Entry Point Encounter
By Tom Somah
The Heathrow Airport hummed
with pulsating clamour of humanity,
trolleys squeaked at the baggage claim,
I flung my luggage onto the trolley
trundled to the entry point.
The man at the Border Control sneered,
“What passport do you carry?”
“Sierra Leonean”
“S-i-e-r-r-a Le -o-n-e-a-n... oh, please step aside.
I’ll be with you in a second.”
That second stretched into minutes,
minutes into hours,
hours into eternity.
My jet-weary legs wobbled
under the gravity of waiting.
The immigration officer arrived
armed with verbal ammunition
and failure to answer is as good as a bullet.
I wailed, “Officer, you kept me waiting and waiting.”
Silence.
“Your passport, please?”
I handed it over – my Sierra Leonean curse
and nemeses…
Humiliation summoned itself swathed in scanning,
laser-probe, wincing and nose twitching.
I thought,” Yesterday, this passport was a golden key,
opening doors with dignity. Today, its pages curl
in shame, its country’s name tainted.
“What do you do for a living?”
“Nothing.”
“But you said you have a master’s degree.”
“Yes. But no job.”
“Do you sell drugs?”
“No.”
“Do you take cocaine, or any other illegal substance?”
“Never”
“Do you have a cocaine kingpin in your country?”
“I can’t comment.”
“Why?”
Silence, a life-saving silence.
“Have you ever travelled to Columbia, Guinea Bissau, Haiti?’
“No. But why do you ask?”
“Like those countries, your country is a hub
for drug trafficking”.
"Have you ever carried illegal drugs
in any part of your anatomy?"
"Your nostrils?"
"No."
"Your skull?"
"No."
"Your scrotum?"
"No."
"Your rectum?"
"No."
"Your questions are insulting."
"Just a routine," he said,
and continued:
"Are you married?"
"Yes."
"Children?"
"Twelve."
Throbbing veins battled with his brow
“Go into the adjacent room
and undress, only your underwear remains.”
I did.
I sprawled under the penetrating scan,
shivering as if awaiting a live dissection.
My luggage scattered
like untied rubbish bags
raided by scavengers.
“You can dress and wait for your passport.
You sound Nigerian. Have you naturalised?”
“No”
Is it not interesting that your Sierra Leonean passport
is floating everywhere?”
Silence, awkward silence
“How can I guarantee you can’t slither
away if I let you into the country?”
I thought, “Read the history books and chain me,
and hold on to the loose end.
(Our ankles were clients to such barbaric
decorations).”
Furrowed brow on the heels of muddled incoherencies
“Wait while I speak to the supervisor.”
“Fine. Thank you,” swallowing hard.
He returned.
“Your application is declined.”
You’ll be on the next Air Sierra Leone flight.”