The knock you fear most as an immigrant isn’t from debt collectors or landlords. It’s from men with badges and the power to erase your existence.
The envelope arrived on a Tuesday. Small, white, bearing the insignia of the Department of Homeland Security. My fingers trembled as they traced the official seal.
But, wait, I’ve skipped several steps in this story.
Let me take you back to when I first landed in the US.
For something I’d spent most of my adult life desiring, I low-key thought abroad would smell different, you know, like imported oxygen. It didn’t. It smelled of airplane fuel, wet tarmac, and the unmistakable scent of someone’s overused armpit.
The immigration officer’s eyebrow arched as he studied my passport.
“First time in the US?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, straightening my posture, conscious of the ₦5,200 burning a hole in my pocket alongside a lone sachet of TomTom. Why I didn’t change that money still beats me to this day.
“What’s the purpose of your visit?”
My throat tightened. “To… to explore agricultural trends in urban settings.” The words tumbled out, random buzzwords firing from my panicked brain.
He squinted, fingers dancing across his keyboard. Then, without warning, he waved me through.
That was it. No cavity search. No interrogation about farms or family. No “step aside, sir.” Just a stamp and dismissal.
I retrieved my Ghana-Must-Go bag, now sporting a hole the size of Bayelsa State at the bottom, and waddled into America.
Tari Davies, my former senior from secondary school, now known as TD, picked me up from the airport and let me stay at his place for a “small time.” That “small time” turned into three weeks spent on his floor, squeezed between a leaking radiator and Pedro, a man whose snores could compete with a faulty carburetor.
“Don’t dull,” he warned me. “This country no dey smile.”
I didn’t dull. I hustled, took up cleaning jobs—not regular cleaning, deep cleaning. The kind that makes your ancestors wince. Night shifts at downtown offices became my routine. The supervisor, Blandine from Congo, took a shine to me because I greeted her with complete sentences and never pocketed the toilet paper.
My second hustle stationed me on Flatbush Avenue. Neon vest donned, flyers in hand, touting “natural detox” for a Jamaican “wellness tea” company. I’d stand there shouting, “Come clean your life!” while oyibo people developed a sudden interest in their phones, veering away as though I offered contagious diseases rather than paper advertisements.
Emboldened by desperation, I applied at a Nigerian restaurant in the Bronx.
Aunty Bukky, the owner, assessed me through narrowed eyes and asked only two questions:
- “Can you peel yam?”
- “Can you keep secrets?”
I answered yes to both and began my career as an assistant everything: assistant cook, assistant dishwasher, assistant bouncer. Once, I even played keyboard at a birthday celebration when the DJ ghosted.
I existed in a state between living and dying. A cockroach’s resilience in hostile territory.
Then came the letters. They arrived without warning.
Immigration notices. Social Security forms. An “invitation” to a “voluntary interview” regarding my status. My hands trembled as I called TD.
“Guy, dem don dey track me.”
TD’s laughter crackled through the phone. “Na so e dey start. Welcome to Americracy.”
The word settled into my bones. This country operated not on democracy but on forms, fees, and fear.
A second letter arrived in the mail. No date specified. Just a QR code and an address vague enough to quicken my pulse. I sought TD’s wisdom.
“Relax, dem just wan verify small things. Go there and act like say you know wetin you dey do.”
I most certainly did not know wetin I dey do.
Still, I prepared. Chinos that once knew the color beige intimately. A white shirt ironed within an inch of its life. A tie that had witnessed more Nigerian history than textbooks. I bathed in Blue Water Deluxe cologne—the scent of fear mixed with quiet desperation.
At the ICE office in Manhattan, humanity gathered in various stages of terror. A Honduran man beside me crossed himself repeatedly, whispering “Jesús” between breaths. I followed suit. Divine intervention couldn’t hurt.
Officer Kaplan called my name. She led me to a room smaller than my expectations. Two chairs faced each other. No table. Just a file that likely contained every secret I’d ever kept.
“Mr. Tamuno,” she began.
“Yes ma,” I replied, before remembering that American formality doesn’t include “ma.”
Her eyes flicked upward. “I’m not your mother.”
I nodded, suddenly feeling the weight of cultural missteps.
She opened the file with deliberate slowness. “You came on a tourist visa. Your return ticket expired. You haven’t left.”
My bladder tightened. “I… I’m exploring agricultural markets in New York,” I stammered.
“In Flatbush?”
“Yes.”
Her stare lingered, dissecting my existence. Then, a sigh. “You’re low-priority. Know that you’re being monitored. Don’t get arrested. Don’t apply for federal aid. Stay quiet.”
