The Last Chance

He sat in the room, alone; yet surrounded by a large crowd of people. He was oblivious to the faces around. His mind was far away.

The feeling of anxiety was palpable in the air. Though some talked as if they had no care in the world, others sat like him staring into space. If this fails; what next, he asked himself.

The time was ten o’clock in the morning and this is the Visa Office of the British Deputy High Commission in Lagos, Nigeria.

‘Next’ the feminine voice boomed over the hidden microphone. The person at the head of the queue got up and walked into one of the booths.

His though strayed to the conversation he had with his father a month ago.

‘Son what is your plan for this year?’

He understood his father’s question and he sighed deeply for a moment as he reflected on his twenty nine years on earth.

He had graduated as the second best student in his faculty a little over six years ago. Two years later and without a job, had returned to school for his masters degree. But he soon found out that in the part of the world, nobody wanted a qualified psychologist.

‘Next to booth 2 please’ the visa officer called over the microphone, interrupting his trail of thought.

‘I want to travel to Britain. It should be better than this’ he replied

There was silence. His father understood his son’s frustrations.

‘If that is what you want. But you know you will be working illegally?’

‘But what choice do I have?”

There was a brief pause’ Anyway you will need to come so we can go to Baba and collect some spiritual assistance. We must be prepared’

‘Ok father. I will come next week’

* * * *

His palm was clammy. He looked at the different doors behind which he knew sat the visa officers.

One of the doors opened and a man walked out. He held his passport loosely. His eyes were bloodshot, his shoulders hunched.

‘Another one bites the dust’ the man in front of him quipped.

He scanned the faces around him again. As they drew near the doors, the faces had become more apprehensive.

His mind wandered again to how far he had gone to prepare for today.

The Baba his father took him too had given him a small gourd with a dry black substance that tasted like charcoal.

‘Lick it in the morning before you go to meet the white men’ he had told him

‘Next to booth 3’ the visa officer called over the microphone.

The next person out of the booth smiled a slight swagger in his step. He must have been given his visa; Lucky guy.

The person in front of him walked into booth 4. I am next!

‘Next’ He got up smartly and walked in.

The lady behind the booth was bereft of any niceties

‘Your name please…’ she demanded

‘ Rufus Aiyedun..’

He stood; waiting with bated breath as she looked at the Stack of documents in front of her. After a short while; but what seemed an eternity to the young man at the other end, she pulled out his documents.

‘What is your purpose of going to the UK?" she asked staring into his eyes

"Postgraduate studies" he stammered. He felt himself starting to sweat "No please God Not now" he told himself Sweatibg; a "veteran" of the embassy had told him usually told a case worker that the applicant may be lying.

"Who is responsible for your fees?' She asked

"My Uncle" He looked at the documents she was holding as if directing her attention to the fact that he had noted that on his application.

"What is the relevance of a postgraduate in MBA to a first degree in Psychology?" she asked again

Stupid woman! the voice in his head screamed but outwardly he said " I want to go into banking and finance and that will help me in securing a job"

She seemed to chew on that information for awhile and then as suddenly as the terview had begun she told him "I will be refusing your application as i am not convinced that you intend to come back after your studies!"

The world spun wildly. He could see her mouth moving but he heard nothing.

He tried to sit down but his legs gave way, he crashed heavily against the table. In the distance he could hear someone shouting ‘ Security!, security!...’