CHAPTER 1 –THE ORIGIN
My name is Tola Princess Aduni. I am twenty- four years old, female, and the first child of my parents. That may not sound extraordinary, but it was extraordinary enough because I had just graduated with a Bachelor’s degree in music and performing arts. I was ready to take on bigger responsibilities in the outside world. I had a perfect picture in my head of how big my responsibilities would be for my generation. I knew my path would lead me through several hoops, and I had a timeline for each step.
However, I was still imprisoned in a blissful bubble of ignorance. I had always lived with my parents and I had no clue what it was like to get a job or to care for myself. I had no life or job experiences. I needed knowledge to come rescue me. My parents sheltered my sister and me from the hassles of this life. So, to no one’s surprise, I could not get a job after graduation.
I sent out letters of application to several positions that I found in the daily newspapers. After a frustrating five months of waiting, I started my own shoe shining business in front of our apartment complex. It was a very successful trade, as the pervasive dust of Nigeria made sure of it. It required very little investment: a bench, my hat, shoe polish kits, and me. I would sit on the bench wearing a brown sun hat and shine shoes all day. The meager income, however, was not as discouraging as my biggest workplace hazard — my powerful sense of smell. I could smell the personalities of my clients and much more from their shoes. It brought me so much insight.
Insight into the kind of jobs I should never do.
My daily routine finally came to a halt the month I got a letter of interview from a high school in Bariga, Lagos. The letter came in a brown envelope. It was not addressed to my parents; it was addressed to me. I could not breathe. I ran into my bedroom and locked the door before opening the letter. It read:
Dear Miss Aduni,
Thank you for applying for the position of Music Educator at the Greater Heights Secondary School, Bariga, Lagos. You are invited for an interview on the 25th of May 2012 at 8am. We look forward to seeing you. Thank you.
Headmaster.
Balogun, Olusegun.
I let out a very loud scream. It brought my mum knocking on my door. “Is everything alright in there?” she asked.
I could not express myself in words. I slowly opened the door and handed the letter over to her. My legs must have been weak, because I felt my buttocks on the cold terrazzo floor and my mother was suddenly on the floor next to me, holding me. Nobody else must have wanted the job, I concluded. So I got it! I was overjoyed. The business of smelling other people’s feet was over.
I gave away my established business to another kid in the neighborhood and wished him well. I felt a strong emotional liberation after passing on the job to someone else. It was not much, but I was able to save some change from that work. I spent the money on new clothes and shoes for the new job.
On the day of my interview, I wore a striped gray suit with a white blouse. I carried a black purse and wore two-inch black wedge shoes to match the outfit. I did up my hair in a bun. I was ready to get the job done – whatever the job was. The adrenaline rush was palpable; every muscle in my body responded to the duty call.
Once in the halls of the school, I felt more at ease to see kids sitting down in their classrooms. Their school uniform was a checkered light blue shirt on a navy-blue skirt for females or shorts for males. At 7:58 a.m., I made it to the waiting area of the principal’s office.
Shortly after I sat down, Principal Balogun came out of his office. I got up and we shook hands.
“Thank you for inviting me for this interview,” I said.
He leaned back to look at me and smiled. “Thank you, Miss Aduni, for coming. Please walk with me.”
He looked like he was in his fifties, and he had a friendly twinkle in his eye when he smiled. His strong handshake and the swiftness of his feet suggested he was a disciplinarian. As we walked, he asked me standard questions about my educational experience and my background in music. He took me to the staff office, where I met some of the other teachers. The staff room was located on the ground floor. It was a large open space with the walls painted a faded grey color. There were three rows of desks and chairs. One row was to the left, leaving a substantial open walk way between the left row and the other two rows on the right. There were four desks per row. The desks and chairs were made of well-polished brown wood. There were two large, open windows in the back of the room and another window by the door in front of the room. The room was well lit with sunlight shining through the windows.
As we walked into the room, the teachers looked up from their desks to acknowledge our presence.
“I would like you to meet Miss Aduni. She is a music graduate and we are hoping to hire her as a music teacher,” Principal Balogun said with excitement in his voice. He reached out with both arms and said, “Please welcome her.”
Some of the teachers got up from their seats to shake my hands. It was a brief meeting, but they seemed genuinely happy to meet me. As we left the staff room and stepped into the hallway, I asked, “Will I get a desk in the staff room?”
