The Emigrant
Photo: Miko Guziuk
Oduwa stood beside the wooden window of his family’s early nineteen-fifties mud and cement one-storey building, frowning down at the bustling motor park that attracted his town people who travelled daily but seldom returned. He was one of the many people who did not like his little town and his country.
His grandfather and father died hating his country too. His grandfather, a retired army officer, collapsed and died in a queue for pension registration, a registration he had done several times. His father died from bullet wounds. He was shot while protesting for better working conditions in the civil service. Oduwa was sure that he, too, would die hating his country.
Many of his friends were abroad. The houses they built for their families and the cars they sent home were proof that they were doing well. Was he not more intelligent than them? Was it not him that they ran to with all their calculus and algebra problems?
For the past three years, he has transversed the length and breadth of his country with the certificates he amassed, looking for jobs. The most he got were teaching jobs in small secondary schools that stressed him for a penny. He had just resigned from a local bank as a gatekeeper; he was almost shot when robbers attacked it.
He withdrew his eyes from the chaos in the motor park and fixed them on the rotting wooden floor of the house. At thirty, he still lived with his grandmother, mother, and sister.
In the cracked wall mirror before him, he could see his forlorn self and the face of his childhood friend, who was visiting, both frowning at him.
Today, he has finally made up his mind to leave his country. Everything he needed was packed—thick sweaters, Timberland boots, small first-aid box, international passport, money, and the charms his grandmother had prepared for him.
His grandmother was the only family member who knew about his plans to leave his country. Not that she wanted him to go, but it pained her that he was not a millionaire like his mates. She wanted to see him turn around the family’s fortunes before she died, and if all it took was the minor inconvenience of moving abroad, for her, he could travel as many times as was necessary.
He stared at himself in the mirror for the last time and headed for the door.
“Please, Oduwa, don’t do this,” Adukpe, his childhood friend, repeated for the umpteenth time.
“Who no go, no see,” Oduwa muttered, “my people no dey carry last.”
Oduwa was not in the mood to listen to Adukpe. In the past, just like Adukpe, he had reservations about leaving his country. But, today, it was forward ever, backward never.
As Oduwa gripped the doorknob, Adukpe held his arm.
“Oduwa,” Adukpe said, almost on his knees, “please, reconsider this trip.”
He was ready to wrestle his friend if he stood in his way.
“You’ve been my friend for ages, and I’ve always taken your counsel. But don’t try to stop me this time,” Oduwa said. “As a friend, I’ll demand this one thing from you. Please, look after my family.”
“Have some faith, my friend. We can still make it in this country.”
Oduwa fought the temptation of slapping Adukpe across his face.
“Five years after graduation, nothing. Then, an MBA, still nothing,” Oduwa sighed. “Perhaps, faith will come when I’m dead.”
“There’s a lot of danger out there. You could die in the desert.”
Oduwa laughed as if his friend had just told the joke of the century.
“Look at me, Adukpe. Do you think I’m alive here?” Oduwa asked. “I’m already in an emotional desert here. A physical desert won’t kill me. It’ll be my pathway to freedom.”
“Patience, Oduwa. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
It took Oduwa three months to plan and prepare for this journey. He wasn’t going to be dissuaded now.
He hugged Adukpe. “You’ll be the first person I call from Rome.”
…
As the plane nosed towards one of the northernmost airports in Oduwa’s country, the arid view struck him with awe and angst. He had only seen deserts on television. The one below him made him give his journey a second thought.
It was 3 pm when he alighted from the plane. The sun dehydrated him. The dust ambushed his lungs. On his phone, he called the facilitator of his journey, who in turn gave him the phone number of a customs officer. After an hour’s drive, he met the officer at his country’s border. The officer’s English was poor. His gun looked as impatient as he was.
Oduwa knew the drill. The fewer questions he asked, the better. He paid the bargained amount to the officer, both as a bribe and as his transportation fee.
He was among the sixteen migrants in a clandestine tent waiting to be transported across the desert. There were small talks that among them were doctors, nurses, engineers, bankers, teachers, students, and some without education and jobs. Four out of the sixteen migrants were from his town. He had even dated one of them a lifetime ago.
“What’re you doing here, Niyema?” Oduwa shouted.
