This is the journal of my ordeal and I could not have gone through all this if the Lord was not with me.
January 13, 1992: 4:30 a.m.
I lay on my bed, wide-awake, my sparsely furnished dormroom offered no condolence, dealing with a severe case of jetlag, I stared at the ceiling pondering what is to come.
Today is to be the first day of classes, and being the procrastinator that I am, got back from Germany the day before. As I lay there, I thought back to the life I had just a week ago: I shared a comfortable apartment with two friends in a small suburb of Heidelberg, Germany. I also had the privilege of working for the U.S. Army for almost two years, while I was an exchange student. Now I am to put all that behind me because the joys of classes lay ahead.
January 20, 1992, Early Morning.
I went early to the Federal building to apply for a new Green Card. I had lost my wallet on a weekend trip while I was in Europe. My Green Card was in my wallet. So the official, seeing the temporary one issued in Germany, told me that my new Card will arrive in the mail in about six to eight weeks. She then stamped my passport that gave proof that I was a permanent resident of the United States. I thanked her and left.
They say every event in a person’s life has a reason. Even the events we consider as ‘bad’ – like me losing my wallet and Green Card. Who knew that this ‘disappointment’ would turn into a blessing with the events that would turn my life upside down.
February 3, 1992 11:00 a.m.
After about a month of classes, I decided I have had enough. It had become too difficult to re-adjust to college life in the U.S. – I had to return to Europe.
Immediately, I went to see the dean of students. At the meeting, I requested a leave of absence from the university. He was perplexed by my request, because almost a month ago, I returned form a two year hiatus abroad. Putting on the best face possible without seeming too desperate to flee, I explained that my grades would suffer if I stay, because of the difficulties I was having to adjust (I know that sounded frantic, but I was).
Being a sympathetic man to many a students’ woes, he informed me he would grant my request and I was welcome back to the university if I choose to return.
Euphoric, I quickly packed my junk from my frugally furnished room and left the next day. I just has one thought constantly nagging me the minute I decided to leave: What was the quickest way for an individual holding a Nigerian Passport to get to Germany.
(You see, my parents came to the States when I was a year old. I grew up in the States and felt like an American, but always the procrastinator, I never managed to go and become an American Citizen. The thought did cross my mind back in 1990, before I started my study abroad, but I never did manage to go get my citizenship.)
Now I was only a ticket and a visa away form going back to the life I had just a couple of months before.
I purchased a round trip ticket with no return date – ( this is known in the airline business as an ‘open’ ticket). I drove down to the German Embassy and filled out a two week tourist visa application (complete with two passport photos), then handed the application to the representative.
Seeing that I wanted to get the visa on the ‘same day’, the rep. reminded me that it takes twenty-four hours to process visa applications. As if I didn’t know, I ‘played the fool’ –fumbling papers and mumbling incoherent words. I got the visa that day.
This visa was important for my strategy because after the two week visa had expired, (and I had no intention of returning to the States in two weeks), I would become ‘invisible’ to the German Government, with the help of a S.O.F.A. Stamp.
A S.O.F.A. Stamp is a document that is attached to a person’s passport. An employee of the military abroad. This document grants its possessor ‘immunity’ in the country in which the person is employed, by having the Department of Defense tell the foreign government that you are employed by the Federal Government of the United States, also the U.S. Government requests that local government restrictions be removed (i.e. when crossing boarders or not having to pay Value Added Taxes). This document is only valid if you are in possession of a Military ID. Any civilian employed by the Armed Forces automatically gets a military ID because you have to show it just about every where on base.
February 5, 1992 6:00 p.m.
Having accomplished a key phase in my plan to stay in Europe, I ushered in the next phase – That I was to seek to get re-instated at the base in Heidelberg, and attend the University of Mannheim, which was only thirty minutes away.
February 17, 1992 10:00 a.m.
Having been re-instated, all was going smoothly (almost too smoothly) until the ‘Powers that be’ threw a monkey wrench in the machine of a plan that had been working almost too perfectly.
April 22, 1992 10:00 a.m.
On this fine spring morning, I walked to work. Still euphoric about all I had accomplished and the opportunities that lay ahead. I waltzed in oblivious to the sour expression on my manager’s face. A cheerfully plump man with ‘Saint Bernard’ eyes, also very liberal about rigid work schedules, but strict about getting the job done. All of us at work liked him. Today, though, he was uneasy. I got the hint something was very wrong when I saw him and the Personnel Manager speaking in ‘hushed’ whispers as I walked by. Did somebody die or something?