“Oh no,” he started to say, but stopped and stared at me before considering his next statement. “Unless you prefer to stay in the staff room. There is a small office in the music room where the last music teacher spent his time.” He raised his eyebrows like he was waiting for an answer.
“Since music is not a quiet subject, and I tend to hum or sing when I work on my tunes, I think it would be better if I stayed in the music room so that I do not disturb the other teachers.” I smiled coyly.
He led me to the music room, which was also on the ground floor at the end of the hallway. It was very dark in there, as the windows were closed and the blinds were down.
“The music room has not been in use for months since the last teacher left,” Principal Balogun said with a tinge of nostalgia in his voice. He flipped the switch to turn on the lights. It was a large hall with high ceilings and walls the same faded grey color of the staff room. There were two windows on each side of the room, covered with thick beige blinds. The front of the room had a small stage with three steps. I assumed that was where the rehearsals took place. A grand piano sat close to the corner between the left wall and the back of the room.
Principal Balogun interrupted my thoughts.
“Do you like it?”
“Yes, yes, I like it. I can picture myself creating some harmonies in this room already,” I replied affirmatively.
“And here is the office we talked about.” He opened a door at the back of the hall.
It was small, with a large desk that seemed to take up all the space. There was a chair behind the desk and another one on the left side, and a book shelf right above the desk to the right. Everything was covered in dust. A small window at the back of the room opened to the sports field.
“I like the view.” I giggled as I looked out the window.
I stood in the room for another five minutes and watched kids running around on the sports field.
“Are you ready for the rest of the tour?” Principal Balogun asked as we exited the music hall back into the hallway.
I rubbed my hands together, grinning from ear to ear. “I am excited to see the rest of the school.”
We went outside, passing through the sports field that I had seen earlier. The students ran back to their classes as they saw the principal approaching. I could see the window of my future office from outside. All the buildings had the same bright yellow color, with brown windows to give a matching contrast. The field was a bare, sand covered ground with one soccer post at each end. At the other end of the field, we made a left turn to see the school library. We did not go into the library.
“I am sure you’ll have enough time to explore the library if you decide to take the job. And we have come to the end of our tour today.” Principal Balogun nodded as he led me back to his office. Our tour had lasted about forty-five minutes.
As we walked, Principal Balogun said, “So, Miss Aduni … do you think this job would be a good fit for you?”
All I could say was, “Oh!”
“Yes,” he said. “The interview and tour was just a formality; we are in dire need of a music teacher. I would really love for you to come work here.”
“Thank you, thank you.” I shook his hands vigorously. “I would love to work here.”
We went back to his office to do some paperwork before I left. That afternoon, I signed the employment contract.
I started work the following Monday. My daily route became a ten minute walk from home to the bus stop, where I picked up a bus to Bariga. Once I got off, it was another short walk through the Bariga Market to get me to the school.
It was always chaotic in the morning at the Market. The traders noisily set up their wooden circular trays and advertised their products along the road. So much buzzing and fussing. The produce sold at the market included general home supplies and foods like bread, fish, fruits and fried snacks. Other non-edible goods like clothes, shoes, bags, building materials, kitchen utensils and household tools were sold in the interior of the market.
The most confusing of the traders were the hawkers. They ran in-between cars and motorcycles to sell bottled water, drinks, and food. This was the source of breakfast for most families who were in a hurry, on their way to school or work. When I was younger, my parents patronized these hawkers too; they probably still do. We got bread and Akara, or fried beans, for breakfast sometimes. Other times we bought fried fish or puff-puff, an African snack made from fried flour.
These activities would go on for hours, to the dismay of those hurrying to work. Traders would oftentimes obstruct the pathway of pedestrians and irritate people by splashing water or other products at well-dressed foot-travelers. I learned to stay away from the fish traders most of all. My journey through Bariga once had me smelling like dead fish all day. I lost some newly budding friendships that way.
My second week at the job was better; I began to adjust to my daily hustle to work. As I walked through the Market on Thursday, I was mastering my water-splash ducking when the market suddenly went quiet. Every face looked surprised for a split second, and then the surprise turned to fear.
I smelt something.
I was still trying to analyze the odor when I heard someone screaming. There was an abrupt uproar, and I watched the market women pack up their products with fierce speed. Every eyeball bulged from its socket, and the fear and anxiety was palpable.
This must be another riot.
