How an Unexpected Run-in with Nigerian Immigration Taught Me About Passport Privilege
You couldn’t tell by the stamps on my passport, but I’ve been to Nigeria. As an undergrad, I studied abroad at the University of Ghana, Legon. During a week-long break from school, my friend Meg and I decided to take a trip. As unemployed undergraduates, the flight price was a major factor in where we decided to visit. So when I found cheap tickets to Ethiopia, our vacation plan was settled. Of course, with affordability comes layovers.
Two to be exact: a 2-4 hour layover in Togo (I really can’t remember the exact length) and a 24-hour layover in Abuja, Nigeria. I had already visited Togo a few weeks earlier and had dramatically vowed to never return (I will share my Togo experience in an upcoming post). I was slightly annoyed to be returning so soon, but the layover was too short to leave the airport anyway. Now, Nigeria—that would be the first visit for both of us. We were actually excited to spend the day in Abuja.
It was like getting two trips for the price of one. Jackpot! In addition to booking our accommodation in Ethiopia, I eagerly booked a one-night reservation in Abuja.
I vividly remember the morning of our flight out of Kotoka Airport, in Accra to Ethiopia—especially when we decided to save our appetite for Nigerian Jollof by skipping breakfast. Standing in the immigration line at the Abuja airport, we were minutes away from our first plate of Jollof when our otherwise uneventful trip took a sharp turn for the worst.
When my turn came to pass through immigration, I walked up to the booth of my designated immigration officer, offered a polite greeting, and handed him my passport. After a short moment of silence, as he flipped through the pages of my passport, he looked up at me and asked: “Where’s your visa?”
I’m having a nervous breakdown internally but on the surface? Poised as ever. Without hesitation, I responded: “I didn’t realize I needed a visa. But, please point me in the direction of the visa office. I understand many countries offer visas on arrival”. It’s true. From Cambodia to Zimbabwe, a U.S. citizen can get a visa on arrival. In fact, we were planning to get a visa on arrival in Ethiopia. But Nigeria doesn’t allow visas on arrival.
Before I knew it, we began a 5-plus hour stalemate with Nigerian immigration where the threat of deportation dangled above us. This may be odd, but I was grateful we were genuinely clueless about the visa requirement. You can’t be intimidated into a confession when you’re telling the truth. We sat in an office for hours as the airline manager and immigration employees interrogated us. This sounds like a frightening scene, but honestly, it didn’t take long before their questioning became casual banter.
As the hours passed, the employees grew increasingly restless, eager to end their shifts. It was agreed that we would be allowed to leave the airport, with one stipulation: they would hold on to our passports. Hours after we had arrived at the Abuja airport, thirsty and starving, we were finally on our way out.
“Where will you stay tonight?” the airline manager inquired. We were so close to freedom that I could taste the jollof. So, I needed to choose my next words carefully. I had booked an Airbnb days ago, but will I disclose this information? No. Revealing this information would suggest we had intentionally planned to enter the country without a visa. Technically, that was the plan—but this was due to ignorance rather than the intention to illegally enter the country.
“I have an app on my phone that I can use to book accommodations,” I responded. I unlocked my phone. I wasn’t even connected to Wi-Fi. I played on my phone for a while, then looked up and exclaimed: “Done! I just booked a hotel”. He seemed slightly surprised but then offered us a ride to our hotel. I knew there was more to this gesture than an act of kindness. We accepted. After all, we really did have a place to stay.
By the time we left the airport, it was already dark. It was too late for sightseeing, but we found a local restaurant. I don’t recall having jollof that night. The following morning, we headed straight to the airport. Upon arrival, we contacted the airline manager to retrieve our passports. When we entered the airport, I saw the longest check-in line I had ever seen. Meg and I shared a knowing look: We’re missing our flight to Ethiopia.
What happened next was unbelievable: the manager came and walked us straight to the front of the line and checked us in. I simultaneously felt like a prisoner and a celebrity. We were sitting at an airport restaurant within minutes, finally ordering our Nigerian jollof. Ultimately, it was the worst jollof I ever tasted.
For a while after this experience, I regarded it as a great inconvenience. I told this story multiple times, each time stressing my frustration and annoyance. But one day, it clicked: We were extremely fortunate. As U.S. citizens, our blue passports brokered the most beneficial outcome.
“Our five-hour impasse could have looked entirely different with another passport.”
How would this exact scenario play out if we were of a different nationality? I have witnessed first-hand and heard countless horror stories of how weaker passport holders are treated, even when they are following all the rules. Nowadays, when I recount this experience, it’s a tale of gratitude. It’s a reminder to not take my privilege for granted. Our 5-hour impasse and silly banter with Nigerian immigration could have looked entirely different with another passport.
I must acknowledge that this experience would have been truly catastrophic for many people around the world.
Until next time, Wanderers.