Telling This Lie Got Me Deported
Happy new week everyone! I am reporting for duty this beautiful Monday morning with an interesting story for you. But first, how was your weekend? I hope you had time to relax a little. Most of my Saturday was spent on the road in traffic. That’s Lagos for you and story for another day.
God has brought me a long way. I have indeed discovered that He has a sense of humor and His ways, are definitely not like ours. Today, I am finally experiencing a full circle moment. But before I stand the risk of sounding too preachy (haha) let me go ahead and share this story with you - the one I have been teasing for a number of weeks, the one that landed me back in Nigeria, the one where I got deported. (In a few months I’d share how everything has come full circle - I hope you stick around.)
***
The kind of pain I experienced on that day was the type I hadn’t felt since the loss of my mother. Chimamanda best described how I felt in her short story, Zikora—“It was something like pain and different from pain,” in an attempt to perfectly articulate her lead character’s excruciating labor pains. Like Zikora, what I was experiencing was cataclysmic; the life I had known for 11 years was about to be turned upside down. It was a rude awakening; how was I going to survive this plight? I never saw it coming.
When I arrived at the International airport in Atlanta that morning, I could not dream up what awaited me. If anyone had asked me about the possibility of my experience becoming a reality, I would had said, “no, that only happens to people who commit serious crimes.” But God was going to teach me a lesson - one I’d never forget.
“Where did you renew your passport?” The immigration officer asked politely. My heart sank. “Atlanta,” I said, while trying my best to mask the nervousness that began slowly taking over.
“When did you graduate?” She continued to pry.
“In 2014.”
“And you renewed your passport in 2015, in Atlanta? Please step aside ma’am.” That politeness faded. My heart began to beat at a faster pace. Hey! Wahala! I exclaimed in my mind; with both hands on my head, in my mind. Oh Lord, please don’t let this happen, I prayed silently. I had lived in the United States for 11 years before this encounter with the immigration officer at the airport.
A few months before this incident my brother called me excited, announcing his wedding date. At the time I was jobless, and still trying to find my footing in America. All the pleas from my family to return home and begin life anew in Nigeria fell on deaf ears. But I knew that I couldn’t miss out on his wedding. How could I?
Our mother was no longer alive, and it was just us two she gave birth to. Something about not being there on my brother’s big day broke my heart. That aside, I felt this subtle pull to return home. Many of you must have read the other newsletters where I shared how I began having dreams and seeing myself in Nigeria (I’d link the connecting stories below). Those dreams terrified me because I knew that if I stepped foot outside of America, I was going to risk my return.
But as a woman of faith, I believed God was going to part this red sea before I went back home to Nigeria. My friends believed I was crazy. “How can you go home now?” they asked. During that time the US had just sworn in former President, Donald Trump, and there were a lot of policies that were enforced which affected illegal immigrants, or those who were out of status (like I was). People like me kept a low profile and dared not to step outside the US for anything. Yet, I felt this strong conviction to go home.
It was as if God was nudging me towards a journey that He was ready to take me on even though I pleaded with Him to make a way for me to remain legally in the US. So, after a few months of praying and hoping I’d get a job that would grant me a work permit, or miraculously find a husband who was going to marry me real quick, I went home with this enormous burden weighing on my heart. How was I going to return to the US without any wahala?
Well, the wedding came along and it was such an amazing time celebrating with friends and family. My brother was happy to see me, but would later say, “I did not expect you to come, in fact, I was afraid when you said you were coming; you didn’t have to.” What? was he out of his mind? Did he know the internal battles I fought just to convince myself that I was doing the right thing? If he had expressed his concerns while I was still in America, God knows I would have remained there.
***
Has there been a time when you were out of status in the United States? I stared at that question, and it stared right back at me. I gambled with the thought of telling the truth as a Christian and stand the risk of losing the life I was comfortable with or telling a lie, and the possibility of protecting the life I so desired.
No, I clicked shamefully; maybe God will somehow turn this lie around for my good, after all, He was going to receive the glory anyway. Miraculously, I received the visa I applied for, which was going to give me the opportunity to figure out my life when I returned. I planned on doubling up on my hustle for work. Of course, with prayers and fasting; God was definitely going to make a move on my behalf and turn a blind eye to my sin.
When the time drew near to travel, I was bursting with excitement to return to my little apartment in Lafayette - laughing in the faces of all those people who said I wouldn’t make it back. Yes, even at the Delta official, who scuffed at me saying, “They will never let you back into this country.” My God don do am oh! I celebrated.
Days leading up to my departure, in true Nigerian fashion, I purchased everything I needed for my journey back home—Garri, indomie, yam flour, maggi, crayfish, and bags of plantain chips (Ah! I used to love plantain chips!) Then I informed close friends about the time I would be arriving in Houston and was all set to surprise the remainder of the people, who had no clue when I was coming back.