There had been a number of riots in the final weeks following the main election. The uprisings were related to rumors of election rigging. Who knows what this is about? I thought as I ran towards the bus station to catch a motorbike to school. I took off my shoes and strapped my phone to my trunk inside my blouse. My floral mid-leg skirt was not helping my situation. I tore the back slit up to create some room for running.
The crowd quickly formed a shell around me and I needed to break out of it. I could barely see anything. My head started spinning. I stood still but the crowd had stopped and begun to turn around in the opposite direction. In a second, I found myself knocked off by a motorbike into an open gutter. I must have passed out for a minute. When I came to, I was so scared and confused, I could hardly breathe.
There was dirt all over me. It smelled like rotten eggs and urine. My legs could not move, and I was perplexed and terrified. I shuddered as thousands of footsteps hammered on the ground above. As I cautiously climbed out of the gutter, I could see some fire a short distance away. Should I go back home? I should definitely go back home. Riots like this one never end well. There will be injuries, bloodshed, and deaths. I was not ready to sacrifice my blood to the political demons of Nigeria. They could be very thirsty.
I said a short prayer and moved through the thick multitude of people towards the interior of the market. There was smoke everywhere, and it smelt like tear gas. The military was on the scene now. With one hand holding a handkerchief over my nose and the other holding my handbag close to my chest, I ran. No point dying for a cause I know nothing about, I told myself. There were various short cuts inside the market, and all the paths could not possibly be filled with possessed demons.
It took the longest hour ever for me to escape the commotion. After I got away from the crowd, I could breathe in fresh air again. Just like everyone else, I was dripping in sweat, panting hard, and scared for my life. I felt queasy, but thankful. I was finally a few blocks from home.
As horrendous as that morning was, I was thankful to be alive. And I prayed that the hullabaloo would be over before sunset. Jesus, please stop the riot. As soon as I got home, I got on the phone and called my mother.
“Mom, how are you? I returned home because of the riot; I could not make it to school.”
“Thank God for your safety, my dear.” My mom continued with, “I will wait in my office until the riot dissipates.” She confirmed that she would pick up my little sister, Diana, from school in the afternoon.
Our apartment was on the first floor of a new building in a middle-class neighborhood. I stood on the balcony for a while, thinking about the day’s events. I thought of all the ways I could have died in the market. The most terrifying scenario was dying in a foul-smelling gutter and taking that repulsive last breath.
“No!” I yelled as I struggled to get the filthy thoughts out of my head. I sat down and tried to calm my racing mind. Being home alone was agitating. I tried slow breathing, then took a shower, but the restlessness persisted. I was sweating profusely. I tried to use my hand fan, but my hands would not stop shaking.
I was drowning in my sweat and had to change my clothes. “This must be malaria. Such an opportunistic weakling,” I murmured. “Any kind of stress can bring it on.” I must have been bitten by mosquitoes at the evening service at church the previous weekend.
I ran down the street to a nearby canteen and ordered fried fish and my favorite chocolate smoothie. I got some anti-malarial medicines from the local pharmacy on my way back. It was a great advantage that such medications could be purchased over the counter in Nigeria.
Back on the balcony, I sat on a low bench and took the medicine. I was soon carried away in day dream land, and I dozed off. My dream was soothing at first. I was in front of my grandparents’ hut in the village. I was a child again and I was running around and feeding the chickens. I could hear the bleating of the goats in the backyard. The next moment, I was grown. I was painting a picture of my parents returning home safely with my sister.
Then I saw her.
The career woman I wanted to be. She was tall, pretty, and intimidating. She sat in a dark room with flickering lights. I caught a glimpse of her menacing figure from time to time. Then she spoke. Her voice was calm but nerve-wracking, and I shook from it. She asked me one question.
“What are your plans for me?”
I stammered and could not reply. Then, she began to fade away. As she faded, I woke up in pain and exhaustion.
I realized I had forgotten to call the school principal about my absence at work. A quick phone call to the principal’s office fixed that.
After hanging up, I reflected back on my dream. I wished I had responded to the career lady. I had a career in music and I didn’t need to be questioned about it in my dreams. I expect answers from you, not the other way around. I am doing all I can and I almost lost my life today. And this is what I get? I did not find being questioned in my dream amusing.
I started thinking a lot about who I was and who I wanted to be. I had many conflicted feelings. I started getting upset and grumbled to myself. I didn’t know the origin of my first name, Princess. Therefore, I went by my second name, Tola. I knew that there were no kings or queens in my lineage, but it was a name with high expectations attached to it. I could try to build my career in music education, but living up to that name was something else. When I was very young, my mother read me stories about princesses and how special they were. The lives of those princesses were perfect.
