking my documents and asked if I could wait to pick up my visa that afternoon. I was a little startled by the question because I had expected to be probed and interrogated. Nevertheless, I decided to play it calm and with a little cockiness. I said that I would love to leave for Barcelona that afternoon, and that if it was okay, I would prefer that the embassy mail my passport to my house in Barcelona. The officer said that was fine. He congratulated me and asked me when I intended to depart for the United States, given that my school was scheduled to start on January 2, 1995. I told him I planned to travel on December 30. The officer said I should expect to receive my passport in a few days.
I thanked him and strolled out of the embassy, thinking that I was a crazy fool to walk away instead of waiting to collect my visa. What if something happened or they changed their minds? All the same, I walked away from the embassy, counting my blessings and thinking that day was the best one of my life.
Indeed, a few days later, I received my passport—and lo and behold, I had been granted an F-1 student visa to study in the United States of America. I was in seventh heaven. I spent the next few months traveling and getting ready. I went to Düsseldorf, Germany, and stayed with Chibuike for a few days. I traveled by road through France, and the trip brought back a lot of bad memories, but all of that was behind me now. I would soon be going to the land of freedom.
I left the shores of Europe on December 30, 1994, for New York City. I went through immigration and customs at JFK Airport without incident. Ike, my old friend from secondary school, was waiting to pick me up.
It was a whole new world for me—indeed, the beginning of a new life.

#47
********************
After what seemed like the longest week of my life, Maria Joana informed me that she had obtained and sent the required documents to the Spanish embassy. I was immensely relieved, but I knew it would be premature to start popping the Champagne just yet. I still needed to return to the embassy to be interviewed, after which they would decide whether or not to issue the immigrant visa to me. I prayed and fasted, asking God to make them grant me the visa. I was at my cousin’s house in Ikeja, and when I left her house the morning of my interview, no one thought I had a chance. But their doubt and underestimation only spurred me on. Fortunately, just as I had prayed, my interview went very smoothly. I was issued an immigrant visa, which would allow me to apply for the European Union resident’s permit when I arrived Spain. I was overjoyed. When I returned to my cousin’s house and showed everyone my visa, they were all shocked.
I traveled back to my state to bid farewell to my family and friends. It was amazing to see the change in people’s attitude toward me once they realized I would indeed be returning to Europe—they suddenly became very nice again. I didn’t care, though. I had seen them all for what they were and didn’t want to be associated with them. This was easier said than done; it would be very difficult to untangle the web of extended family tradition that had been enshrined in Igbo culture for centuries. But I knew the most important thing was to chart a course for myself and not worry about anybody but my immediate family.
I spent a few days with them and my grandmother Eunice, leaving enough cash to sustain them for a while. Most importantly, I let them know that it would be a while before I would be able to send them money, and that I would not be returning to Nigeria anytime soon. I also gave them the bus I had bought for the transportation business. I reckoned that the money it would bring would be more than enough to take care of all their daily needs, including my siblings’ school fees, in the absence of regular financial help from me. My family was happy with this arrangement, and I was pleased to know that I could focus on myself and not worry about how they would survive while I struggled to make my way in Europe or America.
At the beginning of May 1994, I returned to Barcelona. I had never thought I would be so thrilled to return to Spain after trying unsuccessfully several times to run away. But after my stressful experience in Nigeria, I was more than happy to be back, despite the challenges ahead. Not much had changed since I had left. However, there was a notable change in Maria Joana’s attitude toward me. She wasn’t mean, but there was a certain coldness in her demeanor. I asked her about it and she eventually revealed that her bank was poised to transfer her to Las Palmas, Canary Island, or her hometown, Palma de Mallorca. She loved Barcelona and wasn’t eager to move, but she was willing to choose Las Palmas if I would move there with her. This certainly wasn’t part of my plan. I had already submitted my application for the resident’s permit and was hoping that as soon as I got it, I would start the process of migrating to the USA. At the time, though, she was still my meal ticket and I couldn’t have her think of me as ungrateful. After deliberating on the issue, I started to think it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to live in Las Palmas. After all, that was where I had started and I was still very fond of the beautiful island.
I told Maria Joana that I liked the idea of Las Palmas, as long as I could travel to the U.S. and get my education first. She was very pleased, and from then on, it seemed like fate had once again aligned our future.
What had started as a marriage of convenience gradually turned into something of a real marriage. Maria Joana, who previously had no inclination toward childbearing, suddenly agreed to try having a child with me after we moved to Las Palmas. I had no idea why she changed her mind; maybe she suddenly realized how much she loved me, or had grown very familiar with me and was terrified of not having me around. For my part, I was obsessed with having children while I was still young and able, and as Maria Joana had suddenly changed her mind, I felt inclined to reciprocate. The idea of spending the rest of my life with Maria Joana had suddenly become very appealing to me, as long as I could go to school in America. Our plan seemed good and reasonable, and we were both very pleased with it. It was settled: I would go to the U.S. to study while she moved to Las Palmas, and during every vacation I would join her there. I would move back to Las Palmas permanently after obtaining my degree. With that decided, I waited patiently for my resident’s permit to be issued. The process usually took three months.
