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.