Back to Her Refuge

Episode I “I want to see your traveling papers or international passport…. Whatever you have on you, mister man, give them to me now,” the immigration officer demanded. I approached the Check-in counter at the beehive-like arrival hall of the newly renovated Yundum International Airport. I presented my passport to the office. Twelve flights had arrived that mid-afternoon, many of them carrying sun-loving tourists from European states who are central to the economic life of the tiny West African nation which is commonly called “the Smilin’ Coast”. From the Check-in counter, I could hear the engaging sound of African-talking drums and songs coming from the airport parking lot about 200 meters away. The traditional musical shows were from cultural troupes hired by local tour operating firms to welcome tourists. The bedazzled tourists beamed with toothy smiles, shaking their heads and hips to the rhythms from the musical instruments as they board luxury buses to their hotels at the tourism development areas. I gave the immigration officer my passport and identity card with a smile that was at best supine. The young officer, probably in his early twenties smiled back and spoke again; this time, his voice sounding more caring and sympathetic. “Oh, Barrister, you seem to have a refugee status. Please stand aside. You will have to see my boss. She has to screen you before you’re allowed into our country. All the same, you are welcome to the Smilin’ Coast, sir.” “Okay. That’s normal,” I responded with an air of reservation. “But can I see her at once? I’m rather too tired to stand here. May be, I could sit over there,” I added, pointing at the corner where some Belgian and Dutch tourists were sitting, waiting for their tour guide to pick them up. “Hey, mister! You see those people over there?” he said, pointing. “They are waiting. I’m afraid you still have to wait. My boss is busy now. She has no time for anyone right now. You just have to wait here like other visitors. You have to wait. Even when you are eventually screened, my boss makes the last decision on who gets a refugee status or not. Just because you have this kind of passport does not mean my boss will grant you permission to enter our country. We heard some of you are part of the problem in Freetown and we don’t want your civil war to spill over here. Ours is quite peaceful and we like it so.” “That’s alright. My refugee status is not a big deal,” I replied nonchalantly, betraying my indifference to his long rhetoric.