Life was great for a while. Everything was going according to plan, and there were no major misadventures or indiscretions on my part. I was even beginning to enjoy married life and had been faithful. Then, one afternoon in July when I was on my daily walk with Quis, he managed to break away from his leash and took off, with me running after him. Understandably, Quis got even more excited. He had been cooped up in the house all day and exploited the opportunity of being outside for a few hours. At some point I couldn’t see him, so I sped up, worried that I would lose him and that Maria Joana would be furious with me.
I made my way into the plaza, still running. Right in the center of the plaza, two municipal police officers were approaching from the opposite direction, and as I tried to run past them, they rudely ordered me to stop. The municipal police was supposed to be the friendliest organization in Cataluña. They had no power to enforce immigration law, and their job was mainly to patrol and guard municipal infrastructure and enforce parking laws. I obeyed them and stopped. They were heavily built and had an unusually menacing demeanor for municipal police officers. I was about to tell them that I was running after my dog, but before I could open my mouth, they started shouting at me: “Negro son of a bitch, what are you doing here?” They violently grabbed me and started to punch me, and I was completely stunned. I begged them to stop, all the while thinking it couldn’t be happening. I had done everything possible to avoid breaking the law, knowing that my getting a resident’s permit was contingent upon me having a clean record. It would be their word against mine. Usually, I wouldn’t fold my arms and let anyone, irrespective of who they were, to use me as punching bag. But on this occasion I let them. They threw me on the ground, stomped on me, and continued to punch me in the face and all over my body while I lay there, helpless, in anguish and riddled with pain. Within minutes a crowd gathered, but no one made any attempt to rescue me. Even if they had wanted to help, I don’t know how they could have. They were indeed as helpless as I was because the two men committing this atrocity were the authorities—the ones who were supposed to protect people and property.
After twenty minutes of beating, my limp body was dragged two hundred meters to Guardia Civil Station. I was later transferred to the central police station, and was processed and fingerprinted for a crime I was unaware of and that no one had explained to me. I was thrown in jail, awaiting trial. I remained confused throughout the entire ordeal because I didn’t understand why I was being detained; nonetheless, I remained calm and hopeful. I had no one to fight for me and wasn’t sure Maria Joana would know what had happened or where I was. Worst of all, I didn’t know what had happened to her precious dog. I eventually made peace with myself, knowing that I had done nothing wrong, and as usual I prayed, asking God not to let me spend more than three days there. The next day I was transferred to another detention center, where I was to remain until my court hearing.
An Igbo proverb says that the cow that does not have a tail relies on the almighty God to fend off flies for it. I hadn’t realized that the people who had witnessed my beating with seeming nonchalance had indeed been concerned. I later found out that some of them had reported the incident to an anti-racism and civil liberties organization that had an office a block from the plaza. The organization immediately set a campaign in motion against the municipal police, but I was completely unaware of what was going on outside of the detention center. The only things going through my mind were when the humiliation would end, what Maria Joana’s reaction would be, and if this incident would stop me from getting my immigrant status.
I was abruptly released from custody right before my court hearing, and this baffled more than pleased me. Perhaps some other person would have accepted the news and gone on his merry way, but not me. I had to know what had happened. As I started questioning the authorities, I saw her—a slim brunette of average height. She flashed a smile of satisfaction as she walked up to me and introduced herself as a representative of the anti-racism and civil liberties organization that was fighting on my behalf. She explained what they had been doing behind the scenes, and also that Maria Joana had been very worried about me, but they had assured her that everything would be fine. I thanked her for their effort, but I couldn’t leave the court until I found out the implications of what had happened. I had the lady confirm from the authorities that I was indeed innocent and that the record would reflect the truth. She also received assurance that the incident would not in any way affect my pending application for a resident’s permit. She also explained that her organization had already taken my case a step further by filing a legal suit against the municipal police authority.
I followed her to her office, where she took down my statement. She advised me to stop by from time to time to check on the case, and also to be available when the court started hearing my case.
Maria Joana was really happy to have me back and, as fate would have it, a Good Samaritan found Quis, managed to locate Maria Joana, and returned her dog to her. But I was uneasy. Even though I had been assured that the incident was not my fault and would have no negative effect on my application, I wasn’t completely convinced. There were still a few months left before the final adjudication for my permit, and until then, my nerves could not be calmed....
**********************