The stamp hit my papers with finality. She waved me away.
Outside, I didn’t walk—I floated. A man granted temporary reprieve from ancestral judgment. The subway conductor’s casual “Have a nice day” nearly brought tears to my eyes.
But fate rarely grants complete victory.
Not when it placed me in the path of Amina.
Nigerian-American. Houston-born. Atlanta-raised. Marketing professional. She wore waist beads beneath designer dresses, complemented by acrylic nails that tapped restlessly against her phone. “I’m spiritually aligned but also petty,” she’d announce, without irony.
We met at a party hosted by TD’s “crypto expert” friend, who somehow never had rent money despite his supposed digital fortune.
She spotted me hovering near the jollof rice.
“You’re cute,” she said, eyes assessing me. “You fresh off the boat?”
I smiled, uncertain whether to feel flattered or offended.
We talked. She loved my accent until it became too thick. She celebrated my Port Harcourt roots until discovering I didn’t own a car. “Intense,” she called me—Nigerian code for financially unstable.
Three dates later, she invited me to her apartment. I arrived with suya and Malta Guinness. She countered with wine and criticism.
“You smell of… Nigeria,” she said, nose wrinkling slightly.
I blinked, confused. “As in… onions or patriotism?”
“No,” she clarified, swirling her wine. “The dust of struggle clings to your spirit.”
That evening marked our final encounter.
The next day, she vanished. WhatsApp messages undelivered. Facebook profile gone. A week later, her Instagram showcased a new man—D’Andre, neck adorned with tattoos, keys to a Tesla dangling from his fingers.
I channeled my disappointment into Aunty Bukky’s kitchen, scrubbing pots with the intensity of a man exorcizing demons.
That same week, ICE sent another letter.
That same week, TD texted: “Guy, na now your real life don start.”
Truth resonated in those words.
In America, heartbreak comes free of charge, fear arrives in government envelopes, and survival becomes the only legal enterprise worth pursuing.
There’s a saying in Brooklyn: if you can’t marry for love, marry for papers. And if you can’t marry for papers, find someone who did and hang around them long enough to inherit blessings.
I was deep in that phase of survival where I’d started eyeing romantic opportunity like it was fertilizer—any soil that looked remotely fertile was fair game. So, when I met Chanelle, I didn’t see her; I saw potential.
Chanelle was Haitian-American, worked as a nurse aide, and had the kind of laugh that made you want to confess sins you hadn’t committed yet. We met at a laundromat. I was washing my only jacket. She was folding scrubs like a woman who had dreams and back pain.
She looked at me and said, “That your accent is sexy. Where you from?”
“Nigeria.”
“Ouuuuu, Naija boy. Y’all be spicy.”
I didn’t correct her. I just smiled like a man who knew a miracle had just arrived in booty shorts.
We started hanging out. At first, I wasn’t sure if she liked me or just liked the attention of a man who texted back in complete sentences. But when she invited me over for dinner and cooked griot and pikliz, I knew things were escalating.
One night, mid-chew, I slid the topic in like a thief:
“You ever consider marrying someone… for help?”
She squinted. “You proposing to me with rice in your mouth?”
“No no no! I mean, hypothetically. Like, if a person was in need—say, immigration-wise…”
She raised an eyebrow. “You tryna get a green card?”
“No! I mean yes, but not from you. Unless—”
Her laughter filled the room. “That’s cute. But I’m not interested in jail time over somebody else’s situation.’ Got two cousins in ICE custody already.”
The conversation shifted. Opportunity vanished.
But hope persisted, stubborn as body odor in a crowded bus.
I started attending immigrant survival seminars—code name for “how to marry smart.” There, I met people who married everyone from Uber drivers to people they met on Craigslist. One guy married a 63-year-old woman named Dolores, who gave him papers and arthritis.
I told TD my plan.
“You wan try green card marriage?” he said. “Do you know what USCIS agents look like? FBI agents with clipboards.”
I still tried.
Her name was Bethany. A friend of a friend. She was white, from Iowa, and had the complexion of someone who sunburns under LED light. She needed $8,000. I had $800 and a desperate smile.
We had one dinner. I tried to sound romantic.
“I’ve never met someone like you,” I said.
She blinked. “I’ve never met a Nigerian in person before.”
“Do you believe in destiny?”
She paused. “Do you believe in PayPal?”
We agreed to meet again and “build rapport.” She said she liked jazz. I Googled three albums and pretended to have opinions.
But when I got home, I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself. I looked like a man one heartbreak away from selling his kidneys for a green card.
