PART FOUR: THE RETURN AND THE RECKONING
I hadn’t been home in six years.
Six birthdays. Six Christmases. Six New Year prayers over WhatsApp.
That entire time, I was either grinding in warehouses or dodging ICE, begging God to keep me safe long enough to “make it” so I could return in glory.
And now, finally, I was going home—on my own terms.
My green card was real. My hustle, legal. My return ticket, round trip. I wasn’t hiding anymore.
But still, as the flight descended over Lagos, something in my chest tightened.
Was home still home when you’ve become a different person?
FACES AND FENCES
The heat hit me first. Then the noise. Then the smell—ripe, familiar, raw.
Murtala Muhammed Airport hadn’t changed much. Still chaotic, still full of people shouting instructions nobody would follow. But there was something comforting about it.
My younger brother, Kelechi, met me outside with wide eyes and a dusty Corolla. His voice cracked when he called me “broda m” and hugged me like a lost twin.
The drive to Awka was surreal. Billboards in places that used to be bush. Keke drivers racing like their lives depended on it. The radio blasting Guchi and Olamide.
And then we arrived at my father’s house.
They had painted the gate. The courtyard looked smaller than I remembered. My mother stepped out in her wrapper and burst into tears before she could even speak.
My father simply smiled and embraced me. Typical of him.
RECONNECTIONS AND REALITIES
Everyone wanted to see me—uncles, aunties, childhood friends. Not all out of love. Some out of curiosity. Others out of gossip.
“Na him we hear say marry white woman for papers.”
I smiled politely. Gave them the performance they wanted.
But privately, I was observing everything. Prices had doubled. Everyone was a crypto plug or forex coach.
The hardest moment was visiting Chioma.
I didn’t go there to win her back. I went for closure. She looked different—richer skin, fuller face, married. She wore her wedding ring like it was part of her DNA now.
We talked. She asked about Amber. I told her the truth.
“I used her. Then she used me. And we both lost.”
She nodded, like she already knew.
“You broke me,” she said.
“I know,” I replied.
“I loved you. I waited.”
“I know,” I whispered.
She didn’t ask for anything. I didn’t beg. We stared at each other for a few minutes.
NIA AND THE FUTURE
Nia couldn’t come with me on this trip. She was finishing her Nurse Practitioner program in New Jersey. But she called every night—video, voice, texts. She made jokes about my dusty feet, teased me for how loud the chickens were during our calls.
Before I left, we had talked about marriage.
Real marriage. No contracts. No fake photos.
I was hesitant at first.
“After what I’ve been through, I don’t even know what marriage is supposed to feel like.”
She took my hand and said,
“Then let’s define it for ourselves.”
We weren’t in a rush. But we were ready. Love, this time, didn’t feel like a gamble. It felt like home.
EPILOGUE: TRUTH OVER SHORTCUTS
Looking back now, I realize the real battle wasn’t Amber or ICE or even America.
It was me—who I became when desperation silenced my values. When pride made me hide from those who loved me. When fear convinced me to trade myself for convenience.
To anyone considering an arranged green card marriage:
Don’t.
Not because it’s illegal.
Not because you might get caught.
But because it might cost you more than you ever imagined.
If you must fight for your place in a foreign land, let it be with truth. With dignity. With the kind of resilience that doesn’t need disguise.
I paid for a marriage.
But in the end, I paid for peace.
And that… was worth everything.
THE END