purplespecimen: @op.....iv bn silently following your story. Quite a pleasant read.if Ϟ would pardon ♍Ɣ‎​ curiosity tho, being a medical personnel im naturally curious about James's condition. What was the diagnosis?

thx for hanging there with me;however, you're jumping way ahead into "US Marine Made in Africa" book#2..anyways, I will indulge you a little..

james was never taken to hospital as that would go against the church's belief/teaching (Divine Healing), hence, there was never any diagnosis to his condition..sadly, my brother James died in 1996 two years after my arrival at my final bus stop.

repogirl: Following....silently....

..

will try to conclude upon return from church..pls hang tight me lady

just 10 more pages to go!

#46
********************
Chapter Twenty-One

The next day, with the marriage ceremony out of the way, I hired a taxi and we went to the famous Lekki Beach. Maria Joana and I spent a few hours there, walking along the beach, drinking the juice from fresh coconuts. We later relaxed in a bar and had a few drinks and some lunch. We spent the rest of the afternoon enjoying different attractions at the beach. The next day, I rented a boat for two hours and we cruised around Victoria Island lagoon, all the way to Lagos Island. Maria Joana marveled at the scenic view and the many skyscrapers dotting the Lagos skyline. She hadn’t imagined Lagos to be that modern and beautiful. We went to an exotic, secluded beach at Tarkwa Bay, where we swam and took a quick tour of a nearby fishing village. After the boat ride, we walked around the crowded Lagos City. By evening Maria Joana was exhausted and we returned to my cousin’s house.
The next morning, Maria Joana and I went to the Spanish embassy and registered our marriage. We were issued a libra de familia (family book), which was typically issued to married couples in Spain. As the family expanded, names would be added to the book. At the embassy, we also tried to get a Spanish immigrant visa for me. Of course, we had to explain that I had been living in Spain and my passport had gotten lost there. I showed them the emergency traveling document I had gotten from Spain, as well as the police report indicating that I had a clean record in Spain. However, the embassy wasn’t completely satisfied with everything I had presented; they accepted everything but the police report. They wanted a fresh report to the embassy directly from Spain. I was completely disappointed. I had thought the process would be a lot easier. But all hope was not lost; this just meant I would have to work extra hard to keep Maria Joana happy so she wouldn’t change her mind. It was decided before we left the embassy that, upon her return to Spain, Maria Joana would process another police report that she would send directly to the embassy, after which, depending on the contents of the report, I would be issued an immigrant visa.
We left the embassy and went to an Indian restaurant in Ikoyi. As we ate, Maria Joana reassured me that as soon as she got back, she would hurry with the process and make sure the police report got to the embassy as soon as possible. After eating, we took a tour of Ikoyi and returned to my cousin’s house.
The following day, we started on our journey to the east to see my family. We arrived at Owerri late in the evening and spent the night at a hotel. Early the next morning, we continued on to my village. As soon as we arrived, everybody in the village rushed out to see us. They were all pleased that I brought a white lady home, and everyone, young and old, came to shake her hand. Some of the children touched her skin and wanted to touch her hair, too; they were quite fascinated. For me, it was a strange situation. There were a lot of similarities to my personal experience living in Europe. The behavior of my village people upon seeing a strange white person was similar to that of white Europeans when they saw a black person in their community. The difference was that the people in my village were genuinely curious about someone who was unlike them; they had no malice toward her at all. But in Europe, it was quite the opposite most times. For her part, Maria Joana seemed really pleased with the way the people treated her—like some kind of goddess. I felt like a king because my family, and the entire village, was very proud of me.
I introduced my family to Maria Joana. I wasn’t sure how my mother would feel about her, but I could see that my younger brothers and sister were proud. Maria Joana took a particular interest in my brother, James, and she gave out gifts to the endless troops of visitors. After a while, I took Maria Joana to the place where we used to live. My father’s house was no longer there because I had torn it down and sold the zinc and blocks to raise the money for my initial trip to Liberia. I also showed her where my father was buried, after which we walked around the village. Later, my mother made traditional food and we all ate. That evening, on our way back to Owerri, we stopped at Orji and spent some time with my grandmother, Eunice, and a few other relatives.
The next morning we traveled to Aba and went to my uncle’s house. I didn’t anticipate any problems because my uncle and I had made peace since I came back. I had told him that my girlfriend was coming to visit and would be staying with me at his house, and he had said it was okay with him. When we got to my uncle’s house, his wife had already fixed up the guest room for us. Everybody was happy and received us well. I gave a large sum of money to my uncle’s wife and asked her to prepare a good meal for the whole house. Maria Joana gave out gifts to my cousins and we were all merry. But the happiness did not last long.
As usual, my uncle returned home very late that night, close to midnight. I didn’t know what had gotten into him that night, but I suspected he was either intoxicated or suffered a momentary memory loss, because as soon as he learned that Maria Joana was staying with me in the guest room, he went ballistic. He screamed at his wife, questioning her judgment for allowing me to bring a prostitute into his house. I went out to confront him and told him I had heard everything he said. I insisted that he had crossed the line, and that this trumped everything he had done to me in the past. He had known full well that I would be staying at his house with my girlfriend and had already consented. For several minutes we exchanged harsh words until Maria Joana finally came out of the room. She did not need to speak English to understand what was going on. She tried to calm me down, but I refused to listen. I wanted to deal with my uncle, and if Maria Joana hadn’t been holding me back, I would have beaten the living daylights out of him. She insisted that we leave the house that night.