They then called me into the office.
I walked in and immediately they dropped a bomb on me – I had to resign!
I wanted to ask him to pinch me, no kick me in the head real hard because this had to be a bad dream. I go through all this hassle to get to Europe, move into my old apartment, get re-instated at my old job and it is to end here and now – this way? I knew deep down that my options were zero – I was employed by the army. I had until April 30th 1992, 9:00 a.m. to turn in my military ID card.
The ‘reason I had to resign’ so they told me, was that I held a Nigerian passport and with a green card. If Military lawyers caught wind that a ‘foreigner’ had a military ID card we would all be in trouble. Yelling, I asked the personnel manager had I, one and a half years ago, held a gun to his staff and demanded to be employed? All he told me was that it was an ‘error’, that I shouldn’t ‘worry’, I could still work here if I obtain a WORK PERMIT from the German Government. He went on to say that everything would be the same, but I would have to give-up my military ID card and I would then be paid in the local currency. – I then signed my prepared resignation letter.
Then it hit me.
The full realization of my crumbling situation hit me like a ton of concrete.
IF I TURN IN MY MILITARY ID CARD, MY S.O.F.A STAMP WOULD IMMEDIATELY BECOME INVALID. THIS MEANT THAT I WOULD BE IN A FOREIGN COUNTRY WITH A VISA THAT HAD EXPIRED OVER SIX WEEKS AGO! I didn’t want to find out how Germans treat foreigners with expired visas. I knew, man did I know, that if the Germans found out, they would deport me, no questions asked.
I had to come up with a plan ‘B’. With bitterness I thought it had been too god to be true. I had eight days to come up with another plan that would allow me to stay in Europe. The thought of going back to the States, having given up a big ‘single’ dorm room, and going back to school now to be in the summer, made me almost want to hurl. The difference between college in Europe and the U.S. was twenty three thousand dollars. I wasn’t prepared to be in debt for the rest of my life paying off my college loans.
April 24, 1992, 8:30 a.m.
I had it.
I would go to Holland! There were a hand full of U.S. Air Force bases there. My plan was to leave Germany on the 29th of April. My manager agreed and allowed me to hold on to my military ID card until I crossed the German boarder. I could then turn it in on the 30th of April at the Air Force base up north. I would then need to buy time – I figured I needed at least a month. I met a Dutch student who came to study German about a year ago, I knew I could be able to 'crash' there for a month until I could sort things out. I’ll go first thing in the morning and get a one month tourist visa for Holland.
April 29, 1992, 1:00 p.m.
On a rainy day, with 30 pounds of luggage and four hundred dollars in cash, I started my journey up north. I was on my way to Holland.
But little did I know, this was only the beginning….
May 25, 1999, 9:58 a.m.
I wanted to stay in Holland for one more month, to figure out a way to work there, anything to give me more time. I had one slight problem – I had to extend my visa that was due to expire in a few days (on the 29th of May to be exact). I knew holding a Nigerian passport in Europe wasn’t going to make things easier.
It was a sunny day and I walked down to the police station. The station was a dark gray granite/concrete building, but I didn't let the drab color of the building affect my mood. I went in and took a number. Other foreigners were already there waiting. The wait was terrible, not that I mind waiting, but to think the decision they make could affect your life’s plans was quite…hmm…unpleasant. The loud silence in the room created the mood of an execution is taking place, and we were waiting to be called up.
My number lit up and I walked into a room and was greeted by expressionless faces. Goodness gracious me I thought, well here goes. I handed the officer my passport and went for broke… and asked for a work permit – what did I have to lose?
As she realized it was a Nigerian passport, one could see a ‘red flag’ go up. " It won’t be that easy," was her curt reply, and went to speak to another officer. I couldn’t understand Dutch, but I could see her point at my passport and say, "….Nigerian…..Nigerian…."
Oh boy, here it comes….
I now think it was a big mistake to ask for the work permit, because of all the red tape involved. But I knew it was a least worth a shot. So I decided to not push the issue and ask just for a one month extension for my visa. But now they knew what my intentions were.
She asked me for my return ticket to the United States (this is proper protocol – to ensure that after my stay in Holland, I would actually leave the country. I gave her my open ticket back to the States, which was booked Frankfurt to New York via Zurich.
This was a problem.
