The First Contact And The First Post Card From London

It was not until I returned to Lagos that I realized Andrew was serious about what he told me when we parted in front of my friend’s house in Hammersmith, London. He had promised to give me regular update about his hustling, successes and failures. Andrew had told me, when he drew my head to him and whispered in my ears, to expect his regular post cards in Nigeria and that I should let him know whenever I changed my address.

I found a few post cards from London waiting for me when I got home; attached to the cards were short notes of between three to five hundred words. The very first post card was just about events for the first day from when the cab dropped him off at Holloway Road, where he met Olamide. Olamide is the son of the man Andrew met through his sister’s husband.

He was on a student visa studying Law at Holloway College. According to Andrew, he was rusticated from Lagos State University when he was caught impersonating someone in an exam in the University; he was in the final year of a law programme when the incident happened. His dad, a retired military officer, decided to ship him out of the country.

Andrew first met Olamide’s dad during his National Youth Service at the Federal Medical Centre located inside the 1004 estates at Adetokunbo Ademola Street, Victoria Island, Lagos. Mr Adenuga, in his late fifty, was at the centre for medical check up with regards to heart ailment. He knew Andrew worked at the centre because he was told by the brother-in-law, Adebola; the sister’s husband. After the first of several contacts, a son-uncle relationship developed between them. When Andrew changed career to banking after his NYSC, he maintained contact with him.

When Andrew finally decided to leave Nigeria for good, Mr Adenuga was one of the few people outside his family that knew about it. During one of their several meetings before he left Nigeria, they discussed the issue of work permit documents. Mr Adenuga made some inquiries and found out through his son that illegal immigrants are only able to work by getting forged papers through the black market. He was the one who advised Andrew to take a second passport along because that is where they will put the phony work permit. His son also promised to help Andrew because he knew some Nigerians working illegally with such papers.

Andrew explained in his first post card that the cab driver found it difficult to locate the address that Olamide gave him. When they eventually found the place it turned out to be a college hostel where students of Holloway College were accommodated. When he finally met Olamide this was how he described their first contact: “I didn’t like him at first sight. He appeared haughty and had this air of self-importance about him; he also spoke to me flippantly as if we were mate.” Andrew also described how after paying the taxi driver, he followed behind Olamide, dragging his bags along while the guy strolled along in front without any offer of assistance with the luggage.   

When they got to the hostel, Olamide swiped a card at the entrance door and it opened. They entered a neat, large reception area and facing the door directly is an enclosed area with transparent glass barrier where a male concierge was seated through which he could attend to people. There was a lift to the left and a stairwell on the far right corner. They waited by the lift area after Olamide had pressed a button. The lift arrived after about two minutes later; they both entered and the lift took them to the fourth floor of the eight story building.  

Andrew Made It Into London Town By A Whisker.

I was curious to know what transpired between Andrew and the immigration official who flagged him down for a search, so I asked him to tell me what actually happened.

This is his how he explained the incident: “I guessed the stress was visible on my face,” he said, “but I just can’t help it. I am always easily stressed up. After the immigration formalities, I thought that was it, but then I saw all the other plain-cloth officers with dogs and I panicked.”

He paused for a few seconds and then continued, “When one of the officials flagged me down and requested to search my hand luggage, I immediately remembered the second passport in my bag and felt it was all over. I opened my bag and started a silent prayer. As he started searching my bag, he was also asking me questions about what I came to do, where I will be staying and how long, but my mind was firmly on the contraband document in my bag.”

“Then I stared as he pulled at the pair of trousers where I kept the passport;” Andrew carried on, “I knew instinctively that I have to do something to distract him or my journey to Britain will end right there. He finally got the trousers on top of all the other clothes in the bag and was about to poke at the pocket. I acted swiftly and allowed my original travel documents to drop from my hand into the bag. That distracted him momentarily; he stopped, obviously not suspicious of anything, picked up the dropped documents and started flipping through the pages. The moment he asked me what I do for a living, I grabbed the opportunity and started singing like a canary enthusiastically.”