After a while I calmed down and went back into the guest room with Maria Joana, and we gathered all our belongings. As we were leaving, my cousins were devastated and started to cry, begging us not to go, but we were determined not to stay there another minute. My cousin Uzochi helped us carry our bags, since it was late and there were no taxis. We walked about a mile to a hotel, where we found a room.
The following day, I took Maria Joana to my Aunt Comfort’s house and we spent a few hours there, after which I gave her a tour of the city. I showed her my secondary school, the house where I used to live with my uncle, St. Michael’s Primary School, the waterside, and the motor park where I used to hustle. Later that evening, we took an overnight bus ride to Jos; I had promised to take Maria Joana to the Yankari Game Reserve in Bauchi, not too far from there.
Jos is a very beautiful city, and many Europeans living in Nigeria prefer to live there because of its mild and pleasant climate. It’s a unique city situated on a plateau about four thousand feet above sea level, with beautiful vegetation and streets adorned with palm and date trees. We decided we would spend a day in Jos, so we booked a hotel room and took a tour of the city. We ended up at the local market, where we bought local jewelry and ointments. Maria Joana was pleasantly surprised by the diversity in Nigeria—its culture and people as well as the vegetation and climate. She seemed pleased with Jos and everything else she had seen.
Early the next day, we checked out of our hotel room and took a taxi to the motor park, where we were directed to the taxis heading to Bauchi State. We paid our fare and had to wait for other passengers to fill up the taxi before we could start the journey. The motor park was very large and was almost like a big market because of the many vendors, hawkers, and shops. There were more hawkers in the motor park than passengers, and everyone tried to sell us all kinds of things. It didn’t help that Maria Joana was white; she attracted a lot of attention. She was completely overwhelmed and exhausted, and people would not stop pestering her to buy things. The beggars were just as aggressive as the hawkers; they would send off their little children to specific targets, and the children would hang on to the person’s leg or clothes and wouldn’t let go until the person gave them some money. Maria Joana was horrified and I was about to lose my mind, but I remained calm and did my best to fend them all off. I gave money to the beggars and bought Maria Joana some dates from the vendors. After waiting at the park for about two hours, our taxi finally filled up and we started our journey to Bauchi. We arrived two and a half hours later.
Bauchi was not as beautiful as Jos, but it was a big city in any case. I had expected that there would be other vehicles going to the game reserve, but there were none. The reserve is far from the city in a remote location that covers about five hundred square kilometers, reaching up to Cameroon, and this allows the animals to roam free and unhindered by artificial borders or boundaries. We were eventually able to charter a taxi to the game reserve for an exorbitant amount of money. The road from Bauchi to Yankari was lonely and desolate. I thought I would see more tourists going to the reserve, which was one of the biggest in Africa. After several hours on the winding, dusty roads, we finally arrived at the gate of the reserve. Two hungry-looking security guards drinking tea in the shade welcomed us, and we paid the entrance fee. As I signed the visitors’ book, I noted the number of people that had come before us. We were about number forty thousand, and it amazed me that most of the visitors were foreigners. We got back in the taxi and drove inside the park to the housing area, about thirty kilometers away. Driving through the park, we were very excited; we saw lots of birds and some fresh elephant excrement. Getting closer to the accommodation area, we saw thousands of baboons milling around. There was a clear area like a football field where hundreds of baboons kicked around a round object, and we had to slow down to avoid running over some of them. I thought the name of the housing area should have been Baboon Camp.
The accommodation area was indeed very beautiful. There seemed to be more than five hundred cabana houses surrounded by trees. The houses were round and in African style, with thatched roofs. From the look of it, the cabanas had different categories; some seemed bigger than others. We went into the reception area to check in, and the receptionist told us about the types of accommodations. They had regular rooms, which were less expensive and located within the least beautiful cabanas. There were luxury rooms that were more expensive, and there were VIP rooms, which had air conditioning, were much larger, and were located in the prettiest cluster of cabanas. We paid for a VIP suite for five days, picked up brochures, and scheduled a safari. There was a restaurant that served continental and local dishes, and a museum with a gift shop. But the biggest attraction for us was the Wikki Warm Spring. As soon as we had checked into our room, we grabbed our towels and headed there. There were baboons all over the place, and signs warning visitors not to feed them. We ignored the signs and gave a few cookies to the baboons.
When we got to the edge of the hill, we had to climb down about five hundred feet to get to the warm springs. There were steps on the side of the hill, but it still wasn’t easy going down. As we got closer, we could see the clear blue water flowing below, starting from one end of the hill and flowing in the other direction. Amazingly, the bottom of the spring had clear white sand and you could see vapor rising from the water. The water flowed from a cave under the hill, and people stood by the side of the cave above the entrance and jumped into the water. Both sides were lined with trees, their branches leaning gracefully forward. We saw people climb up the trees and jump from them into the spring. All around, there were monkeys and baboons in the trees watching people swim.