***
Pray for me! Let our pastors know what is going on. Cry out to God on my behalf. I honestly don’t have the strength to seek Him right now. I am in a bind, I don’t know if they would let me in, in fact, join the Halleluyah Challenge on my behalf. I sent a distress message to my friends after the immigration officer had taken me to a room full of fellow defaulters.
This must be how Jesus felt (I thought) at that moment in Gethsemane where He cried out to God to remove the adversity that was in front of Him. However, the difference between me and Jesus’ experience (other than the fact that He was about to die for the world) was when He muttered these words—nevertheless, not my will, but yours be done. Fearing that God’s will would be for me to go back to Nigeria, I remained tight-lipped when it came to emulating Christ in that manner—all I wanted was to get in.
I stood up from my chair, occasionally going into the private bathroom to weep. It was as though I was in a dream that I couldn’t wait to wake up from. In fact, this was no dream but a night terror. Through my tears, I prayed: God, please have mercy on me, make a way, I can’t afford to be deported. Please intervene.
The old woman who sat next to me tried her best to console me whenever I returned from my weeping fest. “Trust God, stop crying,” she said all the time. What I didn’t want to hear was God’s ability to change my story hundred years down the line; I needed Him to act in the way I wanted and immediately.
“Ma’am, they will like to see you now,” an officer came into the room and said to me. So, I followed closely behind him and arrived at a counter. Then they instructed me to drop my hand bag and hand luggage at a corner, and began interrogating me— “why did you lie on a federal form? Don't you know that it is a felony? If you had told the truth, then we would have pardoned you.”
Darn it! Why! Why? Why did you lie? Wouldn’t it have been better for you never to have left Nigeria, than to come all the way here to get humiliated? I asked myself.
Then one officer said to his colleague, “WD her.”
“Huh? What does that mean?” I inquired.
“Trust me it's okay,” a black officer replied. “You just have to go back home and reapply, then come back.”
“Who is going to give me another chance? Who is going to purchase another flight ticket for me? “Please! Please!” I cried, “Let me in! I have no criminal records. “I am not a threat to you guys. I just made a silly mistake and told a lie that is about to cost me everything.”
“Okay, go into this room, and we will send for you.” One officer instructed, while another led the way. When he opened the door, he must have seen the look of despair on my face. The 6 by 8 feet room consisted of a metallic toilet bowl and sink sequestered in a corner and a blanket, without a bed. It was then I realized that the door itself had some metallic bars at the top, slightly separated from each other - just as how you see them in Hollywood movies. As soon as the officer shut the door and locked it behind him, I collapsed on the floor and began crying again.
“Go…God, please… I need you! Help me!” I cried out to Him. “Touch their hearts! Perform one of Your great miracles. Like the one of Paul & Silas, or when you set Peter free from prison. Set me free from this anguish and I promise, I will never tell a lie again in my life.” As I continued with my pleas, I did not know when I drifted into sleep. But before I could comfortably enjoy my alternate reality, I heard a loud bang on the door.
“Ma’am! Ma’am, you can come out now!”
I stood up from the floor and rushed out of the cell thinking: God is about to move! Everyone is about to know how great my God is. Things were dark, but God...
“Ma’am,” the official interrupted my thoughts, “the person who attended to you made a mistake,” They said to me.
Yes! Yes! This is it! I continued in my mind’s eye.
“We are actually going to bar you for five years. Please sign here. You have to go back home.” This was in 2017. I was distraught. I had heard this happen in the news and prayed that it was never going to be my reality, but here I was, standing face to face with a deportation order. It took everything within me not to have a meltdown in front of the officers.
Then I began to think: God, I blame You for my parents not giving birth to me in the US. What am I going to tell people now? My family? God, this is not the ‘Arise & Shine’ vision for my life that I thought I would experience when You spoke at the beginning of the year. What am I going to do with my life now? Everything has failed.
Then something switched within me and I refused to take their “no,” for an answer. “I have a doctor’s appointment for a procedure I am supposed to do next week.” I said to them. Then one petite black woman came to the office where I was and asked what was happening, and the officers explained everything to her.
“Ma’am, do you have your doctor’s number?” “Yes, I do.” I answered. I gave it to them and they dialed the number. Tell me why my doctor was away on vacation and was not returning until a few days time? The petite woman said to me, “except you have someone else you can call, we can’t keep you at the airport for four days.” I then called my friend who is a nurse (the one I was jealous of) and she spoke to them saying that after the procedure is done, I’d need about three weeks to recover.