“What’re you doing here too?” Niyema fired back.
They laughed and hugged. Though the reunion gave Oduwa a new dose of energy, he did not know what to make of the coincidence. Two former lovers crossing the desert together seemed both fun and surreal to him. He was headed for Italy, she for Spain.
At 8 pm, a rugged closed-roof pickup truck picked them up. Squeezed inside the pickup, they headed further north.
The next day, the sun rose early, almost reaching boiling point by noon. His skin had never harboured so much sweat, his throat never been so dry. Nearly 24 hours into the journey and a few hours into Zandaine in Niger, some sojourners already wished they had not embarked on the trip. An hour ago, they had seen two fresh corpses and tens of people stranded in the desert, waiting for help that did not seem to be coming.
The food and water the migrants brought along were running out by the hour. They were now heading to Agadez, another town in Niger, another one-day trip.
Halfway to Agadez, they were robbed by bandits—their food, money, and other valuables stolen. Oduwa was smart to travel with little cash on him, hiding his MasterCard in the sole of his boot. The other migrants were not as fortunate, including Niyema.
Many of them had to drink their urine before they arrived in Qatrum, Libya. By then, three of the migrants had died.
…
They did not make it safely to Qatrum. They were arrested by Libyan immigration officers and taken to Gharyan, a prison about ninety-six kilometres south of Tripoli.
In Gharyan, Oduwa sought solace in his charms. With money and the grace of his charms, he and Niyema were released to ASMA boys.
The ASMA boys, who did underhand immigration businesses and smugglings, operated illegal underground camps called trankes or cells where they kept and exploited migrants who did not have money to continue their journey to Europe.
In their cramped tranke were seventy-five migrants, mostly women, mostly from Oduwa’s country. The money Oduwa had left was barely enough for him, not to mention Niyema. She was slowing him down. He was not here to risk his life for love, ex-love.
…
Three months now, and they were still in a tranke. Every day, Arab men came to pick migrant men for manual jobs on their farms and construction sites and migrant women for sex. Oduwa had to pay the ASMA boys to protect Niyema and himself. They ate just once a day, and migrants died every day.
“This’s hell,” Oduwa told Niyema one day, “I think it’s better for you to go home. I don’t see you making it any farther with your ill health.”
“No way! Not after coming this far,” Niyema blurted. “Death in this land is better than death at home.”
“In a few days, I’ll have no money left. How do we survive here?”
Niyema’s health kept deteriorating. Though she was a nurse, she could not help herself. She had called her parents and told them her whereabouts. After they cried and cursed her for turning herself into a slave in another man’s land, they promised to send her money to return home.
But Niyema was not ready to return home. She had nothing to return to. No job, no husband, no hope. She had only her poor parents and siblings, who would probably sell some land or borrow money to set her free from Libya. She was between the devil and the deep blue sea. The deep blue sea that led to Europe was better than the devil at home.
Oduwa needed money too, but he could not contact his family. When he initially arrived in Libya, his friends in America and Europe helped him financially. But not anymore. His friend in Rome, who motivated him to “come over”, that he had already “secured a job” for him there, had stopped answering his calls.
Outside the four walls of their tranke, there were talks of the United Nations and some human rights organisations assisting willing migrants go back to their countries. Many inmates in the trankes, even some from Oduwa’s country, enrolled and were repatriated.
“She was between the devil and the deep blue sea. The deep blue sea that led to Europe was better than the devil at home.”
Oduwa advised Niyema to do same.
“Don’t bullshit me,” she said. “You can join them if you want.”
“I’m not the one that’s sick.”
“We’re all fucking sick here!”
They were almost creating a scene. The ASMA boys would rip them apart if they caught them arguing.
One week later, after Oduwa had exhausted his money, the ASMA boys stormed the tranke to pick some migrant women for their Arab pimps. There was no money to protect Niyema this time, so the ASMA boys took her. Oduwa protested. They asked him to pay for her release or back off. He refused. The boys beat him up, destroyed the charms on his neck, and stabbed him in the back with a dagger. They raped Niyema in front of him, taking turns with her. Oduwa cried and, for the first time, rued embarking on the journey.