We finally got to the bottom and put down our things by the pavement. We took off our clothes, folded them neatly, and laid them on our bags. After we had spread out our towels, we jumped into the water. It was so hot, it felt like fifty degrees Celsius. I was jolted as soon as I hit the water. I relaxed and tried to allow my body to adjust to the temperature, but after a few minutes I couldn’t take the burning anymore and I climbed out of the water. But I couldn’t stay out of the spring for long because there were blood-sucking tsetse flies everywhere and they stung like crazy—and unfortunately, they seemed immune to the insect repellant I was wearing. I jumped back into the water to prevent the flies from biting me, but even there, they would bite any exposed part of my skin. I decided to mentally block the inconvenience from the flies and proceeded to enjoy myself in the water.
Maria Joana and I had fun swimming and playing in the spring for quite a while. At one point, when we were the only ones left, something unexpected happened. A big baboon got down from the tree, nonchalantly grabbed all our clothes, and climbed back up. We spent more than half an hour begging the creature and making all kinds of expressions to get it to drop our clothes. After what seemed like ages, the baboon climbed onto a branch leaning directly over the spring, and as we watched, it dramatically let go of our clothes, which landed in the water. We weren’t upset, though; it was actually the highlight of our evening. Still marveling at how smart and mischievous the baboons were, we returned to our room, showered, and then went to have dinner.
The next morning, we were ready for our safari. We finished our breakfast before eight and were the first ones on the truck. A tour guide explained things as we drove along. First, we went to areas where the wild pigs were, and then on to the buffaloes and antelopes. After that, we went in search of elephants and before long ran into some herds. It was my first time seeing elephants, and there seemed to be a thousand of the giant creatures. They were eating up tree stumps as they moved, and some of them would not give way for our vehicle. One even got close to our truck, but never attacked us. It was beautiful observing the animals in their natural habitat. After three hours, we returned to the base camp, showered, and had our lunch. We went on the afternoon safari as well, and spent the rest of the evening at the Wikki Warm Spring.
Maria Joana and I did not adhere to the rules of the camp. Even inside the cabanas it was clearly written that visitors should not try to befriend the baboons or feed them. But in our naiveté, we felt we knew better than the camp keepers. Every morning before we left the cabana, we would leave food on the porch for the baboons, and by the time we got back, the food would be gone.
On the third day, we went on a trail with a tour guide and visited several ancient caves with what looked like rooms carved into their sides. The guide explained that people used to live in those rooms in ancient times, and there were still relics within them of the way the occupants had lived. There was writing on the walls and floors, and there were calabashes and broken pieces of objects that looked like cooking pots. We saw rocks of different shapes; I presumed the flat ones were used for grinding and the bigger ones for sitting. Though the rooms were primitive, I was fascinated by them and wouldn’t have minded spending a night or two in them. We later went deep into the bush and visited other places where people used to live. Around mid-day we went back to the camp, exhausted. Later that afternoon we went on another safari, and when we returned, we spent the rest of the evening by the warm spring. Fortunately for us, we didn’t have any encounters with the baboons this time, even though they followed us the entire time. We kept our eyes on our belongings all the while.
By the morning of the fourth day, we had no more cookies to put on the porch for the baboons, but we didn’t think too much of it as we left the cabana. To our greatest surprise, we returned to our room at the end of the day to find that the refrigerator had been ransacked and all our food eaten. Apparently, the baboons were upset that we didn’t leave any snacks for them and decided to take matters into their own hands. They had climbed up our roof and managed to squeeze in through an opening. Fortunately, they hadn’t destroyed our other belongings; they had only wanted the food. We thought it was hilarious, and besides, it was completely our fault. We hadn’t followed the rules and had ended up paying for it.
Early in the morning on the fifth day, we were lucky to catch a ride with other tourists who were leaving the reserve. They dropped us off at Bauchi, where we went to the motor park and got into a vehicle going to Kano. We arrived late and spent the night at a hotel. The next morning, we got up early to start our tour of the big and beautiful city. Even though Kano was predominantly Hausa and Fulani, there were many Igbos and people from other tribes. We visited the emir’s palace, toured old Kano, and ended up at the big Kano market, where I bought some traditional Fulani dresses for Maria Joana and other gift items. From Kano we went to Kaduna and spent a day there, with the intention of continuing to Maiduguri the next day. But we realized we didn’t have much time left because Maria Joana’s leave time was running out. We traveled back to Owerri and spent two days visiting my family, after which we returned to Lagos.
We spent the next few days in Lagos relaxing and going to the beach. By the time Maria Joana was ready to return to Spain, I was satisfied with myself, knowing that I had entertained and taken very good care of her so she would have no reason to change her mind about getting the police report to the Spanish embassy. Maria Joana left Lagos for Barcelona and I stayed behind, waiting patiently for my fate. It was the most agonizing period of my life. I was truly overwhelmed by anticipation and uncertainty. There was no guarantee that Maria Joana would send the required information, especially as I was broke and would once again be dependent on her if I returned to Spain. My relatives and friends weren’t helping my state of mind, either—they all thought I wouldn’t be able to return to Europe, that there was simply no way the Spanish embassy would give me a visa. Anxiety completely took over me and I started to wonder if I had made my biggest blunder yet by returning to Nigeria. I had literally passed through hell to get to Europe, only to turn around and squander my gains simply because I wanted to legalize my stay there. Nonetheless, I tried to persevere and keep a positive mental attitude....
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oyestephen: Sorry for jumping ahead but are you still married to Maria Joanna ?
Any ways...she was really an angel.....