“I told him I am a doctor, and currently working at the staff clinic of a commercial bank in Nigeria. That seemed to automatically have an effect on him because I noticed a change in his countenance. I haven’t met anyone who does not respect a doctor. I knew telling him that I work as a banker will not generate the kind of respect I wanted. He finished going through the documents, gave them back to me and looked me straight in the eyes as if to say, ‘doc, I don’t believe you are here on holiday, but I am giving you the benefit of doubt’. He finally smiled, told me to have a nice vacation as he gestured for me to move on. I felt dizzy as the blood that had initially drained from my brain appeared to rush back. I slowly and meticulously put all my stuffs back in the bag, trying to appear unruffled. At this point I was fully controlled and knew God had saved me by a whisker. I finished, thanked him and briskly moved on.”   

The taxi guy was now getting impatient and wanted to know if I am ready. I asked Andrew how he’s moving. He didn’t have a clue but said he has two contact phone numbers, one from his best friend and the other from the son of a man he met through his sister’s husband. The cab man placed a quick call to Andrew’s best friend and it kept going into voice mail. We waited for another twenty minutes and it was the same thing. Andrew finally agreed for the guy to call the other number. The guy picked the call. Andrew spoke to him and the guy said his dad already told him to expect the call. He agreed for Andrew to come down to his place. The cab man wrote down the address; it was in Holloway Road, North London.  

We both followed the driver. As we got out of Heathrow, I felt London’s cold weather for the first time and instantly fell in love with it. It was unusually dark outside, although time was just about 5.30pm. Our cab drove out into the cold and breezy London night.

Andrew was quiet; he appeared lost in thought as he stared into space. I was getting down first, so we exchange the addresses of our contacts and their phone numbers since we don’t have any contact number of our own yet.

We got to my contact address and my friend came out to meet us. There was the usual introduction and handshakes. I shook hands with Andrew again for the last time as he went back inside the cab and wished him all the best. As the cab was about to drive off, Andrew called me, gently pulled my head towards him and spoke directly into my ears in low voice.

I watched as the car drove off; I have only met this young man but I really liked him. I didn’t think much about what he told me until I got back to Nigeria after my three week’s vacation.

 

Andrew's Heathrow Ordeal.

When it was Andrew’s turn, I watched as he walked quietly towards the row of immigration officials standing behind high, pulpit-like table. He reached for his travel documents from his breast pocket when he approached the only free official in the line up. There was a brief exchange of words and he handed over the documents to the blonde-haired, middle-aged white lady. The lady appeared to be talking and typing on the computer at the same time; then more exchange of words. After what looked like ten minutes, the lady handed over the documents back to Andrew, smiled and that was it. Andrew glanced back at me furtively, and disappeared into the arrival hall. I heaved a sigh of relief.

I also completed my immigration formalities without any hiccup and moved on quickly to get my luggage. I didn’t see Andrew at the luggage collection point, but I knew he would be waiting for me somewhere inside the main hall. Luckily, I was able to pick out my two bags from the conveyor in time and without too much difficulty.  

I headed towards the exit, dragging my two bags along the smooth floor, feeling jet-lagged; I noticed few gentlemen standing about, some holding police dogs that looked like Alsatians. I knew immediately they had to be immigration officials or plain-cloth policemen. I was quite relaxed and even made eye contact with one or two of them. I also observed that some people were being flagged down and made to open their bags for a search. No one stopped me.

Just as I was about to exit the hall, I glanced back for the last time and suddenly spotted Andrew. I was shocked! I had passed him but hadn’t noticed. He was standing in front of one of the plain-cloth immigration officials and his hand luggage was on the table under search. I could see the visible distress on his face. My heart skipped one beat when I suddenly remembered that Andrew’s second passport was inside his hand luggage. I tarried a few more minutes to see what was happening to him, but had to quickly move on when an immigration official appeared to be coming in my direction. I swiftly disappeared into the outer hall of Heathrow airport and into London.

A middle-aged black man, who looks like a Nigerian, approached me to ask if I needed a cab. I answered in the affirmative but explained that I need to wait for my friend who is still undergoing search inside. He ignored my explanation and requested for the address am headed. I gave him my contact phone number and asked him to call it for the address. Andrew’s predicament weighed heavily on my mind. I wondered if that is the end of his dreams. I had a feeling the second passport has been picked out from his hand luggage by the immigration officials. My mind was in turmoil. Then I remembered he told me he hasn’t resigned yet from his bank. Well, if deported, he can simply go back to his banking work tomorrow.