I found out I was nothing like them when I was ten years old.
One of dad’s friends came to visit that night. There was no electricity, as usual, and I hid behind the sofa. My dad had no idea I was there. I could hear the guest say, “Now that you have two girls, don’t you think you need a new wife to give you boys?”
I could sense my dad’s agitation. “My girls are smart — just watch.”
I remember thinking I was a dull girl; nothing more. I was not a princess. After that evening, I knew my parents gave me that name in the hopes that I would grow up to be more than my parents or my lineage could bestow on me.
After I graduated from the University of Lagos with my Bachelor’s, I thought I had proved that my dad’s friend was wrong. However, the months I spent looking for a job and the time spent shining shoes kept bringing me back to that conversation between my dad and his friend. And I felt like a huge disappointment.
My job as a music teacher, on the other hand, made me feel less hopeless. I could not see anything beyond that employment, however. My hope was that a new idea or project would come along that would lead me to a preferred destination. My thoughts were all over the place, but I accepted the challenge regardless.
The sound of my mum’s old Volkswagen jolted me back to reality. It was a relief to see Diana sitting in the front seat. I ran outside joyfully to welcome them home. Once inside, my mother and I prepared the evening meal and discussed our super action-packed day. My sister, Diana, napped on the couch in the living room. My dad soon arrived unscathed. Schools were closed for the rest of the week. The news was filled with despair, hospitals filled with casualties, and there was police presence in the streets day and night. The weekend was slow and apprehensive, and we did not know what to expect.
The new week finally came. Bariga Market had some damage from the pandemonium of the previous week; some stores were broken into and traders lost a significant amount of goods. Notwithstanding, the market was back in full vigor, and I was able to make it to school on Monday. My classes were pleasant, as expected.
But I started to feel sick again like I did on the first day of the riots. I went into the staff bathroom between classes and bent over the sink for a few minutes. My heart raced. I completed the malaria regimen already and should have been feeling better, but I wasn’t. Feeling light headed, I staggered back to my office. Maybe a good lunch will help, I wished.
After lunch, I went to the school clinic and got tested for malaria. The result was negative. I was concerned. If it was not malaria, then what was making me sick? I thought about the amount of gas that I inhaled during the riot. This idea worried me. What is the treatment for such? I pondered.
The rest of the evening was uneventful, but I was preoccupied by the possibility that I was sick from toxic gases. We had an ordinary evening at home and a delicious dinner. After our meal, my family gathered around the dining table in solemn reverence to God. My dad said the prayer.
“Dear God, we thank you for your mercy on this family. You have been generous to us and we appreciate it. Thank you for blessing us with food, protection, and health. May your blessings remain upon us, in Jesus’ name. Amen.”
We all said “Amen.” I was encouraged by the prayer. As I dozed off that night, there was a persistent question on my mind – what next? Thankfully, I fell asleep.
***
I woke up feeling a bit woozy, but better than yesterday. The wooziness was my excuse for taking it easy over the next week. No more thinking for me. I will think later, but not today, and not this week. My supervisor in college had pointed out my ability to prioritize and called it one of my strong points. I vowed to prioritize that mantra with all the strength I had. What did I need to prioritize, anyway? I had a job with a decent salary and everything was going great. I just needed to get rid of that stupid question…what next? Where was that coming from, anyways? Well, I’d just have to put that in one of my “disregard” brain compartments.
The solitary inkling that there may be a greater plan, a higher calling, haunted me day and night. The idea stretched out its nagging fingers and poked at my soul every night. I had to do something! I started a relaxation strategy to meditate — a thirty minute walk every evening after work.
It did not help that my job was slowly spiraling into a boring routine, even though I scowled at the idea of losing my job. I taught the kids how to read music – the treble and bass clefs, time signatures and rhythm, key signatures, music notes, and how to pitch. I taught them how to write simple tunes. We did a lot of voice training and singing in parts. For those who were already learning music instruments, we picked up from where the previous instructor left off. I loved teaching those beautiful kids, and I hoped they felt the same way about my classes. When they ran into the music room for rehearsal, the look on their faces was to die for.
My happiness at work, however, was unfortunately being disturbed by my own wandering mind. I would pace around in circles and reprimand myself. Focus, focus! This has to stop! Voice training worked as a nice distraction; the higher the pitch, the less distraction. The muscles working to produce the high notes used up all my energy. My additional skillfully concocted psychotherapy was to walk into open fields and scream my lungs out.