no and you will find out why as the story evolves..hang tight..

#45
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until Maria Joana came to Nigeria and we got married. I received news from her that she wouldn’t be coming the next month as we had planned. Her leave had been pushed back to February, which was three months away. I had to think fast because I was spending my money quickly and not making any. I decided in the interim to go back to my old business of buying shoes and bags and selling them in Sierra Leone. That way, I could make a little money while waiting for Maria Joana. I took the money I had left and went to my old suppliers. Some of them remembered me. I ordered my special designs, mostly of women’s shoes and handbags. I bought my ticket to Sierra Leone, and within a week, all my orders were ready.
Before leaving for Sierra Leone, I went back to my village and gave a substantial amount of money to my mother for the family’s upkeep. I also instructed my uncle to deposit money from the transport business into my checking account. I hoped that by the time I got back, there would be enough money from the transport business. I called my friend Ricky and informed him that I would be coming to Sierra Leone, and that I intended to stay at his place.
I departed for Sierra Leone at the beginning of December. It was mostly business as usual; I had no trouble transporting my goods from Nigeria to Sierra Leone. When I arrived, Ricky was waiting for me, and he lent me some money to clear my goods the same day. We left the airport and took the ferry across to Freetown. Nothing much had changed; the only noticeable difference was the sense of insecurity that gripped the entire population. At this time, the civil war in Liberia and the rebel activities were spilling over into Sierra Leone. Rumor had it that some Sierra Leonean rebel faction, affiliated with Charles Taylor, had taken over Kenema and had started pushing toward Freetown. There was great unease among the people, especially in the business community. I wasn’t flustered because I had been through similar situations before, and besides, I would only be there for a short period of time. I also noticed that at the airport there were many ECOMOG contingents—the Nigerian Army and Air Force among them. Before I had left Sierra Leone, the ECOMOG soldiers had been using part of the Lungi airport as a staging ground for their operations and intervention in Liberia. However, their increased presence signified that they anticipated potential instability in Sierra Leone as well.
Ricky now lived with other Nigerian businesspeople in a house located in an affluent neighborhood in Freetown. He even owned a car. I was very proud of his accomplishments, but mostly satisfied that I had helped him, even though he never thanked me nor showed any appreciation for all I did for him, picking him up from the gutter when I could barely take care of myself and using half of my business money to send him to Sierra Leone. Nonetheless, he was my best friend. The next few days we reminisced and tried to catch up. I was also able to visit old friends, and I found out that my two monkeys had died. Apparently, the one I had given to a female friend missed me so much that it committed suicide. The girl told me that one morning they had woken up to find the monkey with a rope tightly wound around its neck, and there was nothing they could do to revive it. The other monkey, I was told, had died a few weeks after I left. It had refused to eat and had died of starvation. It was hard for anyone to understand my relationship with my monkeys. They were my trusted companions when I was in Sierra Leone and I had taken care of them as if they were my babies. Leaving them behind was one of the most difficult decisions I had to make before my departure to Las Palmas. I would have taken them with me if I could have. I mourned their loss, after which I consoled myself with the thought that they must be in a better place.
The following day, I supplied my shoes to the same Lebanese guy I used to deal with and distributed the ladies’ handbags to other vendors. While waiting to collect my money, I tried to occupy myself with other things. I couldn’t wait for Maria Joana to get to Nigeria so I could get back to Spain. I would wake up in the morning, go for a run, and then sit down and read some books—my old routine. Other times, I would go to Ricky’s shop and hang out with him. I learned that Pascal and a few of the guys also owned shops as well. As for Ernest Brown’s shop, it was no more. I learned that he finally moved back to Nigeria, but that after a short time there, he had died of a mysterious illness. His death saddened me. In my opinion, Ernest and his shop were highly significant, particularly for the Igbo businesspeople in Freetown. He had a good heart, and his genuine love and kindness for his fellow human beings would never be forgotten. Uneasiness gradually started to creep into my stay in Sierra Leone as I started getting nervous about Maria Joana. Since returning to Nigeria I had maintained regular contact with her, but after my arrival in Sierra Leone, there had been a significant gap in our communication. Our occasional telephone conversations had become lackluster and she seemed reluctant and distant. I couldn’t understand her changing attitude and I became petrified that she might change her mind about coming to Nigeria. All my hope of returning to Europe was hinged on her coming to Nigeria and marrying me. I realized that I had to step up my game if I was to maintain a hold on her. The distance between us made it a lot harder for me to convince her to do things she wouldn’t normally want to do. I resorted to my old trick and started telling her how horrible Africa was. I cried and professed my undying love to her, telling her I never realized how much she meant to me and how much I missed her. I told her I couldn’t imagine myself living without her. I did this until she became remorseful and started to comfort me.
The uncertainty surrounding Maria Joana started to affect me emotionally and I needed a way to alleviate my distress. I returned to my wayward ways and started socializing heavily with Sierra Leonean girls. There were three or four in particular who kept me busy. I made sure I didn’t spend my days alone—the few moments I was by myself, I was petrified and couldn’t stop thinking about “what ifs.” There was absolutely no guarantee that Maria Joana would stick to the plan, and if she didn’t, my whole world would come crashing down and I would have to start all over again. Meanwhile, some of the guys had started a rumor that I hadn’t returned to Africa of my own free will, but had been repatriated from Spain. I tried to squash the rumor, and explained that I had come back on vacation and soon my fiancée would join me. They didn’t seem convinced, though, and I knew that deep down, some of them wished I had truly been repatriated and were gloating inside about my presumed misfortune.
Sadly, by the end of December, I had yet to collect all my money from my vendors. I had anticipated being able to collect all of it within two weeks of my arrival in Sierra Leone. This would have allowed me to possibly make two or more trips and bring in more goods before the Christmas season. The vendors kept giving me the money in very small installments, and whatever they gave me, I used for my feeding and entertainment. I had collected only half of my money and had spent it all. When January ended, I was still in Sierra Leone, frustrated, dejected, and completely disillusioned, but I kept hanging on to the hope that Maria Joana would come. Eventually, I gave up on the idea of making another return trip to Nigeria. I decided that once I had collected all my money, I would just go back to Nigeria and wait for Maria Joana. I hoped the transport business in Nigeria would have made me a substantial amount of money by the time I returned, and with that in mind, I decided to relax and pretend I was in Sierra Leone on vacation.
By the end of February, I had finally collected all my money from my vendors, but I had spent most of it. Around the same time, I received the long-awaited good news: Maria Joana had finally gotten her leave and had bought her ticket to Nigeria; she would arrive in early March. This news made up for all the misfortune I’d had on my trip to Sierra Leone. A few days later, I packed my bags, bade farewell to all my friends, and headed back to Nigeria. As I waited to board my flight, I noticed some commotion in a corner of the departure hall. I went to investigate, and to my surprise, it was her “royal highness” Ngozi, in the company of Prince Y. Johnson, who was also heading to Nigeria. Apparently, he had accepted the offer by ECOWAS to go to Nigeria on exile. Ngozi was just as surprised to see me. We chatted briefly and she introduced me to Prince Johnson. I took a picture with him and then they headed off to the VIP section.
When I got to Lagos, I went to Joy and asked if she and her husband would allow Maria Joana and me spend a few days at their house when she arrived. I also asked Joy to accompany us to the marriage registry to witness our marriage, which would take place as soon as Maria Joana arrived. I had no intention of waiting any longer than necessary to make the marriage a reality—before she could change her mind. Joy was happy to oblige. While I waited for Maria Joana’s arrival, I perfected all the plans and the arrangements for the marriage, and thought about places she might be interested in visiting while in Nigeria. By the end of that week, everything had been arranged and all that was left was the arrival of the bride herself.
Maria Joana arrived Lagos in mid-March, 1994. I was waiting for her at the airport with Obinna, Joy’s husband’s nephew. Obinna had always been my trusted friend; he understood how important this marriage was to me and was willing do everything possible to help, starting by driving me to the airport. Maria Joana’s plane landed around 5 p.m., and by six, she had passed through immigrations and proceeded to baggage claim. I had already educated her on the process of going through the airport in Nigeria. At that time, there were scam artists all over the airport, and the last thing I needed was for some miscreant to jeopardize my opportunity with Maria Joana by duping her on arrival. I had never been happier to see her face again and she seemed delighted to see me, too, though she looked exhausted. We hugged and kissed, and joined Obinna, who was waiting for us outside.
Maria Joana was warmly welcomed by everyone at Joy’s house. We settled into our room and spent hours reminiscing about Barcelona. Later that night, I told her what I had planned for us for the rest of her visit. I informed her that we had to get married the next day since we didn’t have much time to stay in Lagos. She grudgingly accepted this and we went to bed.
The next morning we went to the registry at Victoria Island with Obinna and Joy. Within an hour of our arrival, Maria Joana and I had become husband and wife. We filled out the necessary documents and were issued a marriage license. It was one of the happiest days of my life—not because of the marriage itself, which was clearly one of convenience, but because the marriage certificate would legitimize my relationship with Maria Joana and enable me to obtain a Spanish visa easily. After the ceremony we all drove to a Chinese restaurant to celebrate. I took a slow, deep breath and was flooded with joy. I was closer than ever to achieving my lifelong dream.

