Chapter 9: The Interviewer's Gaze
The days after Emeka's rejection were steeped in a new kind of dread. The air in the center, already heavy with unspoken fears, now crackled with a palpable tension. Every white envelope delivered, every name called, sent a shiver through the communal room. We saw the hopeful faces turn to despair, the brief, tentative smiles replaced by vacant stares. Emeka, though he tried to put on a brave face for Aisha and me, walked with a defeated slump, his dreams visibly wilting. His presence was a stark, living prophecy of what could happen to any of us.
Then, my turn came. A small, official card slipped under my door, bearing my name and a date – my asylum interview. My hands trembled as I picked it up. This wasn't just a piece of paper; it was the crucible where my past, present, and future would be weighed. All the horrors I had survived, all the hopes I carried, would be distilled into words, translated, and judged by a stranger.
The night before, I couldn't sleep. The nightmares were relentless, but they were different now. Not just the physical torment of the desert or the sea, but the silent terror of being voiceless, of having my truth disbelieved. I rehearsed my story in my head, over and over, trying to find the words that would convey the desperation of my departure from Nigeria, the raw, visceral fear of the journey, the impossible choice between staying and risking everything. How do you explain hope becoming a scarce commodity to someone who has never known its absence?
Emeka found me pacing the narrow corridor. He didn't say much, just placed a hand on my shoulder. His touch was warm, solid. "Tell them everything," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "Don't leave anything out. Make them see you." Aisha brought me a cup of lukewarm tea, her eyes, usually so gentle, now sharp with concern. Their presence was a small, fragile shield against the overwhelming anxiety.
The interview room was small, clinical, and quiet. A single table, two chairs. The interviewer was a woman, her face impassive, her gaze direct and unyielding. She sat opposite me, a pile of papers before her. A translator sat to my side, a bridge I desperately needed, yet one that also felt like another layer of separation between me and the truth I needed to convey.
She began with basic questions, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. My name, my age, where I was from. Each answer felt insufficient, a mere outline of a life teeming with detail and sorrow. Then she moved to Nigeria, to the reasons I left. I spoke of the escalating dangers, the lack of prospects, the desperate hope for a safer future, my voice surprisingly steady at first. But as I delved deeper, recounting the harshness of the Sahara, the fear of the smugglers, the horror of the sea crossing, my words began to falter. Images flashed before my eyes: the skeletal remains of trucks, the churning waves, the faces of those lost.
The interviewer's gaze remained fixed, unreadable. She took notes, her pen scratching rhythmically. Did she believe me? Could she truly grasp the sheer desperation that had driven me to abandon everything? I felt a profound sense of loneliness in that room, exposed and vulnerable, my entire existence laid bare for scrutiny.
Then, she asked a question that cut me to the quick. "Why should you be granted asylum, when so many others from your country are not?"
My carefully constructed composure shattered. All the pain, all the survivor's guilt, all the injustice of Emeka's situation coalesced into a raw, emotional surge. I looked directly at her, past the translator, past the papers, willing her to see the person behind the file.
"Because I am here," I said, my voice trembling but rising, "because I survived. Because I believe in the promise that brought me here. Because I have nothing left to go back to, and I will fight to build a new life, not just for myself, but for the hope I carry for my family. Because I have seen too much, lost too much, to simply give up now."
Silence hung heavy in the room. The interviewer's expression flickered, just for a moment, a hint of something – perhaps surprise, perhaps even a flicker of understanding. She continued to take notes, but her gaze softened, just infinitesimally. The interview concluded, not with a judgment, but with a polite dismissal, and a chillingly familiar phrase: "You will be contacted."
I walked out of the room, my legs unsteady, my body drained, but a strange lightness in my chest. I had spoken my truth. I had poured out my soul. The outcome was still uncertain, a shadow hanging over me, but for the first time in a long time, I felt a profound sense of having truly, deeply, been heard, even if only by myself. The waiting, I knew, would be the hardest part of all.