PART THREE: THE PRICE OF PEACE
Freedom doesn’t feel like a fireworks display. Sometimes, it feels like a quiet room. A clean bed. A night without fear of threats or immigration letters going missing.
After I filed the I-360 petition and moved out of Amber’s place, I waited.
That’s all you can do once you take back control in America—wait, follow up, and hope the system is merciful.
My days were slow but healing. I still worked part-time—Uber Eats in the mornings, warehouse shifts on weekends—but the atmosphere was lighter. I no longer had to tiptoe around Derek’s beer cans or sleep with my phone under my pillow, ready to record threats.
Nia became my anchor during this time.
NIA: THE WOMAN WHO SAW ME
We weren’t “official” yet—Nia and I. At least not in the romantic, label-driven way. But she was present. More than I deserved.
She invited me to her place once, a small but beautiful one-bedroom apartment in Maplewood. It smelled of lavender and palm oil. Her bookshelf had volumes of Chimamanda and Maya Angelou. A framed photo of her parents, old-school Nigerian immigrants who migrated in the ’80s, sat on the wall with pride.
Over time, I found myself letting go of shame.
I told her everything—the street wedding with Amber, the staged photos, the betrayal, the fear, even the jail scare.
She listened like someone who had seen too many Black men buried under systems they didn’t build.
“You know,” she said one day, “you’re not the first. You won’t be the last. But you have a chance to finish this right.”
Her faith in me rekindled my own.
WAITING FOR USCIS
USCIS doesn’t rush. Especially not for people like me.
After my Prima Facie Determination Letter, it took eight months of background checks, fingerprinting, additional document requests, and medical exams before I received a letter that made me drop to my knees.
“Your I-360 petition has been approved. You are eligible to adjust your status.”
I was finally on the path to getting my green card on my own. Not through a toxic woman. Not through a broken system of arrangement. Through truth.
I applied for Adjustment of Status (Form I-485) immediately, and a few months later, I was issued a 10-year green card.
No interview required.
No fake wife.
No drama.
I held that card in my hands like it was the Holy Grail. The weight of it, the smooth surface, the picture of my tired face… it was beautiful.
That night, I took Nia to a Nigerian restaurant in Brooklyn. We shared a platter of nkwobi, jollof, and fried plantain. I didn’t say much. I just held her hand.
And for once, I didn’t feel like an impostor in this country.
FROM LOVER TO STRANGER
Back in Nigeria, though, a different kind of betrayal was brewing.
It started with a strange phone call from my cousin Obinna.
“Bro, Chioma don marry.”
Chioma. The girl I left behind in Awka. The one who supported me with ₦45,000 when I was hustling for visa money. My girlfriend of four years. The girl I had promised to “bring over” once I was stable.
She didn’t call to explain. She didn’t text. She just disappeared—and two months later, there were pictures on Instagram of her traditional wedding with a Port Harcourt engineer.
I felt like someone had pressed rewind on all my emotional wounds.
I wasn’t even angry. Just… numb.
She had waited four years. She had believed in me. But she had also heard the rumors.
My arranged marriage had become village gist. Someone in my family had leaked it, twisting the narrative. Back home, they said I married a white woman and forgot everyone.
“You no see as oyibo woman fine?”
“Samuel don arrive now. He dey form silent.”
They didn’t know the nights I went hungry. The shame I swallowed. The police station. The couch in Tosin’s apartment. The borderline depression.
They just saw photos. Assumptions.
Chioma moved on, thinking I had chosen America over her.
THE CONVERSATION I NEVER WANTED TO HAVE
Out of guilt or perhaps self-sabotage, I called her.
Her voice cracked when she picked up. It was early morning in Nigeria.
“So, you remember me now?” she said.
I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to explain everything—how I did it for survival, how I never meant to stay away, how I had been broken and didn’t know how to reach out.
But instead, I just said,
“I’m sorry.”
And she replied,
“Me too.”
And that was it.
Some people are just chapters in your life. Important ones, but not the ending.
PEACE AND PURPOSE
Today, things are different.
I got a decent job with a small IT firm in Manhattan—mostly database admin and backend support. It’s not Amazon, but it’s mine.
I moved into a one-bedroom apartment in East Orange. Bought my first used car—an old Honda Civic that smells like past owners but runs like a warrior.
And Nia?
We’re together now. Officially.
She didn’t fix my status. She fixed my faith.
When I told her I didn’t know how to love anymore, she said,
“Then we’ll learn together.”
And that’s exactly what we’ve done.
CLOSING THOUGHTS
If you’re a young African man reading this from somewhere cold, broke, and confused, thinking of arranging a green card marriage—understand this:
You may get the papers, but you may lose yourself in the process.
America is not always fair, but sometimes it gives you a second chance—if you’re honest, if you seek help, and if you remember that no hustle is worth your soul.
I made it.
Not by shortcuts.
But by surviving the consequences of taking one.
