PART TWO: WHEN LOVE IS A TRAP
When you pay for a marriage, you convince yourself you’re in control.
I thought I could manage Amber. I thought money would keep her satisfied. I thought she’d stick to the script until my green card arrived, and then we’d go our separate ways.
But America teaches you quickly: you can’t buy peace.
By the fifth month of our “marriage,” the apartment no longer felt like a safe space. I was walking on eggshells daily. Amber had gone from passive-aggressive to openly manipulative.
She stopped pretending.
THE ESCALATION
It began with her constant mood swings. Some mornings she was sweet—offering me coffee, asking about my day. By evening, she’d flip and scream about “being stuck in a house with a Nigerian scammer.”
I tried to be patient. I told myself it was just stress. But deep down, I knew what was happening. The power dynamics had shifted. She knew she had me.
One night after dinner, she said, without even looking up from her phone:
“We need to renegotiate this deal.”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I want $2,000 a month. Starting next week.”
I coughed. “Amber, you know I don’t even make that in a month. I’m already paying half the rent, the bills, and the monthly agreement. We had a deal.”
She put her phone down. Her eyes were cold.
“Deals can change. You’re the one who needs me. You either find the money or I call USCIS and say this marriage is fake. They’ll pick you up so fast, you won’t have time to grab your toothbrush.”
That night, I didn’t sleep.
I looked at her lying on the same bed with me, snoring gently, while I stared at the ceiling wondering if I had just ruined my entire life.
THE NIGHTMARE
Things went downhill fast.
She stopped letting me touch the mailbox. She began hiding USCIS letters. When I asked about one interview notice, she shrugged and said she “might’ve thrown it away by mistake.”
I called USCIS myself and was told that my petition had been rescheduled for a second review due to “incomplete response.” That was when it hit me—Amber was sabotaging the process.
When I confronted her calmly, she laughed.
“You really thought you were smart, huh? I’ve done this before. I know how it works. You’re not getting that green card unless I want you to.”
That week, she brought in a new boyfriend—Derek. A bearded trucker who smelled of cheap cologne and beer. He started spending the night. I had to tiptoe around them, acting invisible in my own legally obligated “home.”
One afternoon, Derek saw me folding laundry in the living room and said:
“Man, you better stop walking around like this your house. You ain’t even from here.”
That comment stung more than it should have. Not because it was insulting—but because it was true.
I no longer felt like I belonged anywhere.
BREAKING POINT
One night, Amber accused me of stealing $200 from her purse. I hadn’t even entered her room that day. She called the police.
I’ll never forget the sound of the knock at the door, the blinding blue-and-red lights, or the look on the officer’s face as Amber cried fake tears.
She said I was “aggressive,” “manipulative,” and “controlling.” I was in cuffs in under five minutes.
But God works in strange ways.
The arresting officer—Detective Martinez—was Latino, probably in his early 40s. As they were processing me at the station, he pulled me aside and asked quietly:
“Are you in a green card marriage?”
I didn’t answer, but my silence was loud enough.
He nodded, sighed, and said:
“You need to get a lawyer. And you need to get out. Fast.”
I spent the night in a cold cell.
The next morning, they released me with no charges. “Insufficient evidence,” they said.
Amber was waiting outside the station, smirking as if she had won.
That was the last straw.
GETTING OUT
I couldn’t live with her anymore. I called Carla—the woman who brokered our deal—and begged for help. She said I had “signed up for the risk.” I was on my own.
I moved out without telling Amber. I packed my things at 4 a.m. while she and Derek were asleep. Took only what I could carry and left behind the rest.
I slept in my friend Tosin’s house for two weeks, then moved into a small rented room in Union.
I reached out to an immigration lawyer—one that another Nigerian guy recommended on Facebook. She was an African-American woman named Tracy Owens. Calm, smart, and brutally honest.
I explained everything.
She looked at me quietly, then asked,
“Do you have proof that this woman manipulated you and threatened to withdraw your petition?”
I showed her screenshots, voice notes, videos, and receipts.
She took a deep breath and said:
“You have a shot at getting out of this… but it won’t be easy.”
She told me about I-360 — a special petition available to immigrants who are victims of abuse (mental, financial, or physical) by a U.S. citizen spouse. It falls under the Violence Against Women Act (VAWA), though men qualify too.
I had to build a solid case, file as a self-petitioner, and provide undeniable evidence that I had entered the marriage in good faith, but suffered abuse.
I started gathering everything. Photos. Texts. Payments. Statements from friends who had witnessed Amber’s behavior. Even audio recordings of her threats.
A FLICKER OF LIGHT
During this dark period, I met Nia.
She was a Nigerian-American nurse I met at a local African market. I was picking up ingredients for ogbono soup. She helped me reach a can of tomato paste from the top shelf, and we struck up a conversation.
She had warm eyes and an Igbo name. She laughed easily and listened deeply.
We started talking—first about food, then about life, then about the loneliness of being stuck between two cultures. I didn’t tell her everything immediately. But eventually, I did.
I expected judgment. Instead, she gave me understanding.
“You’re not a criminal,” she said. “You just made a desperate choice. That doesn’t define you.”
For the first time in months, I felt seen. Not as an immigrant. Not as a man in a fake marriage. Just as a person.
A NEW HOPE
Tracy filed my I-360 petition in February. It included all evidence of emotional and financial abuse. We added an affidavit—a detailed personal statement written by me. Nia helped me edit it.
Three months later, I received a Prima Facie Determination Letter from USCIS.
It wasn’t the green card, but it was something. It meant they had reviewed my case and found it credible enough to move forward.
Nia was there when I read the letter. She hugged me tightly.
“You’re going to be okay,” she whispered. “One way or another, you’ll come out of this.”
And I believed her.
