Dorcas Durojaiye: No child, no papers, 20 years on the run (2)
By Taju Tijani
It was a lazy Saturday. The weather was mild and beautiful. I had gone to the Canon’s Park large park to jog and do some body stretches as recommended both by my doctor and my children. I consider myself a fitness fanatic and could swear by the health benefits of Kegel exercises, press up and squat. At the park, I met other joggers and I joined a group. After many round trips across the park, I was tired. I sweated from the crown of the head to my aching legs.
Then my phone rang. I rummaged through my backpack. It was Dorcas Durojaiye. “Hello DD, sowa,” I answered. “Mowa o, are you home, I’ll see you in the next three hours,” DD booked a visit. I knew that my Saturday was ruined. I moaned inside, unable to decide what to do. I had to cancel a visit by my Jamaican neighbour who had planned to spend some lazy hours with me listening to Afrobeats. Dennis is a patois speaking Jamaican. Uneducated but street smart. He loves his regular draw on marijuana and from time to time will knock on my door for onion, salt, coffee and cooking oil. We look after each other. Dennis is 74 but you will swear this guy is 50!
The doorbell rang. I looked through the spyhole. It was DD. She wore a tight jean trouser with a High and Mighty chiffon top. She looked radiant and happy. She plumbed on the leather settee and gave a loud sigh. She rushed to my fridge and grabbed a pack of orange juice. She served herself while I watched her freestyle manouvres in my house. She took out her phone and started pressing it.
After about 10 minutes, her attention wandered back to me. “Mr. T, I am tired of living abroad. I want to relocate to Nigeria to do something with the rest of my life. You know I am at that departure lounge and I feel I should be doing something new with my life,” DD opened the discussion portal. I said nothing. I wanted to encourage her to speak her mind. “Mr. T, semo, koluwa e malo ku si ilu oyinbo jare,” she continued. She gave me a penetrating dark look as if I should help her make decision for her life.
I looked at DD. My mind raced to thousands of undocumented Nigerians illegally doing menial jobs. They dock and dive to evade being seized by immigration officials. They rent a filthy one room and from there they map out years of bitter hustle to gather enough money for a better life in Nigeria. Most of them live solitary lives. Majority left children and husband behind in Nigeria to join the crew of care workers using aliases. They save money gregariously. They hardly spend such money. That is their sweet revenge for the pain of their present drudgery. Some have been cheated by rogue lovers who promise them stay papers. Some have been deported. Some have died trying to reclaim lost opportunity through working three shifts – from early morning job to night job cleaning offices in the West End.
READ ALSO: Dorcas Durojaiye: No child, no papers, 20 years on the run (1)
I asked DD why she would leave for Nigeria now? The answer came back like a tornado. “What are you talking about Mr. Teejay. I have spent twenty-three years working without holidays. I have never travelled outside the UK since I arrived in 2000. I have no kid of my own. I will be seventy years old next year. What am I still doing here? I cannot claim pension because I used someone else’s national insurance throughout my years here.”
“I have no boyfriend. I have no friends I can trust. When I see Border Control officers at Stratford Station, my heart skips like a deer. I hardly go to party. I have not had sex for years. I reached menopause eleven years ago. The chances of conceiving my own child have gone. I have the money. Who will spend this money with me? My family? Who? I am just fed up. My life is upside down. I did not know who I offend? I want to go and resettle in Nigeria and see if I could do something. I just don’t want to die here”
I offered DD a steamy jollof rice, dodo and a pack of orange juice. She was talking and eating at the same time. “My big fear is Nigeria. Even Kogi my home state is not safe. The state of insecurity in Nigeria makes me worry. The scammers who roam around looking for who to scam. All the depressing stories of ritualists, cultists make me afraid to settle in Nigeria. Remember, I left twenty-three years ago. I am here when I heard that all our family land had been sold out by my uncles.”
“Nothing was left for me. How can I trust and live in the midst of those who sold our ancestral land just like that? How? People like that can plan evil things against me now. I can’t really understand why people are so desperate for money all over Nigeria. How can I work my ass off for twenty-three bitter years in biting cold in the UK and someone will just plan for me and kill me because of my money. Why? How? Last time my cousin phoned and pleaded with me to send money so that he could operate a Maruwa business for me. I just laughed.”
DD was waiting for me to talk. She had exhausted her moonlight tale of dark foreboding. Her fear of unknown has clouded her optimism for a hopeful future. She feared risk taking. She feared the universe of Nigeria believing that she will be the target of loose scammers. She wanted my word of encouragement believing that I am worldly wise to know what path to take. She was wrong. Our paths are never the same. We are all wanderers waiting for God to point to the right path.
“DD, I have listened to your heart cry. Believe me, I sympathise with you. UK would have been your safest haven at old age. The tragedy is that you are not entitled to pension. Someone else’s will be collecting hefty pension payment from the huge contribution you have made to the person’s National Insurance Contribution. Wow…for 23 sweaty years. And you did not want to spend money for your regularization,” I responded.
“Nigeria is a 50/50 chance. It requires more than money. I know you have enough money for the longest haul. If you return to Nigeria, yours will be a one-way ticket. No coming back in case things are not working according to plan. You will need grit, staying power and determination to reject the negativities back home – bad roads, electric outage, fear of inflation, robbery, insecurity, kidnapping and scheming among family members. You will not trust anybody. You will not trust any man for true love – well, if you still want to try love at 70,” I reasoned, waiting for her response.
“Kila mase bayi,” she asked. “Se bawo.” DD tried to collectivise a personal decision by asking me …what are we going to do? Your average Kuburat Anifowoshe, Chinyere Okoli and Agnes Akenzua are in this shithole all over the UK. No husband, no social life, no children, no papers and no future. They have saved enough money but the reality on the ground in Nigeria offers them a bitter sweet nostalgia of fear, worry and indecision.
The night had fallen very fast. I had fallen asleep. I checked the bus times apps on my phone. “The last bus will be in 25 minutes time,” I announced. Bowed, downcast, sleepy and tired, DD grabbed her bag and we both walked to the bus stop. “Mapeyin ti nba dele,” DD promised as she tapped in. Did I counsel her right? I kept asking myself until I hit the bed at 12.12am.