Abby: “Project” indeed. That’s what I was, Chief’s little side project. Nothing more.
A few days after the chaos in the flat, after constant bickering and his wife’s sharp silences, I got a text from Chief: “Come into the living room. Tell us you’re leaving to stay with a friend. I’ll explain later.”
My heart skipped. I thought, Finally, he’s sorting something out. Maybe a new place. Maybe things go back to how they were.
So I walked into the living room, held my head high, and said, “Uncle… Aunty… please, can I have a word?”
His wife eyed me like I was the dirt under her shoe. “This better be good,” she muttered, kissing her teeth. Chief nodded calmly. “Of course, go on.”
And like a puppet, I said the line I’d been told. I was leaving to stay with a friend.
“Thank you, God!” she yelled. “Are you leaving now? Please do.”
I glanced at Chief. He nodded again. His wife caught it. “Why are you looking at him? GO.”
I walked away with what was left of my pride, headed back to the room where the kids had already turned my things upside down. I packed up my two suitcases and just as I zipped the last one, another message came in: “Go round to the guest house on Yemi Street. Book a room. I’ll come to see you later.”
So I left. Rolled my suitcases down the sunlit street, still half-hoping Chief would fix everything.
At that point, I still had my bank card, my account, and the money Chief said would “sustain the household.” So I thought, Well, at least I can start over.
But something in my spirit whispered, This man will leave you dry.
So I went to the bank. Quietly opened a new account, transferred 70% of the money, and told them not to issue me a card. If I needed it, I’d walk in. Just like that, I reclaimed a little control.
But this story, my story, was only just starting to twist. The next chapter? Wild. …hmmmm
Chris: When I finally woke up properly, I tried to sit up only to realise my left wrist was cuffed to the hospital bed.
I pressed the bell. The nurse came in. “Why… why am I handcuffed?” I asked.
Her face was blank. “Immigration. They said you’ll be detained once you’re fit to leave.”
My eyes scanned the room. “Where’s Thomas?” “He was taken last night. Immigration came while you were sedated.”
I froze. My chest tightened. I was terrified.
Later, a woman came in to tidy and drop off food. Her name tag said Adenike. Nigerian. My eyes lit up. “Sister… please help me,” I whispered.
She paused, looked around, then leaned in. “They’ll move you to a migrant centre soon. That’s where they’ll ask about asylum. You need a strong reason. Say you were targeted, maybe by a politician. Or claim you’re fleeing the Niger Delta crisis. Something serious. That’s how I got my papers.”
She asked how I arrived. “Dinghy,” I replied. “Good. Did you have a passport?” “No.” “Even better. They can’t prove where you’re from. You can say Sudan. Syria. Just don’t say Nigeria. Tell them your country is at war.”
I nodded. I just wanted to let you know that I took it all in. Rehearsed the story in my head. She patted my shoulder. “They’ll come today. Or tomorrow morning. Be ready.”
I was no longer just Chris, the village boy chasing destiny. I was now… an asylum seeker. …hmmmm