She then told me she was not going to extend my visa unless I PROVE I was to leave Holland in one month.
Shocked, (what else is new?), I reasoned that since my ticket was to leave from Frankfurt, Germany back to the States, I had to be out of Holland.
Stone silence - she wasn’t buying it.
Showing no interest in my ‘reasoning’, she repeated that I had to prove I was to leave Holland in one month in order to get my extension. Oh, this one was below the belt.
Exasperated, I asked her what I was to do. She told me to go to the German Embassy and get a visa for the day of my departure from Holland, which would be on June 29, 1992. I told her it was not possible. As if reading my mind, she asked me why, with a smirk.
I explained that in order to get a German visa, one full month in advance (i.e. for June 29, 1992), I had to provide proof to the German Government where I was to reside until my time of entry into Germany. This meant I had to provide the German Government with a Dutch visa – THE VERY ONE I WAS THERE TO GET.
I was in a ‘catch-22’ where in order to get a German Visa, I had to provide a Dutch Visa, but to get a Dutch visa I had to provide a German visa!
The other officer, with whom she had spoken with earlier, added that they could no longer help me and that I should leave the building.
Frustrated, I walked out of the building, but since I’ve gone this far, I refused to quit. I needed more time, I needed that one month extension.
I had it.
I went to the international airport and changed my Frankfurt – New York ticket to Amsterdam – New York. This move cost me an extra seventy-five dollars –very costly when you are watching every penny, but it just might work.
May 26, 1999, 9:58 a.m.
I went back took a number and waited for my number to be called. When it lit up I went in and gave the same officer my new ticket.
Victory! She did not expect this move and she reluctantly gave me my one month extension.
But all these experiences is like a field day compared to the events that were to hit me in the next couple of days.
I cannot put a date on the next few paragraphs, because the following events was a big fat BLUR to me.
To make a long story short, I was arrested and I found myself sitting in a Dutch prison. (I think I fit the profile). I can still recall the cell. All a bright yellow, a steel toilet and sink. It had this – I think I could call it a ‘seat’ affixed to the wall. It also had a green door that had a small rectangular glass about five feet five inches from the bottom, obviously so the officers could ‘look in’ on the captive. I wondered why they would have a glass slot, because there was a camera fixed on the ceiling.
Man oh man can AMNESTY INTERNATIONAL have a field day with this case.
So I was there sitting in jail waiting for theses guys to give me my phone call. I wondered, what could they do to me? I’m here legally, and didn’t do anything illegal, and I just wanted to get the hell out of Holland. From time to time the officers would come in and give me sandwiches and coffee. Then they would lead me outside for recreation, when they asked me my name, I just said ‘Gabriel’.
I kept waiting…and waiting, one day, two days. Each morning they would lead me to the shower, under guard, I was thinking, what could I possibly do to them? I would brush my teeth with the tooth brush they provided, wash and they would walk me back. Apparently, this must have been ‘solitary’ because I rarely saw others prisoners there and I was in my room alone.
About 3-4 days later two officers came in, one female and one male. I understood that I was labeled a ‘drug dealer’. WHAT? In Holland? That was nuts, you must be the dumbest drug dealer to sell your wares in Holland. They ‘tolerate’ drugs for goodness sake. One could walk into any ‘coffee shop’ in that country and buy all the drugs they wanted. A drug dealer would either go broke or be laughed out of the country.
I went to sleep and the next day one officer came in and gave me two blue pills to take. I just didn’t care and took the damn things. When you sit in a jail for who knows how long, your spirit tends to crack a little. But I sang all those days in jail. Music can do wonders for your spirit when your situation is desperate.
After I had taken it in his presence, about 30 minutes after wards, I was told to but on the clothes the prison had provided me with. It was a navy blue jogging suit with three stripes on either side, and a pair of white sneakers.
They had ‘found’ my passport and called me by my first and last name. They then put me in a van with about 4 other prisoners and then we drove off.
I didn’t have a clue where they were taking me until I saw a flight control tower looming in the distance. They hauled us all in a big room in the ‘back’ of the airport and shut the door. The room was lit, but dreary, it also had a two way mirror so the officers on the other side could look in. I knew it was a two way mirror because if you get really close to it, you could see the other room.
I noticed that all the people in the room were African. I struck up conversation with one of the guys sitting there and asked him what day it was and what the hell is this place. He looked at me as if I was crazy to ask. He told me that it was the 6th of June and this is the last place you see before they deport you.
