The Year I Came To America: An Experiment in Memoirs

The year I came to America began at the American embassy in Lagos. It is one of the many memories of my last days in Nigeria I recall vividly. We were all waiting like defendants for the judge’s verdict. Will it be favorable? Will it not? Were the questions that probably roamed our minds. We were anxious, even our brief infrequent conversations were tense. Quick vapid twitch of the lips replaced our smiles, there were no laughter. As typical of a regular morning in Nigeria, it was very hot and the shades of the dispersed coconut trees outside the embassy provided little respite from the sun. Besides, we were all too many to stay under the trees. There were hundreds of us, maybe thousands, Nigerians both young and old, citizens from all walks of life waiting to abandon their country for greener pastures in a foreign land. We were scattered like penguins across the Victoria Island Street where the American embassy was located, waiting for the powers behind the fancy closed doors to pass their verdicts. Some of us were accompanied by friends and families, while some of us came solo. Will they send us yonder? Or will they keep us in this prison of poverty and corruption? I mused. That was in fact how I came to view Nigeria in the last couple of months prior to my travel to the United States. I became restless. Everything in my life paled in comparison to the expectations I had of America. By then, I have heard so many stories of the country where the electricity never goes off, where people roamed around almost naked, where children could call their parents by their given names without being slapped, and where there was so much food that can transform a lepa into an orobo within days. I just couldn’t wait to migrate to such a country! I wondered at the reason behind the other interviewees’ presence at the embassy, because we were not all poor. At least it did not look that way, and my 15 years old brain could not think of other possible reasons why so many people would want to vamoose the country. It was either some of us were so poor that fleeing was the only option or some of us were so rich we were applying for visas to take a vacation abroad. Because as far as I was concerned, social classes in Nigeria fell into two categories, rich or poor, there were no middle grounds. Some would consider my family rich because my parents were in America, but in my opinion you had to at least have a maid and a personal driver to be considered rich. In my household, I was the maid.

My three siblings and I were sitting on a large piece of rock, my elder brother Tope, my younger brother Victor and my younger sister Kemi. We were waiting for the embassy officers to call us forward, we waited for possibly two hours. I had neither a wrist watch nor a cell phone, and I did not feel like speaking so I did not ask. But we waited for a long time, long enough for my sharp brain to do an analysis on some of the interviewees and file them under whatever category I saw fit, Americanah, Johnny Just Come, Ajebo, Ajepako, SU and so on. A lady walked passed me, going nowhere in particular, it was either she had become restless from sitting too long or she just wanted to show off her looks to the gentlemen leaning against a wall, I voted for the latter as I watched her move to and fro like a peacock who did not know what to do with her feathers. She was an Ajebo, I could tell from the way she walked and the amount of jewelry she had on. She even wore one on her left arm and two bracelets on her ankle. She has had a maid all her life and have never washed her own panties, I surmised. Just as I was making this analysis, a man on the phone a few feet away caught my attention. He was sobbing loudly and clearly did not care that he had a large audience. I cannot recall ever seeing a man cry out loud in public in Nigeria. It was after all something only women were supposed to do. I could not pick out the language he was speaking to the other person on the end of the line, he was probably an Igbo or a Calabar , I wasn’t sure, but I knew he had been rejected, we all knew. But none of us said a word, we felt sorry for the man. He had probably lost his only chance at escaping the country. Papa Christ my dad’s friend who drove us to the embassy was the first to speak, stating the obvious, “they did not give him a visa”, Tope responded, “that is so sad”. I couldn’t join the conversation, it would have been rude for a girl to jump in when two men were speaking.