I didn’t call Bethany again.
Instead, I went to church.
Pastor Ezekiel’s Redeemed International Glory Tabernacle Ministries of All Nations.
Yes, that’s one church with a name requiring its very own zip code.
While TD was trying to get me into crypto scams, I was now kneeling at the feet of a pastor who preached like he had a direct Zoom line to God. He told me, “Your papers are coming, my son. They’re in the spiritual pipeline.”
Pipeline. Just like the ones in PH that never had water.
But deep down, I was tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of scheming. Tired of looking for love that came with application fees and biometric appointments.
That week, I deleted all my dating apps.
That week, USCIS sent me a letter inviting me to a “routine update” appointment.
That week, I started talking to a girl at the African store. Her name is Ifeoma. She works there to pay for nursing school. She laughs with her whole chest and smells like groundnut oil and Vaseline.
She asked if I wanted to hang out sometime.
I said yes. For the first time in a long time, I meant it.
No paperwork. No schemes. Just maybe… a real beginning.
But knowing my luck?
ICE will probably show up on our first date.
The day I got the letter, I thought it was a prank. One of those fake “Congratulations! You’ve won a trip to the Bahamas!” flyers you find taped to lamp posts near bodegas.
Department of Homeland Security.
Re: Deferred Immigration Adjustment Notification.
Eligible for Provisional Amnesty under the New Administration’s Immigrant Relief Initiative.
I read the words five times, then read them upside down just to make sure I hadn’t hallucinated the English. The Biden administration—God bless their Democratic souls—had quietly launched a fast-track review for low-risk overstays. I was low-risk. I was practically no-risk. I hadn’t so much as littered in the past year. Not even a gum wrapper.
And somehow—somehow—my name was on the list.
I would still need to pass an interview. I’d still need to show proof of “integration.” But the letter didn’t say no. It said maybe. And in America, maybe is holy ground.
That same week, Ifeoma invited me to her cousin’s birthday party. I wore a shirt she bought me from Marshalls and jeans that didn’t sag. She introduced me to everyone as “Tekena,” no qualifiers, no accent jokes, no “he’s new here.” Just my name. Like I belonged.
We sat in her car afterwards, sharing puff-puff and hot ginger soda.
She said, “You’ve changed.”
“How?”
“You stand taller now. Like you’re not afraid something’s going to knock you over.”
I smiled. “Maybe it’s you.”
She rolled her eyes. “Abeg. You’re just finally breathing.”
But it was true. With Ifeoma, I was starting to feel human again. We took walks in Prospect Park. We talked about Nigeria—our versions of it. Mine full of potholes and fish ponds and rain. Hers full of aunties and WhatsApp voice notes. She made fun of my love for egusi. I teased her for putting ketchup on dodo.
I told her I wanted to do everything right from now on.
“I’m tired of hustling in the shadows,” I said. “I want light. Even if it’s slow.”
She reached out, squeezed my hand. “Then start walking towards it.”
I showed up to my amnesty interview wearing the same tie I wore at my failed Canada visa attempt. It felt poetic. Like telling the universe, you thought I was done? I wasn’t.
The officer asked me about my life in America. I told him the truth: about the nights I cleaned offices that no one would remember, the church services that smelled like anointing oil and desperation, the heartbreaks, the flyer-hustling, the fish pond back in Borokiri.
He listened. He nodded.
“You’ve been honest,” he said. “We’ll be in touch.”
Two months passed. Two long, silent, torturous months. Ifeoma stood by me. She cooked. She prayed. She nagged me to fix my resume. And then—on a Tuesday that looked like every other Tuesday—I got an email:
Your Adjustment of Status Has Been Approved.
I screamed. TD thought I’d won the lottery. In a way, I had.
I was now… legal.
The word tasted sweet. Like peak-season mango. I could work, travel, file taxes, maybe even complain about rent like a real American.
Later that night, Ifeoma took me to dinner. Nothing fancy. Just jollof, goat meat, and Guinness in a bottle so cold it sang hymns. I told her I loved her. She didn’t blink.
She just said, “Took you long enough.”
And we laughed.
Not the nervous, immigrant laugh of I’m trying to survive.
But the full-belly, whole-chest laugh of I might just make it.
Epilogue
Brooklyn remains my home. I still hustle, but now with proper documentation.
I still send money to my mother in PH. She still tells me, “Don’t forget who you are.”
I don’t.
I’m Tekena Tamuno.
Agricultural Economist.
Dreamer.
Survivor.
American… with flavor.
And maybe—just maybe—I’m finally planting roots.