The cab guy got through to my contact and handed over his phone to me. I was still on the phone exchanging pleasantries with my contact when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up and Andrew was standing beside me smiling broadly, but looking stressed out. I screamed out: “my guy, you made it.” Andrew made it through. The first hurdle in a tortuous journey has been crossed.  

Two Nigerian Passports, One Destiny.

Andrew and I chatted throughout the flight, at least almost. He is a graduate of medicine and surgery from university of Ibadan. He told me he hated everything about medicine but was forced into it by his domineering father and peer pressure. But he decided on a career change immediately after completing his compulsory national youth service, which he did at the General Hospital, Lagos.

His new career is in the financial services sector, banking to be precise. He had been working for five years in one of the new generation banks, with ‘trust’ as their middle name before he finally decided to 'check out' and leave Nigeria for good. On the few occasions that we weren’t talking and left to our own thoughts, I could not help liking this young man.

Out of curiosity, I asked him what he intends to do when he gets to London and if he has documents for securing a job. He looked at me straight in the eyes and said he has no clue what he is getting himself into but is determined to succeed anyhow.

Then, in a flash, he fetched his hand luggage, placed it on his laps and brought out two Nigerian passports. I was shocked but didn’t show it. He gave them to me and told me to go through them. I did and found that the passports are genuine; both have his photograph and almost the same details, except the date of birth. One of the passports is the correct travel document for that virgin flight and has two-year class-c visiting visa to United Kingdom. The other one is plain with no visa. I gave them back to him and asked what the second passport is meant for?

He explained that one of his friends or contacts in London told him to bring a second passport that will hold the work permit that is to be arranged for him. I quickly pointed out that if his luggage is searched by immigration officials and the passport is picked out, he will be in serious trouble. He said he is fully aware of the risk but has no other choice. At that point, I knew I must stay clear from him once we are in London. He put the second passport back in an envelope and neatly tucked it inside the pocket of a pair of trousers at the bottom of his hand luggage but kept his travel passport in the breast pocket of his shirt.
Our plane landed safely in Heathrow at about 05.30pm. As we queued up for immigration formalities, I quietly dropped behind in the queue by allowing a woman and her three kids to come between me and Andrew. There was tension all over his face.

Virgin Atlantic Flight: London to Heathrow.

I got the 3,175th post card from Andrew today. I quickly went through it, just as I have done since he started sending them to me after we met during a Virgin Atlantic flight from Lagos to Heathrow, 3,176 days ago.

There was nothing unusual about this new post card except that he reiterated his desire to come back home and give Nigeria another shot. He however sounded quite happy because his mother would be arriving London in two week's time to assist him and his wife with the care of their two kids. The first child, a boy named Joshua is now six years plus and has started going to the local primary school-Deptford Park Primary School; the second daughter would be three years in two months time.
He explained that his mum’s arrival would give him more time to plan his next career move, especially since he is seriously considering relocating back to Nigeria.  

Quoting him directly from the post card: “…I am at my tethers end, nothing seemed to be working anymore; I have tried virtually everything including starting my own business, but breakthrough seemed like a mirage. I have got to a point where I feel there’s nothing left for me to try in the United Kingdom; there’s an urgent need for me to make one last career move and my mind tells me it has to be in Nigeria.”

Who is Andrew? And why has he been sending me post cards from London, United Kingdom for the past 8 years, 8 months and 12 days? Andrew is not his real name; it is the name I gave to this young man that I met on my vacation trip to the United Kingdom in February, 2003. I decided to call him Andrew because he told me he was ‘checking out’ of Nigeria for good and never returning back.

Strangely, it was fate that brought us together and, I guess, fate is also responsible that we have remained in contact for so long. On that fateful day, the middle-aged woman that was to sit next to me was suddenly upgraded to premium economy for being a regular flyer with the Virgin Airline, and the new passenger that took her place was Andrew. We instantly connected and chatted throughout the six hours flight to Heathrow.