Tope is four years older than I am, he was 19. I did not like him very much because he was always trying to boss me around and we always fought, sometimes breaking lamps and fracturing furniture, dining tables, stools and stands to the consternation or my mother, and later my maternal grandmother; after my mother travelled to America. I always get beat up of course. He was much stronger than I, but then I would escape to my room, lock the door and haul loud insults at him from the safety of my closed room. He would severely bang the door in anger as I shouted at him through tears and a swollen face. I had a sharp mouth and a good command of the English language which I always put to good use, “you violated he-goat! Chimpanzee! Do you call yourself a man? You are not a man, go and fight with your mate, you’re here beating up a woman, you think that makes you a strong person? You’re coward! Bastard!” He would keep banging the door in anger, as my mother or grandmother make effort to deter him, “leave her alone! It’s enough! Do you want to kill her?” If he fails to listen, which he always does, my mother would turn to me “Linda, keep quiet, don’t talk to your brother like that”, I would then turn my anger on both of them, “don’t call him my brother! He’s a monster! I don’t know where you picked him from, you’d better return him!”, but I actually never doubted that he was my biological brother, although sometimes, I fantasized about being an adopted child and finding out later that my real parents were rich politicians. Our shouting would go on for another couple of minutes and would not stop, until one of us got tired. This was our usual routine, there was hardly a week in which we did not exchange kicks and blows. This was part of the reason why I wanted so badly to move to America. I was told in America, you were not allowed to beat women, you could go to jail for that. I could not wait to call the police on Tope if he dares to raise his hands on me in America. Later, When we got to America, I threatened him with this several times, he never once beat me in America, I do not know if it was because he was actually afraid I was going to call the cops or if he was afraid of my father who did not condone beating women or if he was just more mature.

I was always respectful to adults because I was expected to be. Besides, it did not take a lot to show respect to people, all you had to do was use the appropriate honorifics and kneel when greeting. It mattered little what you actually thought as long as you showed respect. Refusal to do so will earn you a slap across the face or a stroke of cane or some other form of punishment. I hated being flogged, so I’d rather show respect than let people know how I truly felt about them. The only person I refused to show respect to was Tope, in my opinion he did not deserve my respect, real or pretended and this always annoyed him, which was the main reason why we fought. I did not respect him because I thought he was a spoiled pampered child. Because he was a boy and I a girl, I did all the house chores, including cook the food, serve him the food, clear the plates after him and wash the dishes. While he sat down like the king of the jungle doing nothing. This angered me, but no one seemed to see things from my perspective. According to my mother, she was preparing me for when I get married. Since I’m the woman, I’m the one who has to take care of the house, it does not matter whether my brother can clean or cook or not, it was his wife’s responsibility. I felt sorry for the unknown woman, but on this rationale, what I considered my domestic slavery continued. It was around this issue that I formed the idea that I was a feminist. I wanted the equal treatment of men and women. I thought life unfair to me just because of my sex. Often I wanted to retort back to my mother and ask her who has been cooking for my father since he traveled to America. If he does not know how to cook and clean will he marry another woman? But I wouldn’t dare voice out such a thought. I hated, truly hated being whipped. Although my mother was not the whipping type, neither was my grandmother, but they both loved to punish by asking you to kneel down and raise your hands to the sky. I did not like kneeling either, but ever so often I had to because I did not know how to speak to an adult. I thought I was very respectful, but when I ask some certain questions, they consider it rude and thus I had to kneel. For example, when I asked my grandma what she had done with the money my parents recently sent and why she was asking for more money so soon, I had to kneel.

The man on the phone at the embassy was still crying when it was finally our turn. My siblings and I rose from our sitting position on the flat rock and marched slowly along the other interviewee to the inside of the embassy. We were very confident we were going to be given our visas. After all, both of our parents were American citizens. They could not possibly prevent us from reuniting with our parents, I rationalized, only to be told they could not issue us visas unless we went through DNA tests to prove that our parents were actually our biological parents. We returned home sad faced. The following week we went for our DNA tests. While waiting for the results, I fantasized about being an adopted child or a switched at birth. What if we found that my parents were not my biological parents? What if my real parents were some rich Nigerian politician with lots and lots of money? Or what if my mother had been unfaithful, and my real father was someone else? These were the things I thought of. I anticipated a dramatic event that would rock my otherwise very stable world, but the DNA results came back, and all my siblings were my true biological siblings and my parents were my real parents. All things remained the same.