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#44
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Chapter Twenty

In November 1993, I bought a ticket to Nigeria with the money I had made at Olympic Village. When I got to Lagos, I went to my cousin Joy and her family in Ikeja. Everyone was happy to see me. My cousin Ike was there too, and it didn’t take him long to start planning how to rip me off. The first thing he asked me was how much money I had brought home with me, and I told him. He started talking about all kinds of business ideas that he claimed would double my money. He also informed me that our childhood friend Chibuike, who we used to gamble with while I was living at Aunt Comfort’s house in Aba, was also in town. Chibuike had left Nigeria two years before me and was based in Germany.
Ike and I went to visit our old friend. I was happy to see him; he looked well groomed and was hanging out with a couple of friends when we arrived at his place. It was really fun talking about our different experiences in Europe, especially with other people who were aspiring to be like us.
After two days in Lagos, I couldn’t wait to travel to the east to see my family and share my stories with them. I was also looking forward to hanging out with Okey De Boy. Before leaving, however, I allowed Ike to convince me to buy a minibus for a transportation business. He insisted that it was the most profitable business in town at the time. So we bought a bus and headed for the east. On the roads, the police extorted a lot of money from us for all sorts of reasons, as usual. Eventually we got to my village. Everyone was elated, most of all my mother and siblings. My entire village came out to see me. I handed out some of the gifts that I had brought with me, and then took the rest into the house for my family.
My happiness was short-lived because I got to the house to find that my grandmother was really dead. For some reason, part of me refused to believe that she was actually gone, and I had expected to see her when I got home. I tried hard to hold back my tears.
The most painful thing about losing my grandmother was knowing that she hadn’t lived long enough to enjoy the fruits of her labor. I wished I had done more for her when I was in Spain. One time I had sent her twenty dollars, but I should have sent her more on a regular basis. She deserved more for all she had done for me, but how could I have known she wouldn’t to live to see my return? I convinced myself that she must have been happy with me. Being the strong woman she was, there was no way she would have let herself die if she didn’t think everything would be okay. She must have concluded when I got to Spain that all would be well, because she had full confidence in my ability to succeed and she knew she had taught me well.
It was really nice being around my siblings again. They all seemed so grown-up. My brother John and my sister, Joy, were doing well. John was in secondary school, and Joy was just finishing primary school. My brother James had already started his own small shoe-repair business, and I was very proud of him. I gave him a lot of the shoes and clothes I had brought back with me. James was a special child and had always been sickly. He had a bulging tumor in his stomach that had impaired his growth, and his leg was badly twisted so he could not walk normal. He was also slow academically, but was phenomenal with common sense. Because of our religious beliefs he was never taken to the hospital and never received a diagnosis of his ailments. It wasn’t until much later in life, after all my travels, that I got to know what he was suffering from, as well as the fact that we could have had him cured or at least tried to help him with all the modern medical treatments available.
After spending two days in my village, I went to Orji Uratta to see my other grandmother, Eunice. Everyone was equally delighted to see me there. I gave my grandmother the gift I had bought for her, and handed out more presents to my other relatives. After spending a couple of nights there, I drove the minibus to Aba to do some work on its body and to paint it the right city transport color. After that, I went to Aunt Comfort’s house. She was overjoyed to see her beloved brother’s son back in Nigeria, and I was likewise thrilled to see my favorite aunt again. I gave her all the gifts I had brought for her. Her husband was happy to see me, too. While staying with them over the next few days, I noticed that my aunt gave me equal or greater portions of food than she served to Ike, and on better dishes. I loved my aunt very much, but I never thought she would deliberately treat me differently from her kids. I was uncomfortable with the extra nicety and asked her to stop; I hadn’t changed, and I preferred the way things were before I traveled overseas. She commended me for my wisdom, hugged me, and told me how much she loved me.
As usual, Ike helped me with most of the things I wanted to accomplish in Aba, not because he was being a good cousin, but because he wanted every possible opportunity to make money off of me. I didn’t mind too much.
While in Aba, I couldn’t hold back my excitement about reuniting with all my friends. My eagerness was fleeting, though. I found out that Okey De Boy had passed away just two weeks before I returned to Nigeria. He was his normal self during the day and had gone to sleep as usual on that fateful evening. But in the middle of the night, he had woken up yelling that someone wanted to kill him. He died minutes later. It was indeed a very sad way to die, and his family strongly believed that his death was not natural. They suspected that a relative had killed Okey through witchcraft. The news of his death dealt me a devastating blow. But it wasn’t just Okey; some mutual friends of ours had also died in similar mysterious ways. I couldn’t help but be grateful to God that I hadn’t been in Nigeria all this time or I might have died, too.
A few days later, I returned to my village and my mother reminded me that I still had unfinished business: my uncle John. She wanted me to make peace with him and insisted that I repay him for the property I had stolen. I was reluctant because I had already offered him the money once before, but I gave in after she continued to plead with me.
Surprisingly, everyone at my uncle’s house in Aba was happy to see me, even my uncle. I gave him a large sum of money as a “gift”—that was my way of returning what I owed him—and he accepted it this time. But I was shocked by what happened next. The whole family turned into leeches. They were all so demanding. I gave money and gifts to everybody, and I gave money to my uncle’s wife daily to cook for the entire family. Despite the large sum I had given my uncle, he still asked me for money every morning. After two weeks staying with them, I was practically running out of money. My uncle offered to manage my transport business and I accepted, just so we could maintain our newfound friendship. He employed a driver for the minibus and it was agreed that he would render account to me on a monthly basis.
Meanwhile, I had obtained my legitimate international passport. Passports were easy to get in Nigeria during this time. The normal process could take up to three months, but there were many immigration officers who specialized in fast-tracking the process with the right bribe, so I paid and got my passport in two days. However, I still couldn’t go to the embassy...
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repogirl: Maria joanna is an angel, I think. She was always so supportive.

she is..i owe her a lot!!