Voice training and writing music manuscripts for the student orchestra group seemed to reduce my anxiety. If I had any more doubts, it would be articulated in my music manuscripts. On the weekends, I sat at a desk in my room and worked on manuscripts. As I inscribed the notes with effortless dexterity, my thoughts took comfort in the knowledge that I had the power to do something about my worries. And it worked. I skipped around the room happily after scribbling down ideas, and I ended it with placing both hands on my chest and saying out loud, “This is truly satisfying.”
***
Later that year, my safe routine was disrupted. I had just taken a walk under the beautiful sunset to bask in the peaceful evening, and there was a soothing hum of contentment in the air. Adults returned home from work and kids ran to welcome their parents back home. As I stood under a tree, I felt faraway with my eyes half closed and the breeze gently caressing my cheeks. The idyllic moment was shortly interrupted by an irritating vibration. I jumped, only to realize it was my phone. The screen read:
1 missed call from Aunty Bisi Ladele.
Aunty Bisi was my mother’s best friend from college and my godmother. In 1999, Aunty Bisi won the visa lottery to the United States, and she relocated with her husband and kids. She had been in touch with my mum over the years and the distance had not come between them. Aunty Bisi called Mum from time to time to check on our family, and my mum would do the same. This time, however, she was calling my phone directly. Maybe she could not reach my mum, I thought. My phone rang again.
With excitement, I took the call. “Hello Ma, how have you been?”
She laughed at the other end of the line. “How are you my daughter?” she asked. “Your mum told me you got a job at Bariga. That’s great, congratulations.”
“Thank you Ma, thank you Ma,” I replied shyly with a slight bend of my knees, a sign of courtesy in my language; even though she could not see me.
We exchanged pleasantries and discussed updates about our families. Before the end of the call, Aunty Bisi asked a question that changed everything. “Have you looked into working or getting a graduate degree outside of Nigeria?”
“No,” I said slowly. “Not really. Why do you ask, Ma?”
Aunty Bisi went quiet for a few seconds, then went on. “There are great opportunities over here for young people like you. I believe that your life would be different with a higher degree outside of Nigeria. You should consider it. No pressure, okay? Think about it and let me know what you think.”
We exchanged final pleasantries and the call was over.
“Another idea to drive me crazy,”I grumbled. Even if I was interested in this ludicrous idea, how would I get the economic resources to support it? It was a ridiculous notion. I refused to be overwhelmed by the suggestion, and I hoped it would diffuse like all of my other worries.
I couldn’t help but reflect on my parents’ sacrifices through the years. I was not prepared to put any extra burden on them. My father worked at one of the top-ranking banks of Nigeria as a bank manager, while my mum had a store at a Mega Plaza in Lagos where she sold African wears. I had heard stories about how expensive it was to relocate and to live in another country. This idea would not be practical at all, but I’ll think about it, I had assured Aunty Bisi. I remembered the dream about the career lady. It haunted me. Could this be what my mind was trying to tell me? An education outside the country would definitely take me closer to that goal – the beautiful successful woman in my dream. I was no longer afraid of her, and I desired to see her again in my dream. Maybe this was the breakthrough for the future, and maybe not; it was too premature to tell. I did not want to bring this up with my parents until I was able to gather more information. I gathered a pen and a notebook and began to write.
What did I need to know? Where would I get the necessary information?
“If you don’t know where you are going, you’ll end up some place else” – Yogi Berra
The internet was not readily accessible. I had to register at a nearby cyber cafe to browse the internet, where it was more accessible, faster, and cheaper at night. It was not my favorite thing to do, but I was caught in the web. My first search should definitely be for a job, or how else could I afford living in another country?
Very early in the exploration, I realized that most appointments required some form of degree or certification in the destination country. I knew for a certainty that I had to concentrate on getting a graduate degree first. I looked into the United Kingdom and the United states. After looking at both countries, I redirected my enquiry towards the United States, since Aunty Bisi lived there and she proposed the idea. Aunty Bisi lived with her family in the Bronx of New York City and seemed to be comfortable. Aunty Bisi had gone to nursing school upon arrival in the United States, and worked as a nurse in a tertiary hospital.
My internet search for graduate schools brought about more realizations – I was not prepared for the wildest adventure of my life. The criteria for graduate school?
So many!
