It began yesterday at the government office, which was saturated with immigrants whose anxious stares alternated between the digital display boards and their tickets, a square piece of paper with a number printed on it. At the sound of the beep, everyone looked at their ticket, and then the display boards. Some sighed. Some continued talking. Others continued sleeping. One person rose to meet an official walled in by glass on the other side of the counter.
My wait was shortened by an acquaintance with whom I chatted until our conversation lulled to a comfortable stop.
“Excuse me, it seems you are from Nigeria.” A tall man sitting a few spaces away from my acquaintance smiled at her.
“No, I am not.”
“Ah, but I thought—”
“I am from Democratic Republic of Congo.”
With her thick Igbo accent, she delivered her last words with a finality that inspired no argument…
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