Stories of the Everyday

At the immigration desk, the official flips the pages of my passport backwards and forwards, backwards and forewards. Eventually he looks up. “Where is your visa?” he asks.

“I don’t need one,” I answer confidently. The international organisation on whose behalf I am travelling had submitted the passports of everyone in our small group to the Chadian Embassy in South Africa. Mine had been returned with a small, yellow post-it note that said ‘Doesn’t need visa’.

The border official obviously sees things differently. “If I travelled to Germany, do you think I wouldn’t need a visa?” he asks sarcastically. Since this was a rethorical question, he doesn’t expect an answer. “Come with me,” he demands gruffly and starts walking off with my passport.

“But I was told I don’t need a visa,” I call after him helplessly but have no choice than to follow  him. It’s 1:30 in the morning, and Chad’s capital N’dajema is still hot and humid. After a 14-hour trip from Cape Town, I am exhausted and just want to get this over with.

The international org’s communications manager S., who stands in line behind me, quickly walks after us. The border official brings us to a small room at the side of the immigration area. “We have a problem here,” he announces to his colleagues. “No visa.” He hands over my passport and disappears.

Now its his colleague’s turn to page through it. “Monsieur, s’il vous plait, there has been a misunderstanding,” I try to explain the missing visa. Can’t I please purchase one now, I ask, like one can upon arrival in most African countries. There is some humming and hawing, followed by a lively deliberation with his colleauges in a language I can’t understand. Eventually, he announces the reached verdict: No, a visa can’t be bought.

“You have to leave Chad on the next plane. And they are boarding now,” he says, referring to the plane we just arrived in and which is about to return to Addis Ababa. “But Monsieur,” I plead. “Please don’t do this. Please give us just a few more minutes.”

In the meantime, S. has been trying to get hold of her local office to have them bring the official invitation letter to the airport that will explain our mission. We are also trying to reach the German ambassador. But it’s difficult to get hold of people in the middle of the night.

Our pleas for “juste une minute” are at first met with stiff heads shaking ‘no’. After that, we are plainly ignored. One thing becomes pretty clear: this is not negotiable. Then, a policeman enters the room and the customs official points towards me. I look helplessly at S. “You! Come,” he says. “You have to board the plane. Now.”

His announcement propells us to renew our pleas even more vigorously. “Please Monsieur. Just give us a few minutes. They are on their way with the documents. They will get here anytime.” But to no avail. The policeman snatches at my passport. “Where is your luggage?” he demands. I pull up my shoulders in a gesture of ‘no idea’ to win time. I am running out of options.

The policman leaves but is back a couple of minutes later, my luggage in tow. He is holding on to my passport, making sure it’s out of my reach. “You come with me now. You have to board the plane. Right now”, he barks. Refusing to budge, I plead once again: “Please, just one more minute. They are on their way. I promise.”

Eventually he loses his patience. “Come,” he snaps and grabs me roughly by the arm. My passport and luggage in his one hand, my arm in his other, he starts dragging me out of the office, across the arrivals hall and towards the check-in area. While he gets me a boarding pass, he doesn’t take his eyes off me for a second. Then, he shoves me through the security check and I find myself at the departure gate – just an hour after I landed. “Oh Kristin…,” is all S. manages to say as she sees me walking off.

As I walk across the tarmac, I swallow hard, feeling utterly defeated and my suitcase seeming unnaturally heavy. As I approach the plane, I see a black limousine parked by the side of the plane. A stately, grey-haired man in a black suit climbs the stairs. I realise that the plane is about to take off and board after him with a heavy heart.

The flight attendants are visibly surprised. “Weren’t you just on the plane?” one of them says to me. “Don’t even ask,” I mumble, forcing a smile. I am suddenly very tired. I walk down the aisle, looking for seat 14C.

As I am about to lift my bag into the overhead locker, a uniformed guy boards the plane, gesturing to me. It takes me a few seconds to register what he wants. With a nod, he takes my bag, turns and walks back out of the plane. Unsure of what’s going on, I follow him. Back on the tarmac, he turns to me and smiles. “You were lucky,” he says.

We walk back into the airport building, back to the small office out of which I was pulled forcefully just 15 minutes ago. “We thought that if we sent you back to Addis Ababa, you won’t have money to buy food,” one of the custom officials tells me by way of explanation, with a straight face. “Yes, you’re right,” I confirm. Better make no mistake now. He asks me to follow him, almost politely this time, and we retrace our steps through the airport until I am reunited with my group.

“Thank you,” I tell the official out of obligation. He nods, awkwardly, avoiding my eyes. And walks away.