WHAT?!? DEPORTAION?!? Oh, I had a return ticket to go back to New York, I also had a one month visa that was to expire on the 26th of June. I paid 50 Guilders plus for that visa! I knocked on the door and an officer came out. I explained there must be some kind of error. I am an American Permanent Resident holder, with a valid visa for Holland, plus I had a return ticket, issued here in Holland, to the United States. If they wanted to deport me, let them deport me to New York. He had no reply for me and shut the door.
What I found ironic is Holland is the place where the ‘palace of Justice’ is – what a joke, they throw a man in jail, don’t give him a trial and haul him off to the airport, all because they CAN. These guys wouldn’t know what Justice is if they tied him up and deported him.
This had to be a bad dream I was waiting to wake up. But as they lead us to the KLM plane bound for Lagos, Nigeria, I knew this was real. For some reason I was calm throughout all this. The Lord was with me, I realize this now because I wasn’t afraid – somehow I knew everything was going to be alright. I went in the plane and again tried to explain my situation to one of the four officers appointed to make sure we were deported. He assured me that I shouldn’t worry, once we got to Lagos, they’ll take care of everything. – That was a lie.
The plane took off. After dinner I realized what the blue pills had been, because I was feeling very sleepy. I slept all the way to Lagos and woke up before we landed.
June 6, 1992, 5:30 p.m. Nigerian time. [This is an estimate of the exact time of landing]
The officers escorted me and the other deportees out of the plane and handed us over to Nigerian Authorities. The officer who told me that he would ‘look into’ my situation, well, I didn’t see him again. They have ‘done their job’ and they could care less.
The Nigerian Authorities hauled us all into a room that had other travelers there also. I didn’t know the status of the others already in the room. I sat down and tried to get a grip of what the hell this room was. I was a room situated right before the customs office.
Then one man addressed me. I think he was in charge, because he was the only one there who spoke to the other travelers. He looked at my passport and asked me who I was and what I was doing here. I told him that I was deported illegally. Not satisfied with my answer, he asked me the same question again.
Oh, I get it, he was looking for a bribe! Goodness gracious me. Boy was he talking to the wrong person at the wrong time. I just answered him that I had a legal visa for Holland, I was arrested, thrown in jail then deported. I had no money with me and I want to get the hell out of this room. I emphasized the ‘no money’ part so that he would get the message and stop harassing me.
After eyeballing me up and down, seeing my prison jumper and sneakers with no socks and me giving him a fierce look, he knew I was a ‘dead end’. Yup, this guy doesn’t have squat, he probably thought, why waste my time with him when there are other passengers to ‘help’. Yeah, more like ‘help myself to’.
I was released into the custody of another shifty looking man who told me to go through customs and leave him alone (I think he also immediately got the message that I didn’t have any money on me).
I cleared customs and headed outside. Man, this place really makes an impression on you fast. The heat, the sellers of various goods, the taxis. Wow. Then I felt a bit of fear at that moment, but the thought I had was get the hell out of here, NOW!
I went back into the airport and went straight to the KLM counter. There was a Dutch man helping passengers bound for Amsterdam there. He looked overwhelmed because he was doing a million things at once. He wasn’t even standing behind the ticket counter, but was in front.
I walked up to him and greeted him. He asked me if he could help me.
I gave him my passport and pointed out my visa, which was still valid, I also showed him my permanent residence stamp, the one I got before I left the States, on my passport. Then, I told him I was deported illegally and asked him to write me a ticket to go back to Holland. I think he couldn’t believe this request. Who was this guy who just walks up and demands free tickets?
He told me look, I have a zillion things to get to, and with a wave of his hand, he told me to come back on Monday.
I felt a sense of hopelessness at that very moment and with eyes cast away, I was about to walk away. My closest relatives lived about 500 kilometers away.
Then it hit me. I have never had a feeling like this in my life. I think it was the same feeling Samson had before performing an incredible feat.
I felt The Spirit come over me. I swung back at the guy, who thought he could just dismiss me with a wave of the hand. I started to yell, no, scream, at this fellow with such intensity and force that I think the whole check-in section came to a screeching halt.
People just stared in shock, who was this wild eyed man screaming at the top of his lungs at this KLM employee? What could he possibly want? I can’t remember all the words I said to him, but I do remember saying that I paid 50 plus Guilders for this visa and I intend to use it, you get over there and write me ticket back to your country.