Then the black woman said, “ma’am, you have to go back to your country and do this procedure there.” I began making a case against Nigeria (I now love my country, but at the time, I was desperate to remain in the US). The woman then asked, “why are you talking about Nigeria like its some backward country? I am sure they can carry out the procedure there without troubles.” What did I not say? We don’t have constant electricity, we lack the competence…
When all those fell on deaf ears, I started pleading again. Just then, the head of the immigration officers at the airport came into the office to find out what the ruckus was about. After some explaining, he said, “okay, I’d give you 30 days, and if after 30 days, you don’t leave, we will come looking for you. Be sure to write down an address where we will find you.”
Then the black petite woman interrupted her boss, saying, “no, she has to go back to her country.” Which kind wahala be this? This woman must be working for the devil. She blocked what her boss what willingly to do for me. And so he left. Just then, they noticed both my feet were swollen and called 911.
And like in the movies, the ambulance arrived on scene, and I got in, with some police officers. (I promise, this is a true story.) Another police vehicle followed closely behind. In the ride to the hospital, one of the black officers said to me, “don’t worry, everything will be alright. Just go home.” He was the only one who was kind to me that day. When we arrived at the hospital, the people there stared at me like was some never-before-seen creature because of the amount of officers that swarmed around me. They even stayed by my bed, as I laid down waiting on the doctor.
I was eventually evaluated and given some medication for pain and asked to go. This time around the ambulance was not going to take me back to the airport. So, when we stepped out of the hospital, I began walking towards the police vehicle.
Then I heard the female officer behind me scream, “stop!” I froze, wondering what the problem was. She walked up to me, and said, “your hands behind your back,” this can’t be happening, I thought. She then brought out handcuffs and cuffed my hands. So, I entered into the police vehicle, fighting back tears once more. During the ride, she kept asking me if I was comfortable. How comfortable was I going to be with my hands behind my back?
On reaching the airport, people began staring at me again. Then we walked back into the area where we first were. She took off the cuffs, after searching me to ensure I wasn’t hiding anything. After that was over, they were gracious to keep me in a regular room, which had a television set, and a proper bathroom separate from the room itself. Then they handed me a blanket to sleep with. However, they did not return my bag which had one of my phones in it. So, I was allowed to use their landline to contact my friend to inform my family of my ordeal (they were already worried sick since they had not heard from me.)
By the next morning, an officer came back to the room to ask if I wanted to buy some breakfast at the airport, because what they offered as food was crappy - beans with what I will never know was given to me the day before which I immediately refused (ah! Naija! We have the best food) I had no appetite to eat anyway.
After I returned to my room, I had a moment to think about everything and was slowly realizing that the likelihood that things would change were slim to none. Then I said to myself: “whatever happens I will take it as God’s will,” just like when I finally accepted that my mother was going to die. Then I called for one of the female officers to speak with her, and she said there was nothing she could do about my situation, because my deportation order had already been signed. In fact, they had written my offense in my passport which was going to make it difficult for me to get any visas, at least, until it expired.
So, they later informed me that I’d be going back to Lagos that night. When night time finally came along, they took me through some nooks and crannies, elevators, and staircases, all leading up to the entryway of the Delta flight going to Lagos. An officer escorted me to my seat, with everyone staring once more. Next to me was a woman who was quick to express her discomfort that I was sat next to her and her baby. Then the officer handed my passport, the deportation order, and phone to the air hostess, who gave it to the pilot.
After he left, I turned to the woman and asked to use her phone to call my friend, but she refused. Then the young man who sat on the other side of us and saw what happened offered me his phone. I then called my friend to call my brother in Nigeria, to tell him that I was coming back home. I could feel the sadness in her voice when she agreed to do so.
Then the plane began taxiing, as I sat in despair reflecting on the past 48hrs, after I had kissed everyone in Lagos goodbye. Was this God’s will? Was this a result of my own doing? One thing I can say for a fact is that the more I prayed, the more the situation worsened. And that petite black woman didn’t make matters easier. She was so adamant that I left their country - a consequence for my mishap. If being deported wasn’t bad enough, the five year-ban made it so that I’d never be successful in returning within a short period of time.
It felt like a death. Like I had lost something significant. I had no idea what was ahead of me. I had lost all hope in life and in God. I could not see how He was going to turn this mess around.
So, over to you: What do you think about this story? Kindly reply to this email or leave your thoughts below. If this story resonated with you, it will do so with others. Please do me a favor and share it with your friends. Also encourage to subscribe to this platform.
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How This American Deportee Landed a Job at An American Immigration Law Firm
Why I Was Jealous of My Friend
Wow, this was a rollercoaster of emotions. It reads like a scene in a short thriller movie.
I'm sorry that you had to go through this, Evi, but I'm glad that you now feel comfortable enough to share, and you've surrendered to God's will.