There are three things I see every day.
Passports.
Hope.
And desperation.
Not necessarily in that order.
I work at a visa application centre in Ikeja. Officially, I process documents. Unofficially, I watch dreams queue up before sunrise.
Every morning, before we even open the doors, there are already people waiting outside.
Students.
Business owners.
Families.
Newlyweds.
Retirees.
Young professionals.
People who have sold land.
People who have borrowed money.
People who have convinced themselves that their real life is waiting somewhere else.
They arrive carrying transparent folders stuffed with documents.
Bank statements.
Employment letters.
Birth certificates.
Marriage certificates.
Property documents.
Photographs.
Proof of this.
Proof of that.
Proof that they exist.
Proof that they deserve a chance.
Proof that they belong somewhere they have never been.
By 9 a.m., the waiting area is usually full.
Faces and anxiety everywhere.
Nobody admits they are nervous, but I can see it. The way they check their phones every five minutes, the way they reread documents they have already submitted, and the way they whisper prayers under their breath as if God personally reviews visa applications.
One of the most fascinating things about this job is watching what happens to people’s pride, especially older Nigerians.
The same uncles who demand respect from everybody.
The same aunties who insist that younger people greet properly.
The same elders who lecture us endlessly about dignity.
The moment a visa becomes involved, all that dignity suddenly becomes flexible.
I have seen seventy-year-old men stand quietly while being barked at by staff half their age.
I have watched successful businesswomen patiently wait for hours without complaint.
I have seen retired directors, professors, and community leaders obediently move from one queue to another because somebody wearing a staff tag told them to.
People who would never tolerate such treatment elsewhere.
But here?
Nobody wants trouble.
Nobody wants delays.
Nobody wants anything that might affect “the visa.”
The visa has become a powerful thing. Powerful enough to humble almost anybody.
Sometimes, while processing applications, I find myself doing rough calculations in my head.
The application fees.
The document preparation costs.
The transport expenses.
The accommodation bookings.
The agency fees.
The endless hidden charges that somehow appear along the way.
Millions.
Literal millions of naira spent chasing a possibility.
And then there are the repeat applicants. Those ones fascinate me the most.
Rejected once.
Rejected twice.
Rejected three times.
Yet they return again, and again, and again. Each time with new documents.
New strategies.
New explanations.
New hope.
Sometimes I want to ask them. Where exactly are you people getting this money? Because rejection does not come with a refund. The embassy does not send flowers. There is no consolation prize. Just another application fee waiting around the corner. Yet somehow they find the money again and again.
I used to think it was irrational. Now I think it says something deeper. The feeling that no matter how hard you work, the finish line keeps moving.
Every day I watch people carry those burdens into our office, and every day I stamp, process, verify, and observe.
At first, I judged them I won’t lie.
I did.
There was a period when I convinced myself that they were giving up, abandoning the country, and refusing to stay and help fix things. I used to sit behind my desk and think:
“If everybody leaves, who will remain?”
It felt like a reasonable question, a patriotic and responsible question. Then life happened as it usually does.
My rent increased.
Food prices increased.
Transport costs increased.
Electricity became more expensive.
Everything seemed to increase except my salary.
One evening, while calculating my monthly expenses, I realized something uncomfortable.
For the first time, I understood the people sitting in the waiting area. Suddenly, the applications didn’t seem irrational anymore, they seemed logical.
The funny thing is that nobody at work knows this.
Not yet.
They still think I am the skeptical one. The one always making observations. The one always asking questions. The one shaking his head at migration statistics. Meanwhile, hidden inside a drawer in my apartment is a small envelope.
Inside that envelope is money. Money I have been saving quietly, consistently, patiently, and purposefully.
For my own application.
My own chance.
My own possible exit.
The irony is not lost on me. Every day I sit behind a desk watching people chase visas. Every day I wonder why they are so determined. Every day I question the obsession. Then I go home and add money to the same dream.
Maybe that makes me a hypocrite. Or maybe it simply makes me honest. Because the truth is that most of us are carrying the same conflict.
We love this country genuinely, deeply, and painfully. But sometimes loving a place and believing in its future are not the same thing. And maybe that is the part nobody likes discussing.
So tonight, as I count my savings again, I find myself staring at a question I cannot answer. If I leave, am I abandoning home? Or am I simply doing what millions of others have already decided to do?
And if staying means constantly sacrificing opportunities, at what point does loyalty become self-punishment?
I don’t know.
Maybe when my turn finally comes, I will have an answer. Or maybe I will just join the queue like everybody else.
– Akin