#43
I'm back!! my apologies for that little distraction..I most admit that I was too busy in the real world and did not bother with reading the rules and regulations of nairaland. I still have no either which rule I had violated to merit the ban and censor yesterday;that said, ignorant is no excuse/defense as i should have educated myself on the rules governing this highly esteemed medium..enough said, so lets get back to business.
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Chapter Nineteen

One day in June 1993, I stumbled into our apartment, exhausted from work, and there was this sick-looking little bird, a peruke, fluttering around the living room. As soon as I saw it, I knew all was not well back home. My grandmother’s mysterious relationship with birds had somehow influenced me. I caught the little guy, fed him, and bought a cage for him, all the while waiting and wondering what bad news he had brought me. I remembered my grandmother telling me before I left Nigeria two years earlier that she would always be with me, and to look out for the birds. Since I was born, my grandmother had always done everything in her power to protect me. Even in her old age she had fought people in my defense. She had even fended off evil spirits that, according to her, had been sent to harm me. The presence of the bird brought back the mystery surrounding my grandmother. Maria Joana was perplexed by my unusual behavior with the bird, but she didn’t complain.
We took very good care of the bird for three days. When I returned from work on the third day, I was confronted with an inexplicable situation: the cage was secure, but the bird had disappeared. I knew Maria Joana wouldn’t have released the bird without telling me; besides, she had left the house that morning before I did. After a moment, I realized the meaning of what had happened. Maria Joana returned from work and found me in tears. She asked what was going on, and I told her my grandmother had just died. I explained the significance of the bird and its disappearance. My grandmother had been gracious enough to let me know about her death and had even stayed with me for three days. Maria Joana did her best to console me, even though she couldn’t understand how I could conclude that my grandmother had died without receiving any information from my family. She didn’t have to wait long to be convinced, though. Three days later, I received a phone call from Nigeria that my grandmother had passed away in her sleep three days earlier.
Seven months later and twelve thousand dollars richer, in September 1993, I was laid off, along with most of the other workers, when construction finally wound down at the Olympic Village. The amount of work left required just a skeleton crew. I wasn’t disappointed, though, because I had made a lot of money. The most exciting part of having a job those seven months was that I could contribute to our upkeep. I bought food for the house, as well as other things that I needed. I even took Maria Joana out from time to time, and we went to many restaurants. Best of all, I never had to ask her for money.
Maria Joana and I started discussing what I could do with the money. I told her that selling used cars was a big business in Nigeria, mostly Japanese cars shipped from Belgium. After I explained how it worked, Maria Joana thought it would be a good business venture. With the money I had, we figured I’d be able to buy four or five cars in Brussels and ship them to Nigeria. Since I still had the David English passport, I didn’t think I would have trouble traveling back and forth from Barcelona to Belgium. The one thing I didn’t want to do was travel to Nigeria. I might be able to get into the country, but it was highly unlikely that I could travel from Nigeria back to Spain—or anywhere else, for that matter—with my fake passport, given Nigeria’s reputation as the forgery capital of the world. I couldn’t take that chance. My idea was to buy the cars and ship them to Nigeria, and then have my family sell them and send the money to me so I could buy some more. We settled on this plan and I bought a round-trip ticket to Brussels.
In October 1993, I flew from Barcelona to Belgium, excited to finally be embarking on a business trip—something that could potentially make me a successful businessman and enable me sustain myself and my family. Because of my success with my fake passport, I didn’t anticipate any problems with Belgium immigration. But I should have known better; black people were often treated as suspects until proven otherwise. When I arrived in Brussels, the immigration officer didn’t bother to check other passengers’ passports, but he took a very keen interest in mine. He took so long that I was almost tempted to tell him myself that it was faked and he should go to hell. Before I could say anything, he went into the inner office. When he returned, he told me that I would not be allowed entry into Belgium because their system indicated that the David English passport had been stolen several months ago. This time, I was not particularly bothered. I had pretty much gotten used to being denied entry into countries and had become more confident, knowing that the worst thing that could happen was that they would send me back to Spain. So the only thing I could say to him was that it was their country’s loss, and that I had gone there intending to buy cars and add to their economy, but if they wouldn’t let me, so be it. I asked them to give me back my ticket so I could return on the same flight that had brought me. The officers weren’t exactly rude, but they told me that indeed I would be returning on that very flight, only they wouldn’t give the passport to me. Instead, they would give it to the pilot, who would hand it over to me upon arrival in Barcelona.
They were very smart. They had realized the dilemma they would have been in if they had chosen to retain the stolen passport and send me back to Barcelona without it. They also made a wise decision by having the pilot give me my passport upon arrival instead of reporting me to Spanish immigration. If they had sent me back without a passport, Spanish immigration would have no way of knowing that indeed I had traveled from Barcelona to Belgium, and they would have been forced to return me to Belgium on arrival. And if the Belgian authorities had told the pilot to turn over my passport to Spanish immigration, I would have suffered the same fate.
As agreed, I flew back to Barcelona on the same flight that had taken me to Belgium. The pilot waited for me at the door and handed me my passport as I was getting off the plane. I passed through immigration easily; there were no immigration checks because my flight had originated from an EU country, exactly what I had expected would happen with Belgium. I took a taxi to our apartment, and on the way, I decided I was done traveling with fake passport. That meant I had to return to Nigeria and get my own passport, then come back to Spain legally and try to go to the U.S. with my own passport. Maria Joana agreed, and we decided I would return to Nigeria in November. In preparation for my trip, I went around my neighborhood collecting used clothes and shoes for my relatives in Nigeria. I was excited about returning to Nigeria, not only because it had been two years since I had last seen my family, but also to show everyone that I had gone overseas on my own, without any help. It didn’t matter that I had suffered a lot during my time away; people who returned from abroad were held in high esteem regardless of whether they had cleaned toilets there.
A few weeks before my trip, I went to the Nigerian embassy and obtained an emergency traveling document. I also went to the Spanish National Police office with my real name, which was reflected on my emergency travel document, and obtained a police clearance. The police record indicated that I had never been in trouble and had no criminal record. This was necessary because after I obtained my passport in Nigeria, I would have to go to the Spanish embassy there to request an immigrant visa.
I also knew it would be practically impossible for me to get a Spanish visa from Nigeria with a brand-new passport. I would need help getting that visa.
Maria Joana and I decided that she would join me in Nigeria after a few months so we could get married...
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we are at the home stretch, so please opine while you can

#42
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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?....

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

#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..
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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.
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the only dump question is the one not asked, so fire away!!

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

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

#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...

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opine opine opine

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.

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

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

#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!!

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