Traveling to America was the most grueling experience ever! I later fell sick after we finally received our visas, and after Tope and Victor who was 13 travelled to America. My parents could not afford to buy our tickets all at once so Kemi and I had to wait for another six months before traveling, Kemi was 9. Those months made up the most interesting months of my life ever. For the first time in my life, I was admitted to a hospital. My grandmother thought I had gotten pregnant, her worst nightmare. It was not uncommon for teenage girls to get pregnant in Nigeria, this was mostly due to poverty. Young women sometimes rely on men for their upkeep and in exchange for money, sleep with them. My grandmother’s sole prayer was to deliver me to my mother as my mother had left me when she was traveling, un-pregnant. But the doctor reassured her that it was malaria. In my opinion, it was the stress of the entire travelling process. I knew a few teenage girls who had already had an abortion. Even the ugly ones, which surprised me. I would ask myself, what does he see in her? I wasn’t a belle myself, but all my curves were already out, enough for any man to think I was older than I actually was. Besides, I was well spoken and I dressed well, courtesy of the cloths my parents sent me from America. These combined with the fact that my parents were in America, attracted boys like honey attracts bees. They would howl at me everywhere I went, I could hardly walk in the street without some teenage boy or adult male trying to get my attention. I was known for ignoring them. Some would ask my friends to speak with me, I ignored them all. I did not consider myself a snob. But when I was 12, Tope said he had a dream that I got pregnant. I don’t know if he was trying to scare me or if it was true. But his dreams usually came true. For instance, when he dreamt about seeing 2 face , the following day, he saw 2 face at Lagos Island. I did not want his dream for me to come to pass, so I ran from boys like people run from lepers. I had a few crushes, but I never did anything about them. The guys must have been so disappointed.

Femi was the last guy I had a crush on the months before I traveled to America. We attended the same neighborhood church. Femi was in the university and I was graduating high school that year. Femi lived with his married aunty. He was not particularly attractive, he was an average height, dark and skinny. Femi was the president of the drama group in my church, I was a member. He was very talented, well-mannered and well spoken, so the ladies gravitated towards him. I liked him for these same reasons. I knew he liked me too because he would always find an occasion to speak with me after church, during drama practice, and whenever he had the opportunity. But it was too late for any form of romance on my part, I would be traveling in just a couple of months. Besides, Femi was in the university and I was still a teenager, although about to graduate from high school, I was still only 15. “He likes you”, Angela the only friend I had at church would say. “I know”, I would reply. Angela was the nicest person I knew, the other girls were snobs, they were skinny, light skinned and they could sing, I was neither of those things. Angela could sing, and was light-skinned but she was not skinny. Angela never treated me condescendingly for singing off key. All the teenage girls at church all sang in the church choir. I had the worst singing voice ever, but my speaking voice made up for it and I was a good actress. What I lacked in singing, I made up for in acting. I was good at memorizing lines and writing drama scripts for church plays, and when I spoke, people thought I was born overseas. They must have truly believed this too, since my parents were in America. But I had never even been on a plane, talk less of being born overseas. But I spoke with the confidence of a person who knew a lot about America. After all, I’ve dreamt of the place since I was little. I made up stories about receiving gift baskets full of chocolates and goodies from strangers on a regular day, and picking up gold from the streets of America to my naïve friends in primary school. If they asked me how I knew, I told them my daddy told me. They had no reason to doubt me and I believed it myself. America to me was exactly as the bible describes heaven:
The wall was made of jasper, and the city of pure gold, as pure as glass. The foundations of the city walls were decorated with every kind of precious stone. The first foundation was jasper, the second sapphire, the third agate, the fourth emerald, the fifth onyx, the sixth ruby, the seventh chrysolite, the eighth beryl, the ninth topaz, the tenth turquoise, the eleventh jacinth, and the twelfth amethyst. The twelve gates were twelve pearls, each gate made of a single pearl. The great street of the city was of gold, as pure as transparent glass.

I was six years old when my father traveled to America, Tope was ten, Victor was four and Kemi was one. My mother was a housewife. She had a tailoring shop, but it was not a real source of income. We all depended on my father, who would send us money monthly to pay for school fees, rent and upkeep. My aunt, who is my mother’s cousin lived with us to assist my mother in looking after us. When my mother travelled some years later to join my father, my aunt remained and my grandmother came from the village to stay with us in Lagos. My grandmother and I were best of friends until we started living together. She favored my brother over me because he looked like my mum. I have been told that I am the photocopy of my father; short, black and thick. Whereas, he took after my mother, tall, skinny and light-skinned. My younger siblings did not count, they were still very young. I took pride in doing well at school, I had friends and we were the most intelligent girls in the class, we were the school prefects. I was appointed the library prefect because I loved reading. So although I felt like a maid at home, I was a princess at school. Reading many Harlequin romance novels also helped with my vocabulary. And being able to speak good English in Nigeria impressed a lot of people. “If only you were light-skinned, people will think you’re a half cast” Angela would say, “but at least you speak better than all those stick legs”, she was referring to the other girls in the choir. Although we were taught not to backbite at Sunday school, we still did. We made fun of the other girls behind their backs, as surely they did of us. But we all smiled and laughed during rehearsals as if we haven’t just been talking about how Chichi thinks she is miss world when in fact she looked like an ostrich, and how Mary walks like a pregnant hen thinking she was cat-walking. Angela and I especially did not like Nneka. Nneka was Igbo and we were Yorubas, but our mutual dislike of her had nothing to do with ethnicity. Nneka was the biggest snob of all, she was beautiful and skinny and she was a very good singer. She was an alien to those insecurities that plagued most teenage girls. She had everything going for her, a face that never held pimples, a skin as light as the shell of an egg, and a voice that sounded like that of a nightingale. Was it any surprise she had an attitude as big as an elephant?