The poor man was literally shaking and beet red. Then he said the impossible. He gave me a note and told me to go upstairs, where their office is located and they’ll write me a ticket.
I swung around with as much dignity I could muster. Man, I didn’t wait for him to change his mind. I went, no, I ran straight upstairs and when I walked in, there was a man sitting there, who just finished canceling his flight, telling the agent that he was unable to travel tonight to Holland.
How convenient for me, I walked up to her, gave her my note, she confirmed it with the Dutch guy downstairs and wrote me a ticket. They say you could move mountains if you had faith, man I think this was ‘Everest’ caliber.
I had a ticket! I understood that there was a last flight back to Amsterdam that night, so I started to make my way to the gate. But there was one slight problem, airport taxes! In Nigeria, any international traveler had to pay airport taxes before leaving the country. I went straight up to one airport security officer and explained my situation to him. I told him that I was deported illegally by the Dutch Government and I just gotten a free ticket back. I don’t have anything on me, help me. He took pity on me, and I think my speech filled him up with such zeal that he literally escorted me through each ‘check point’. When other the airport security officers demanded to see my papers and pay the required airport tax, he would answer for me saying that I was deported illegally and we are sending him back.
WE? Who's 'we'? I think they were now on my side. We breezed through all the check points and he walked me personally up to the gate. I shook his hand and all I could say was ‘thank you’. I will never forget that man in my life.
The frightened Dutch guy came up to the gate to make final checks on passengers bound for Amsterdam. He spotted me and told me to speak with a man that was some type of diplomat. I just told the diplomat that I was deported illegally and I was going back. I showed him my visa, which was issued in Holland to collaborate my story. After taking my name and the address where I stayed, he said he would help me. Good, progress.
I got on the plane, and surprisingly, the only thought I had was ‘man I must stink!’ I haven’t had a shower in 2 days. But I think this was no time to think of the other passengers I was sitting next to. And now that I think of it, those four officers that ‘escorted’ me to Nigeria must have been on that same plane. My seat was a couple of seats behind business class and those officers were probably in the back of the plane (which were the same seats we had coming to Nigeria).
We were served dinner and I wolfed everything down not even having a chance to taste the food, I was so hungry. Then I passed out from exhaustion and slept all the way back to Amsterdam.
Little did I know that I had another ordeal once I got back to Holland.
June 7, 1992, Early Morning, Central European Time.
Our plane touched down and all the passengers started to jockey for position to exit the plane. Sitting up front, I started to exit the plane with the others. As I was about to step off the plane, I was confronted by four police officers. Ugh, but I noticed that they stopped everyone and looked at their passport. Ah, they were checking, even before you set one foot on Dutch soil, if you had a valid entry visa. I handed one of the officers my passport and tried to generate a ‘smile’. He took my passport and looked at it. I could almost read his thoughts. Hmm, that’s funny, this visa was issued right here and not at the Dutch embassy in Nigeria. Although strange, he just gave me an apathetic shrug and handed me my passport. I took it and walked as fast as I could and got the hell out of that airport. I got back to the apartment where I was staying and told my friends all that happened to me. These were other young people that I had met while in Holland. They were kind enough to let me crash until I can secure a place of my own.
After having taken a shower and put on my clothes for once, I put the events that happened to me in the back of my mind. I took the sports clothes and sneakers they had given me in prison, folded it up real nice and headed straight to the prison.
I walked up to the door, but didn’t go in. There was a security window on the right hand side of the door with a police officer sitting there. He looked up and asked me if he could help me.
I took the prison sports clothes and put the sneakers on top of it. Pointed at them and then pointed to the officer. I hope he got the message I was trying to convey to him: ‘I think this belongs to you, you guys, your organization – who cares’.
I put it on the floor outside and walked away. The poor baffled officer must have thought this must be the strangest event he has ever witnessed. A man coming up and donating his clothes?
I wanted to make sure that day that I didn’t 'exist' in Holland. What evidence did the Dutch Government have on me that gave them the right to deport me to Nigeria? It was my passport. So I took my Nigerian passport and ripped it to shreds, while I was at it, I ripped up anything that had my name and/or picture on it, which included my drivers’ license, my return ticket back to the States and any other piece of ID I had with me. I ‘reasoned’ that if I get stopped, I would say me name is ‘Gabriel van Holland’ or something and that I was from Jamaica. I felt proud with my 'reasoning' then started to think what I was to do next.