Two days later, when the money Niyema’s parents promised arrived, she died. At first, Oduwa thought of calling Niyema’s family to inform them of the death of their daughter, but he could not. He had not even called his own family, let alone someone else’s—with the news of their daughter’s death, no less.
Fortunately, the money was sent through Oduwa’s bank account. He used the money to secure his freedom and arrange boat transportation to Europe.
…
Standing three metres from the choppy shores of the Mediterranean bordering Zumarah City one moonless night, with the ebb and flow of the sea washing his askew boots, Oduwa seemed to have lost track of time. It was as if he had died in the tranke and his ghost now wandering the shores of the dark, eerie water.
The harbour was a beehive of activity. Somewhere close by, his country’s highlife music was playing.
He had read about this city. It was unmistakably one of the locations he had read about while preparing for his journey, one of the main departure points to Europe.
Who no go, no see, he took a deep breath. My people no dey carry last.
He bought some snacks, table water, a life jacket, and a map of Italy. He squeezed everything into a small backpack and fixed his eyes on the sea.
“The more you look, the less you see,” a voice startled him. “It’s easier to see God than to see what lies beyond these waters.”
Oduwa turned to a man with jovial eyes and an embittered face working on his fishing net. Old as he was, his shoes were older.
Oduwa turned back to the sea. He was sure of what lay beyond the waters waiting for him. The sea was only a medium for him to get there.
“You must be new. What brings you here?”
Oduwa pondered the man’s question. “By here, you mean?”
“Everybody has a reason for coming here,” the man said. “To trade. To dine. To tour. To cross over to the other side. To search for happiness.”
“Good to know.”
“Have you seen this place in the morning? Bright and lovely. Then, dead bodies start dotting the shores.” The man sighed. “They come here, force themselves on the sea, and the sea forces them back to the shore.”
“Oduwa turned back to the sea. He was sure of what lay beyond the waters waiting for him. The sea was only a medium for him to get there.”
Oduwa ignored the old man.
“You know what they call someone who successfully crosses for the first time?”
“What?” Oduwa asked without looking at the man.
“Asshole,” the man chuckled.
Oduwa took a final look at the old man and fixed his eyes back on the sea.
…
Starring at an old boat loading goods and migrants, Oduwa wished his charms were with him. He was among the last set of migrants that boarded the overloaded boat.
He could hear some migrants speaking some of his country’s languages, but he was not interested in fraternising. He did not want another Niyema.
The boat left Zumarah by 9 pm with twenty-five migrants squeezed inside. Some of them were praying, some sleeping. Oduwa closed his eyes, dreaming about Rome.
“By the time you open your eyes,” a man beside him said. “You’ll realise seventy per cent of the earth is water.”
Oduwa flipped his eyes open. “I already know that.”
“Christ will see us through,” the man intoned, counting his rosary beads. “Or you’re into Allah or something?”
A day into the sea trip, thirst and hunger woke them into a drizzling morning. Women and children were crying. Most of them had exhausted their water and food.
Since there was nothing to do, Oduwa sat at a corner chewing on a piece of stale bread, wishing he could drink the seawater.
“Enjoy your meal, brother,” a young boy from his country, visibly salivating at the bread, said. “May be, your last meal.”
“Last meal?” Oduwa moped at the boy.
“We’re in the middle of the sea. Death is the only sure thing here.”
“I don’t know about you,” Oduwa said, “but Rome is the only sure thing for me.”
“Most migrants get caught in Italy. But, I envy your faith.”
“Most migrants don’t make it alive to Italy. We’ll be among the few assholes that will.”
They laughed.
On the night of the second day, with Italy few hours away, a rainstorm blew Oduwa back to reality. The storm hit the boat from all angles. People were shouting and praying. Oduwa reached for his charms, but they were not there. He cursed the ASMA boys.
The boat was almost capsizing. Those in charge, all with life jackets, told them to prepare for the worst. They had to empty the boat to make it light and safe, so they threw some of their goods into the sea. The migrants were ordered to help; some drowned in the process.
…
Oduwa found himself in Trapani port in Sicily, Italy, wondering if that was really him. He thanked God for making him an asshole. He could smell Rome.
He scanned the port premises. Ten metres from where he stood, he saw some workmen loading goods into a long truck with a Rome plate number. Five of the men were blacks; two had tribal marks of certain people from his country. He smiled. He now believed the saying that there was no country on earth without people from his country.