My teenage days and nights were filled with Harlequin romance novels, I would hide the covers to prevent my aunt and grandmother from seeing the sometimes half naked man and woman locked in a steamy embrace spread across the page. I could stay up all night reading a romance novel with the candle light or lamp if we had no electricity. They thought I was so passionate about school work. My grandmother couldn’t read, but my aunt could but never did. I tore the covers of the novels if they were especially scandalous. My novels were often seized as punishment for burning the food while reading or forgetting to do a house chore, but no one in my household ever made an attempt to read them. If they did, I could not imagine what would have happened. But they never did, so I acquired more Vanessa Grant, Diana Palmer, Andrea Kane, Sandra Brown, Luanne Rice, and Danielle Steel. Every little allowance I was given went into buying used romance novels which I often lend to my school friends. All the brilliant girls in my class read romance novels, including the SU ones. We encouraged the not so brilliant ones to do so as well. After all, reading helps with your English. We always hid our novels from our teachers. I had a feeling they would have asked that our parents or guardians come see them if they ever found the books. It would have been extremely embarrassing to see teachers and parents pore over words like, “His hand tangled in her hair and he pulled her even closer, her breasts crushed against his chest, his mouth hungry, plundering, not enough… thirst, her pulse throbbing, breath tearing, fingers weaving through his hair, pulling his mouth closer, arching her body against his. Drowning…”

When Tope and Victor traveled, everyone in the neighborhood knew it was only a matter of time before the sisters followed suit. I lived in a small close knit neighborhood in the city of Lagos. It was an estate and everyone pretty much knew everyone. We all shopped at the same stores in the neighborhood, we often bumped into each other on the street, and we attended the same church, and went to the same school. Everyone knew a few things about the other person. We knew whose husband was cheating, and who he was cheating with. We knew who had a good job and who was jobless, who ate bread and egg for breakfast and who drank garri. So everyone knew I was going to be traveling. We had succeeded in keeping my brothers travel a secret until they actually landed safely in America. Nigerians are a very superstitious group of people. My grandmother believed the plane could be hijacked by jealous witches. But we couldn’t keep mine and that of my sister a secret. It bothered me at first that my neighbors knew, but I later got used to it. Their attitude towards me changed, the number of guys that howled at me increased, the church girls who snubbed me suddenly wanted to be my friend. I could hardly go anywhere in the neighborhood without someone smiling at me, looking at me conspicuously or trying to pull me into a conversation. I became an overnight neighborhood celebrity, and as a celebrity I shined. Life at home was much better as well since Tope traveled. I still had to fetch water every morning and do other chores, but at least I was no longer Tope’s personal maid and there was no one to beat me up. I relished my newly found status in the neighborhood. I began receiving invitations to birthday parties and other events. I was treated deferentially and it all got into my head. I did not realize I had changed. I began behaving more and more like the very girls who used to snub me. I became one of those girls Angela and I used to bad mouth for being haughty.

