‘Try Again Next Time’: My Trilogy of Visa Rejections
I’ve become quite the connoisseur of western visa rejections, mastering the art three times over, despite my daily proximity to the airport. Yet, my expertise doesn’t end there; I seem to be a literary reject as well, a pattern that unfolds in threes like a well-crafted trilogy.
Standing outside the US embassy in Yaoundé, Cameroon’s bustling capital, I find myself admiring the pristine white buildings adorned with the fluttering stars and stripes. The morning sun casts a hopeful glow as we wait impatiently, urged by a stern Cameroonian guard to bide our time until the clock strikes 8. The embassy stands as an unwavering bastion, guarded more zealously by the locals than its own citizens. We shift restlessly until finally, at 8:10, we’re permitted entry.
Security procedures unfold with the precision of a choreographed dance; bags inspected, bodies scanned, we’re herded into the waiting area. My mission: securing a conference visa for the esteemed Art Omi international writers’ residency in New York. A chance for introspection away from the chaos of Douala, a city that never sleeps, and an opportunity to forge literary connections on foreign soil.
March, my birth month, finds me amidst family discussions in Limbe when news of a personal tragedy interrupts my thoughts. Despite the turmoil, optimism prevails as I queue alongside fellow hopefuls, each with their own dreams of American soil beneath their feet.
As the line inches forward, I witness a symphony of rejections unfold before me, each denial a blow to the soul. Even a pastor’s prayers are not enough to sway the consular officers, their hearts seemingly immune to the pleas of the desperate.
Finally, my turn arrives, armed with documents and determination. But the script plays out predictably; questions fired, answers dissected, until the final verdict is delivered with cold finality. “Try again next time,” he says, a hollow consolation masking the sting of rejection.
A green slip of paper exchanges hands, a token of dashed hopes and dreams deferred. The reasons outlined are generic, a cookie-cutter explanation for a deeply personal disappointment. And as I exit the embassy, the weight of another rejection hangs heavy, a bitter reminder of the elusive American dream.