As he contemplated his next move, two Italian immigration officers approached him from behind. When they asked for his identification, his heart sank into his stomach.
His passport and other identifications were in the sea. He wished he had drowned with them. He thought of running, but the officers’ guns deterred him. He thought of bribing them, but he had no money.
The officers looked at him, head to toe, and smirked. One of them brought out his gun. The other brought out handcuffs.
“What’s this about, officers?”
“These Africans,” one of the officers sneered.
“There’s a mistake somewhere,” Oduwa stammered. “I’m not who you think I am.”
“Every day for assholes,” the other officer said, smirking, “one day for us.”
…
“Why were you running?”
Ucciardone prison in Palermo, Sicily, smelt like mud and rusted iron when it rained. And it had rained for three consecutive days since Oduwa was imprisoned inside one of its cells.
He pondered the question by his Italian cellmate again and winced. He had heard there were many people from his country in this prison. Only someone from his country would understand.
“I crossed a body of desert,” he answered. “A body of water too.”
“What were you running from?”
“My grandfather died. My father died too.”
“Are you afraid you’ll die here?”
Oduwa was not afraid of dying here. He was afraid of dying the way his grandfather and father died. Death in his country was different from death in other countries.
“Are you afraid you’ll die here?”
“If I didn’t die in my country, I won’t die here.”
…
Six months passed. It seemed like forever to Oduwa. In his dreams, he no longer saw Rome but nightmares. He had attempted suicide three times. With his ill health and the nuisance he was becoming, arrangements were made to deport him.
He was not sure whether he was ready to go home, but he had to leave this place.
…
It was almost dawn, and harmattan was in the air, when the plane descended towards Oduwa’s country’s southernmost airport. In his town, it was customary not to return through the same route one used to leave.
As the plane touched down, the arrival of a deportee was announced. Immigration officer Adukpe Ugbesia was assigned to receive the deportee.
As Oduwa stepped out of the plane, the harmattan air flooded his lungs. The chains on his ankles felt like ice.
“Oduwa,” Adukpe was happy to see him, “so, it’s truly you.”
Oduwa looked at his uniformed friend, dumbfounded—not out of shame, but awe. Oduwa wondered which version of him his friend was referring to? He looked at his friend, then at the chains on his ankles, and smiled.
“Welcome back, my friend.” Tears cascaded from Adukpe’s cheeks. “I’m glad you’re alive.”
“Don’t cry for me,” Oduwa tittered in pain. “I’m glad you finally got a job.”
“Your name came out in the immigration job too. That was eight months ago,” Adukpe said. “I tried contacting you, but there was no way to do that.”
Oduwa and Adukpe were of different worlds now. Many pages of memory were missing in their lives.
“How’re my mother and sister?”
“They’re broken.”
Oduwa expected nothing less. “How’s my grandmother?”
“I’m sorry,” Adukpe placed a palm on his friend’s shoulder, “she’s dead.”
“What?” Oduwa shouted. “When?”
“On the night of May 10th. She was buried two weeks later.”
The evening of May 10th was the day Niyema was raped by the ASMA boys and the charms his grandmother gave him were destroyed by the boys too.
Oduwa sank to his knees and cried. For the first time since he left his country, he realised how time had flown and how old he had become.
“I’m happy you’re back,” Adukpe gathered his friend to his feet, “let me take you to the office for paperwork, then I’ll take you home.”
“Which home?”
“Your home.”
Oduwa was not ready to go home. At home, his grandfather and father died hating his country.
About the Author
Kingsley Alumona is a geologist, writer, poet and journalist from Delta State, but lives in Ibadan, Oyo State, Nigeria. He has a B.Sc. in Geology from the University of Nigeria, and an M.Sc. from the University of Ibadan. He is a reporter with the Nigerian Tribune newspaper. His works have appeared in the 2018 African Book Club Anthology, Kalahari Review, Nthanda Review, TUCK magazine, Brittle Paper, Afritondo, Digirature, Ngiga Review, Pawners Paper, Omenana (Issue 17), and Transition Magazine (Issue 131). You can reach him on Facebook: @kingsley.alumona.1