It was Femi’s elder sister son’s naming ceremony and all the young people from church were asked to help set up, serve and clean. But when we got to the house, some of us began working immediately while others hung around chatting. I was one of those who would have immediately jumped to work, arranging chairs, sweeping the place and cleaning the dishes, but I had become a celebrity and people of my status did not do such things. They do not wait on people, people waited on them. So I joined the chatting crew, while others worked. Angela looked at me disapprovingly but said nothing. Did she really expect me to stoop so low, considering I’ll be traveling to America soon? Didn’t she realize I am a different person now? I thought. I remained with the chatting group till the end of the ceremony, not once lifting or cleaning. A person of my status is not supposed to do such things. On getting home my grandmother and aunt were already waiting for me. Always trust a friend with a razor-sharp mouth like Angela to telltale on you. Angela had reported me to my aunt and grandmother who were waiting for me in the living-room. I knew what was coming even before they opened their mouth. My aunt and grandmother never saw eye to eye on anything except when it comes to disciplining the children, which they both loved to do. But that night I was not to be punished, I was to be given the lecture of my life. They both began by narrating several occasions on which I had misbehaved of late. For instance, when I went to school without sweeping the house, when I refused to run an errand for a neighbor, when I questioned my grandmother (which I have always done by the way), and now this, my refusal to serve at the naming ceremony. They both concluded that I had changed and pinpointed the reason for my change of attitude to my imminent travel. I had an excuse for every allegation they had brought against me but at the end of the exchange the truth was obvious. I had changed, I had become haughty. When did I begin to consider house chores and running errands as something beneath me? Then my grandmother and aunt issued their last warning before going to bed, “before destruction comes pride, so be very careful.” I thought they were going to ask me to kneel, but they let me be. I pondered their words all night. Words were more effective in dealing with me that any form of punishment. Some children were flogged before they listened, not me.

The following day I woke up a repentant person. Yes America was a big deal, but my ability to handle the situation without changing my character will define me as a person. I wanted to be known as a good girl for the last few months I had to spend in Nigeria before I traveled. I wanted to be known as the girl who did not allow America to get into her head, who still behaved well in spite of her status. Who showed respect to adults and ran errands for people. I apologized to my aunt and grandmother and later Angela for not helping her at the ceremony. All things returned to normal, but the attention I received only grew and grew as the day got closer. I became the topic of the pastor’s sermon about how God is a miracle worker who is able to sit lowly people in high places and how God who is taking me to America can also take others to America if they have faith. At school, I instantly became the teachers’ favorite. A former teacher at my school even came to my house to ask me to take down his number so I could call him when I got to America, who knows, I may be able to help him travel to America too someday.

My mother traveled down from America to take my sister and me. How much she had changed! She had grown fatter, that was the first thing I noticed. My mother was a lepa when she left Nigeria, but she had transformed into an orobo. She was wearing trousers! In all my years growing up in Nigeria, I never saw my mother wear a trouser. She used to be an SU. But there my mother was wearing trousers and using phrases like “what’s wrong with you?” “How are you?” “I’m good,” with an American accent nothing less. If this was what America did to people, my desire for the country grew all the more. The weeks following my mother’s arrival flew by like a whirlwind. It was filled with receiving visitors, mostly relatives who have been absent since she traveled, but now wanted to receive gifts from America. And neighbors and well-wishers and people who came in the hopes that my mother may be able to help them travel to America. Some even made the joke about fitting themselves into the traveling luggage, just so they could leave the country. If formerly I was treated like royalty when my brothers traveled, when my mother arrived from America, I was treated like the Queen of England herself. Maybe partly because I gave all my friends gifts my mum brought from America, candy and bubble gums and I gave my neighbors, teas and powdered milk. I love so much those last few weeks. It was amusing to watch my mother struggle to survive in Nigeria again. She complained about the heat and lack of electricity every minute. She bathed with boiled water and drank only Eva water. It was all funny to me because in just a few years in America, the life she had known since she was born had suddenly become alien to her. This just proved how vastly different the life I led then would be from the life I will lead in America. I will be able wear all sorts of earrings and trousers, I won’t ever have to fetch water, I would have vacuums to clean the house, dishwashing machines to do the dishes and I could eat burgers, pizzas, and hot dogs as much as I wanted to. What excited me the most was the unrestricted access to Harlequin and Silhouette romance novels I would find in America. Not only that, I get to live in the same world as the characters in the novels. I alone out of my group of friends who read American romance novels get to experience that world first hand. It was a privilege I did not take for granted.