June 13, 1992, 7:00 p.m.
My friend having come back from work told me that I could no longer come in.
He told me that the police were after me. Shit. I then thought how that was possible. Then it hit me, either the police ‘woke-up’ and realized who the man was that ‘donated’ his clothes, or the diplomat I met in Lagos, reported me to the police.
He advised me to go back to the States. The States? You know that didn’t sound like too bad of an idea at that time. I could go back and pick up the pieces of my life and start all over. I knew when country didn’t want me. Yes, I’ll go back.
Then it hit me.
My passport and ticket!!!!!!
Shit, I ripped up all my ID just a week ago. Now what the hell was I supposed to do? He got me my clothes, I threw every thing in my knapsack, thanked him and left.
I had no clue what I was to do. As I walked around, every corner I turned, there was the police in a squad car. I think they were trailing me. But something funny was happening. They never laid a finger on me! They must have thought I was a ghost. Who would blame them? They deport a man, with only the clothes on his back to Africa to die and there he is, back in Holland, walking around.
I went straight to the airport and went up to the KLM counter and tried to explain my situation to the agent. Here we go again.
She told me that I should come back in the morning, that since it was so late, the agent in the morning could better serve me. I agreed and found a place in the airport to sleep until the morning.
June 14, 1992, Early Morning.
I went first thing in the morning to the KLM counter and requested a ticket back to the States. I didn’t tell the agent I was deported a week ago for obvious reasons, but told him that I had lost everything in Holland and just wanted to go home.
He asked me for ID. Shit. I rummaged in my knapsack for any type of ID I could find. I then looked in one of the obscure pockets in these modern knapsacks and found an old checkbook I had when I was back in the States. Man I had forgotten about that one. It’s a good thing I forgot about it because I could have ripped it up with the rest of my Identification.
I explained to him that all my I.D.s were lost, that this is all I had. I could call collect to my sister back in the States to confirm my identity. I told him to look up my name in for a return ticket back to New York via Zurich. It was a good thing I had changed my ticket earlier, because now my name was in their computer system.
He punched in my last name and voila, there it was. He informed me that to get another ticket issued, I had to pay a one hundred fifty Guilder ticket replacement fee.
I explained to him that I had NOTHING on me, I just lost everything. He should waive the penalty because of my situation. He called his manager and he came immediately. He was your typical airline manager, who had two thousand things to do with no help from the other staff. So I could understand why he was a bit ‘short’ with me.
I told him that I hadn’t eaten in a day, I lost everything, my ticket is sitting in his computer and I wanted to get back home. He looked at me for a long time and then gave me a voucher for the cafeteria upstairs to get something to eat.
I couldn’t speak.
He told me to go on, that when I come back we will try to ‘work something out’.
I think I ate half the food they had up there. I took everything, because I didn’t know when I’ll eat next. Satisfied, no, stuffed like a thanksgiving turkey, I wobbled back downstairs to the manager.
He told me that the hundred fifty Guilder replacement fee could be waived, but I had to get a visa back to the United States. If I didn’t provide proof I had legal entry into the United States, KLM and Swissair would be penalized by U.S. Customs. I said O.K.
I then called my sister up in the States, knowing it was very early, but what could I do? I explained my situation as best as I could without making her panic.
She told me that I should call her back in about an hour so she could call my mother and tell her my situation.
When I called back, she informed me that my new Green Card has arrived just a week ago. I should find a hotel, she would fax in her credit card number to the hotel to take care of the bill. Then she would DHL my new Green Card to me in the hotel.
I informed the KLM manager of my conversation. He told me that when I received my Green Card, I should come back to get my ticket issued.
June 20, 1992, Early Morning.
My Green Card arrived the day before so I settled my bill with the hotel and headed to the airport on the shuttle the hotel provided.
I got my ticket and was on my way to New York.
2:30 p.m., New York time.
With the clothes on my back, and a bit ‘heady’, I walked off the plane that had just touched down. The first words that my sister told me is that I have ‘changed’.
I have never looked at life the same way ever since. I continually see that the Lord is with me. He has shown me how He works. I am in continual amazement. I now understand that no matter the odds against me, it is nothing to Him, and he takes care of it. He continues to manifest His love for me many times since. I have since gotten my citizenship and finished university here in the States.
I hope you have enjoyed reading a piece of my life. No matter what condition the world is in, always have Faith in the Lord. I am living proof that the Lord does not disappoint.
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