And impossible. I had some friends from college who left Nigeria for the “American Dream,” but most of those friends had family members in the United States. In addition to the privilege of having wealthy relatives there, most of these guys were in the faculty of science and engineering. Even if their parents were not rich enough, they had a better advantage for getting scholarships and financial support.
Oil companies and other establishments in Nigeria were well-known for offering scholarships to young adults with exceptional abilities. To be eligible for those scholarships, students were selected from different universities to take aptitude tests. The highest-ranking candidates won prestigious scholarships to study in foreign countries. The scholarships covered tuition, accommodation, and even meals throughout their stay. Awesome, right? One would expect that at least one scholarship would be allocated to performing arts and social sciences…but no. This was one of the reasons parents in Nigeria strong-armed their children into either engineering or a medical profession.
After weeks of perusing the internet, six graduate music schools caught my attention. I wrote down the names of the schools and the different requirements for each school in a journal. My poor skill at writing letters was put to the test. Slowly but surely, I came up with a draft of my letter of interest. I wrote to these six schools expressing my interest in earning a graduate degree in music.
Four of the schools responded favorably, and to my delight, a university in New York was part of the four. That would be my first choice, since Aunty Bisi was there. Each school also assigned me a contact person, making communication very easy. I forwarded all the email correspondences to Aunty Bisi, who was thrilled about the headway I was making.
I had kept my plans close to the chest until I couldn’t any longer, with that crazy dream haunting me. The thought of bringing up the topic of relocation to my parents tightened a knot in my stomach. But it had to be done.
One evening after dinner, I brought up the subject. As anticipated, my parents were surprised about the steps I had taken. After a long pause, my dad cleared his throat. “Are you sure this is what you want?” He took a sideways glance at my mom before going on. “We will always support you in whatever you decide. God bless you.”
I had never been an advocate for big changes. My friends and family described me as dedicated and focused, but not adventurous. My teachers and mentors described me as a very diligent girl. The main question I had on my mind was whether I had the skills to survive alone in a foreign country. I tried to convince my parents and myself that I could handle it. I talked about all the steps I had taken. They listened silently as I spoke. Afterwards, they said a short prayer and vowed to support my decisions. That went better than I had expected.
I had a long way to go when it came to gathering all the requirements for the schools. Enquiring about necessary documents was a walk in the park, but procuring them from my college was not as straight forward as anticipated. I had to go in person to the office of student affairs repeatedly to remind the clerk of my request. I offered to mail the documents once they were ready for pick up, since the transcripts and certificates had to be sent to World Education Services (WES), an international verification center prior to submission. The purpose of the midway institution was to verify that the transcripts were written in English and that it was comprehensible. I decided to split the application process into stages, because I also had to take exams.
English was the official language in Nigeria, and so my education in Nigeria had been in the English language. However, one of the prerequisites for graduate schools was the TOEFL English test. Some schools also listed the GRE, or Graduate Record Examinations, as a criterion. The cost of taking those exams and for the authentications nearly broke my endurance. I also had to score very high on the exams on my first attempt, because retaking the exams was not acceptable.
I paid for the exams and preparatory materials from my savings. The English test was not as easy as I thought it would be, because the spoken English was different from what I was accustomed to. It took me about three months of studying and listening to CNN in my spare time to feel prepared.
My score on the TOEFL wasn’t impressive, but thankfully, I met the prerequisite score range. I knew I had to compensate with a higher score on the GRE. Hence, I got a tutor for the GRE exam preparation, which paid off; I earned great scores on the GRE. That was very reassuring, and I finally saw a probability of getting into graduate school — a potential to be more than my name.
Other vital documents required were my birth certificate, reference letters from my college professors and current employer, background checks, passport photographs, and financial support documentation. Of all the requirements, the proof of financial support was the biggest nuisance. I needed proof of sufficient money in my parents’ accounts. The average amount needed was twenty-five thousand dollars. When I converted that amount to Naira, or Nigerian currency, I had a meltdown. Who created such an impossible requirement? That’s it. I’m done with this unhinged idea. I was bent out of shape over my lack of funds. I let the frustration into my mind and it took over.
My conversations after were filled with defeat. I saw the doors of progress closing shut; I was pushing back, but I was not strong enough. My spirit yielded to despondency. And when I slept, I saw a lost rabbit burrowing frantically. The hole seemed to lead down to hell.
I could not appreciate why any creature would struggle so hard to fall into a torture chamber.