Three weeks after my mum arrived in Nigeria, my sister and I were set to travel with her. My church threw me a little farewell party, where I was admonished to know who I am, where I’m from and to not misbehave when I get to America. Because a lot of folks when they get to America forget the child of whom they are and begin to emulate the bad lifestyles of Americans, disrespecting adults, clubbing, smoking and drinking. But I should keep focus on my education, remember the kind of place I came from, and plan to come back to make Nigeria a better place. I had already grown accustomed to this kind of lecture because I have received it for the umpteenth time already since it became news that I was travelling. I thanked them all with misty eyes, knowing it was out of love that they sort to advise me. I could see the tears in some of their faces too, I have known most of them since I was born. I was going to miss them all. I said my farewells, collecting phone numbers and emails, promising to write and call when I get to America. I did not know such a thing as Facebook existed then and neither did my circle of association because it was never mentioned. Even though it was the year 2009.

Facebook would later become a common phenomenon in Nigeria after I travel, whereby every Tom, Dick and Harry used Facebook. How much things have changed since then. My friends now tell me there is pizza in Nigeria. There was no pizza when I left Nigeria, I only read about them in books. There are now Uber services too, and you can even shop for groceries online and have them delivered to your house! Nigeria is now becoming advanced with the rest of the world, but the political corruption that existed in most African countries keeping people in poverty is still very much in vogue. Which is why many Nigerians are constantly finding ways to flee the country, in hopes that they could change their lot in life with a different environment, India, France, UK, Dubai, and even Ghana. But America most of all held the fulfilment they seek, “the American dream”. Therefore, many scam and are scammed just to come to America. They faked marriages, made up stories for asylum, and migrated illegally, just so they could get a shot at the American dream. A dream that was dropped on my laps at a platter of gold, as I am often reminded. I did not work for it. I was fortunate enough to have parents to bring me to the country many struggle to get to. I am a citizen of that country. Therefore, I must not waste the opportunity that have been given to me. I must work hard to achieve the American dream. This is what we are constantly told by families, and relatives back in Africa. Is it any surprise that Africans are considered the most hardworking set of immigrants? Working two to three jobs and going to school at the same time just to be successful in life. On top of that, they are grouped together with the “unfavored” race of the American society, Blacks. And are treated with the same set of prejudices and discriminations. Still, Africans find ways to prosper, send their children to schools, get higher education, and most of all help their relatives and families back in those countries where a three square meal is a miracle for most.

My mother, I and my sister arrived at the Murtala Muhammed Airport in Lagos on my last day in Nigeria. Our teary goodbyes have been said to grandma, aunt, relatives and neighbors. I have overcome many hurdles to get to this moment, from being initially rejected at the embassy, to getting sick, to learning a big lesson about pride, humility, and human behavior and gaining appreciation for my newly found status. Now finally America awaits just 11 hours away by plane. But first we must get through the security officers at the airport who thought my mother was a child trafficker and therefore took us to a special office for interrogation. “Is this your mother?” They asked me and Kemi. Were they really expecting us to say no even if she wasn’t our mother? The woman was taking us to America for crying out loud. My siblings and I share a different last name from our parents. My father decided that he wanted our last name to be his own first name because his last name belonged to many extended family members he did not want us to have any association with because they were “bad people”, bad in the sense that they practiced idol worshiping, while we practiced Christianity. We were in the interrogation room for about 10 minutes going back and forth about how our mum was really our mother but there were no documents to prove it. Those were the longest minutes of my life. I was just at the peak, only the plane stood between me and America. And now this?

All sorts of unpleasant possibilities ran through my mind. What if just like that these people prevented us from boarding the plane. What if we had to go back home that night? What if my mother is never able to produce the proper documents? Then my bible knowledge kicked in and I began muttering bible verses under my breath. This was what I was taught to do in unpleasant situations. But in all my 15 years, I have never faced a situation as terrible, even the rejection at the embassy was not as worst as this. America was just so close now! So I began my bible recitation, quoting and mixing scriptures, “The expectations of the righteous shall not be cut short“, “If you have faith as small as the mustard seed you shall say to this mountain be thou removed and be thou cast into the sea“, “the Lord is my Shephard I shall not want“, “The LORD is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer; my God, my strength, in whom I will trust; my buckler, and the horn of my salvation, and my high tower.” Just when it looked like we weren’t getting anywhere, my mother remembered she had an ID, a Nigerian national ID she had acquired several years back that bore the name Adeayo. Halleluyah! God answers prayers. My mother presented the ID to the officers and just like that we were allowed to proceed. We still had an hour before the plane was set to take off. If she had not produced the ID within that hour, only God knows what would have happened. But whatever it was, I am glad that it did not. I said my last goodbye to Nigeria with joy and gladness and boarded the plane. What a year.

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