They say Port Harcourt is the city of hustlers. What they don’t tell you is that sometimes, the hustle hustles you back and doesn’t even use lube.

My name is Tekena Tamuno. I was born and moderately raised in Borokiri, a place where every other building is either a church or a bar, sometimes both. I studied Agricultural Economics at the University of Port Harcourt, not because I had a divine revelation about food security, but because I didn’t get the cut-off mark for Medicine, and my uncle, who claimed to know “somebody at the top,” thought it sounded “prestigious.”

“You wan dey count tomatoes for farm?” people would ask, as if I’d announced I was taking up necromancy.

After NYSC, reality hit me like NEPA bringing light—you’re happy for two seconds until you realize the fridge is empty. I applied for jobs. I submitted CVs. I even learned to say “passionate about agriculture” without laughing. Nothing came through.

So, I dabbled in the POS business until one agbero carted away my machine in broad daylight. I tried fish farming until PHCN helped me convert my catfish to dry fish. Then I stumbled into MMM.

MMM!

The almighty Russian-backed, greed-sponsored, soul-sucking Ponzi scheme that turned me from Tekena the Dreamer to Tekena the Debtor. I put in thirty thousand naira and got seventy back. I put in seventy and got back prayers. When the system crashed, I knew Nigeria was not my portion.

I decided: I must go. Abroad, anywhere with light and a currency that didn’t make me weep.

First stop? The British High Commission in Abuja.

I wore my finest suit, which I borrowed from my cousin, who now sells cars in Aba. Although my appointment was for 9:00 a.m., I was there by 6:00 a.m., sweating and reciting answers.

When I stood before the consular, I had my heart lodged in my throat.

Consular: “Why do you want to travel to the UK?”

Me: “To broaden my horizons.”

Consular: “What do you do currently?”

Me: “I… run an agri-based micro-enterprise with scalable growth potential.”

She blinked twice and said, “Unfortunately, we’re unable to grant your visa at this time.”

Not even a smile. Just denial with dignity.

Next stop: Canada.

I applied for a student visa to do a diploma in Sustainable Agriculture from a college in Saskatchewan. I paid one shady agent named Uncle Ben (no relation to the rice) to help me process it.

I got to the visa center in Lagos, wearing a suit that now had a slight tear at the armpit. They asked for proof of funds. I showed them my uncle’s bank statement. They asked for ties to Nigeria. I showed them my fish pond (RIP).

They smiled.

I felt hope.

Two weeks later, I got a letter: “Your application has been refused because your purpose of visit is not consistent with a temporary stay.” In other words: we don’t believe you’ll come back.

That rejection pained me, but I didn’t cry. Anyhow, we move.

I saved up and, with my full chest, picked up the US visa application form.

The US Embassy in Port Harcourt. Hm. I applied for a B1/B2 visa for a “business seminar” in New York. I was given a date three months away, and in those months, I Googled everything from “how to impress a visa officer” to “how not to look like you want to japa.”

At the interview:

Consular: “Why are you going to New York?”

Me: “To attend the International Agricultural Synergy Expo.”

Consular: “Do you have a farm?”

Me: “Yes.”

Consular: “Do you have pictures?”

Me: “No, they were on my phone, and I lost it in Mile 1.”

She looked at me, smiled without teeth, and said, “I’m sorry, we cannot approve your visa at this time.” I walked out of that embassy like a failed auditionee on Nigerian Idol.

At that point, I tried everything. Schengen visa—denied. Dubai—denied. South Africa—denied, and I wasn’t even planning to stay.

Guy, I gave up.

I started considering cybercrime. Yahoo Yahoo. At least those boys had iPhones and BMWs, and I was tired of using my aunt’s Itel phone. But before diving into the digital swamp of dubiousness, I filled out one more US visa form. This was during Donald Trump’s reign of Make America Gritty Again.

I chose New York again, not because I had any plan, but because it sounded like the kind of place where your enemies couldn’t find you.

I didn’t prepare. I didn’t wear a suit. I wore jeans, a shirt that said Hustle No Be Crime, and slippers. I didn’t print out fake seminar invites. I didn’t memorize GDP stats. I just showed up at the Lagos embassy, ready to collect my final rejection and maybe ask the consular for a selfie as a souvenir.

They called my number.

Consular: “Where in the US are you going?”

Me: “New York.”

Pause.

Stamp.

Visa approved.

That was it.

No questions. No “show me your bank statement.” No “do you own land?” Just a thud of finality and glory.

I stared at her like she’d handed me the Holy Grail. She looked back like she wanted me to leave so she could go on her lunch break.

Outside the embassy, I checked the passport ten times to make sure it wasn’t April Fool’s Day or a prank from the boys.

It wasn’t.

It was real.

That was how I entered America—broke, confused, and victorious.

Now I live in Brooklyn, share a room with three other immigrants, and work part-time at a grocery store owned by a Ghanaian named Kwame who calls me “brodda” but still deducts rent from my salary.

But you know what? I have light. I have Wi-Fi. And I have peace of mind.

Until America decided to show me shege.