Green Card Marriage: Trapped in a Marriage I Paid For

A Coolvalstories Production

PART ONE: THE DEAL I NEVER BARGAINED FOR

When I stepped off the plane at JFK in September 2019, the first thing that hit me wasn’t the cold—it was the silence. You know, that strange, clinical quiet that makes you feel small, like you’re standing inside a giant machine you don’t understand.

I clutched my backpack tightly, chest p0unding with excitement, nerves, and fear.

America.
Finally.

I was 26. The eldest of four children from a modest family in Awka, Anambra State. Getting here was no small feat. My father sold his only plot of land. My mother borrowed from her women’s cooperative. My cousin, Obinna, who ran a POS stand in Lagos, sent ₦200,000. Even my girlfriend at the time, Chioma, gave me ₦45,000 from her NYSC allowance.

I had also saved for over a year—writing assignments, teaching computer lessons in schools, and fixing phones in a corner kiosk in Zik’s Avenue. Every kobo I made went into one goal: Japa.

I wasn’t coming to America to play. I came for a Master’s in Information Technology at a small private college in New Jersey. The tuition was steep—$9,000 per semester—but I had paid the first semester through a mix of savings, family contribution, and a lot of begging.

I had no illusion it would be easy. I only hoped it would be worth it.


ROOMMATES AND REALITY

I moved in with two other Nigerians—Tosin and Kenny—in a three-bedroom apartment in Elizabeth. My room was small but mine. I had a mattress on the floor, a plastic table I bought from Facebook Marketplace, and a single window that looked out into an alley. But it was freedom. It was survival.

In the beginning, school was manageable. I attended classes during the day and worked menial jobs at night—washing dishes in a Caribbean restaurant in Newark, unloading trucks at a warehouse, and occasionally helping an old Pakistani man clean short-let apartments on weekends.

I didn’t party. I didn’t post fake stories on WhatsApp. I didn’t have time for pretense. I was living on the edge—balancing tuition, rent, food, and immigration rules.

There were weeks I lived on bread and egg. Times I walked thirty minutes in snow just to save the $2 bus fare. But I never once complained. I kept telling myself, Just finish your studies. Get OPT. Get a tech job. Get your papers the right way.

That was the plan.

Until COVID hit.


WHEN PLANS FALL APART

The lockdown changed everything. The restaurant closed down. The warehouse cut shifts. My landlord, a Cuban man who didn’t care about your dreams, didn’t want to hear about COVID when rent was due.

I managed to scrape through school by the grace of God, paid my tuition late but paid it nonetheless. But the real blow came when I realized that getting a job after graduation was going to be war.

OPT (Optional Practical Training) gave me a one-year work window. But how would I compete with citizens when I couldn’t even land a phone interview? Most companies needed sponsorship after OPT—and no one was offering that during the pandemic. Everyone was cutting, not hiring.

I applied to over 300 tech jobs in three months. Nothing. Zero. Nada.

Tosin had a solution. “Guy, no dey kill yourself. Just marry citizen babe. Do paper. Move on with your life.”

At first, I brushed it off. “God forbid,” I told him. “You want make I marry stranger?”

But survival has a way of twisting your convictions.


THE GREEN CARD WHISPER

A few weeks later, Kenny introduced me to a guy who had done the same thing. His “wife” was American, older, and white. They weren’t in love. It was business. She got paid. He got his green card. Everybody won.

He showed me pictures of their “fake honeymoon,” and proudly flaunted his employment authorization card (EAD).

“Bro, forget pride. This place no be joke,” he said. “Na legal hustle.”

After months of inner battles, rejections, and haunting dreams of being deported after all I had sacrificed—I cracked.

That was when I met Amber.


MEETING AMBER

Amber was 31. White. Divorced. One son. She lived in Jersey City and worked part-time as a bartender.

We were introduced by a Haitian woman named Carla, who brokered “arrangements” for immigrants. She charged $2,000 for matchmaking and guided us through the process.

Amber was direct.

“This ain’t love. This is paperwork. You pay me, I cooperate. You don’t, I bounce.”

She wanted $15,000 in total—$5,000 upfront, $1,000 monthly after that, plus immigration filing fees and shared bills.

We met a few times to take photos and build “evidence”—Thanksgiving dinner, weekend outings, a birthday picture with Liam. She posted some on Facebook. I saved everything in a cloud folder labeled “USCIS Prep.”

We got married at a civil courthouse in Hackensack. I wore a suit from Burlington. She wore a green dress and flip-flops. Her sister served as witness.

Amber wasn’t cruel. Not at first. She did what she promised. Attended appointments. Played the wife role when needed. Let me move into her apartment.

But behind closed doors, there was nothing but cold silence.


THE TICKING TIMEBOMB

Three months in, things shifted.

She started asking for more money. First it was $200 extra for groceries. Then $500 for her car repairs. Then $1,000 for Liam’s private school deposit.

When I hesitated, she grew passive-aggressive. Then the threats began.

“I can cancel this whole thing and report you. USCIS don’t play.”

“You think you’re safe? You just a guest here.”

I slept in fear.

She dated other men—one of whom practically lived with us. He’d drink my soda and play Call of Duty while I cooked for Liam. Once, I came back from work and saw Amber kissing him in the living room.

The shame burned me.

But I couldn’t say a word.

I was trapped in a prison I paid to enter.


TO BE CONTINUED…

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