Musical Chairs at the Nigeria High Commission 

By chichi layor 

It started with a phone call. Well, actually, two phone calls. 

The first one I made was to verify that my British-born son did not need a visa for Nigeria because he was endorsed on my passport. Someone who lived in Nigeria had informed me that it was no longer permissible to endorse a child on the parent’s passport. So I called the Nigeria High Commission in London and spoke to someone in the Passport Section who told me that my son’s endorsement on my passport was still valid and that, in any case, he would not be eligible for a Nigerian passport until he was at least five years old.  

I said that I had heard that child endorsement was no longer permitted in Nigeria. She replied with a dismissive “Nigeria can do what they like”. I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions about the appropriateness of the woman’s remark and her suitability, or lack thereof, for the post she held. 

The second call was to the Visa Section of the High Commission. I had read and re-read the information on their website and I still had some questions. I was put through to a man who started by saying that the problem with Nigerians was that they were always in a hurry and did not like to follow simple instructions, or something along those lines.   

“It’s all on our website,” he said. “Go there and you’ll find all the information you need.” He sounded like a schoolteacher reprimanding a lazy student.  

I said that I had already been to their website, and I had the home page open as we spoke. I asked him to clarify a few things for me. He answered my questions rather abruptly and I decided to end the call. His “have a nice day” somehow didn’t ring true, but I guess it made him feel good. 

A few days later, I went to the Nigeria High Commission to submit a visa application on behalf of my husband. I would rather not have had anything to do with the High Commission, as my previous dealings with that office had been difficult, to say the least. But my non-Nigerian husband needed a visa as we were planning a family trip to Nigeria.   

And so I arrived at the High Commission and marched towards the ticket dispenser labelled “Visa”. It had no tickets. A man standing nearby told me that the Visa Section had closed. I reeled in shock. “But they are supposed to be open until 1pm – it says so on their website,” I said.  

He pointed to another man who appeared to be remonstrating with one of the staff seated behind a glass screen. “He arrived just before you and he also thought the Visa Section would be open now, according to the website.”  

I advanced towards the man, hoping to align my case with his, and possibly get the attention of a senior staff member. I introduced myself to him and found out that he (we’ll call him Ade) had, like me, seen the opening hours of the Visa Section stated as 10am to 1pm. But on that day we were told by the staff that the opening hours were 10 to 12. Ade now planted himself firmly in front of a glass screen above which a sign said “Visas”, ignoring the line of people waiting patiently to be served.  

There was a mild protest from someone standing in line, but Ade ignored that. He told the woman seated behind the glass screen that he would not leave until he was given access to a senior member of staff. He assured her that he knew she would not help him and so he had nothing to lose by giving full rein to his rage. And he raved and ranted, while the woman looked on impassively and with a hint of disdain. I took a different approach from Ade’s: polite, soft spoken and firm, but that cut no ice with the woman either. The bored expression on her face did not change.  

Seconds later, a man appeared behind the glass screen next to Ms Bored. He fixed Ade with a steely stare and asked him why he was causing trouble. Ade said that the Visa Section had been closed earlier than it should have been. I chimed in, saying that the information on their website was misleading. Immediately, the man (we’ll call him Mr Big since he appeared to be some kind of big shot at the High Commission) gave me a fierce look.  

“What is the website address of the High Commission”, he demanded. 

Mr Big had the same authoritarian tone as the man I had spoken to on the phone and I figured he was the same guy. “I don’t know the website address off the top of my head, but I do know it was the Nigeria High Commission’s website I visited,” I said. 

“I’ll check with our IT department.” And he picked up a phone and seemed to speak to someone who told him that the information given on their website was up-to-date and the opening hours were stated as being 10 to 12. Not 10 to 1 as Ade and I claimed. Mr Big gave us both an “I told you so” look. The phone call he made was so brief that I doubted whether there had been anyone at the other end of the line.  

When Mr Big came off the phone, Ade said, “Forget your website. On the front door of this building it says your opening hours are 10 to 1. You can go and look at the door now if you don’t believe me.” 

But Mr Big was defiant and definitely unapologetic. “It doesn’t matter what it says on our website or our front door. We reserve the right to change our policies whenever we want and we don’t have to inform anybody.” He seemed to like throwing his weight around. “A visa is a privilege and not a right, you know. Both of you (that’s Ade and me), if you carry on like this, I will deny you a visa. Come back tomorrow if you want to submit your applications, OK.” 

Ade and I tried to find someone at the High Commission that we could complain to about the high-handed way we had been treated when we pointed out the discrepancy between the information on the Commission’s website and the notices at the bricks-and-mortar office. Our search was futile and we went our separate ways a few minutes later. 

A couple of days later, I went back to the High Commission. I knew better than to rely on the information on their website but out of curiosity, I checked again to see if they had updated the information about their opening hours. They hadn’t. I’ll let you draw your own conclusions. 

My friend Mary found out the hard way that the information on the website was misleading. At my suggestion, she had applied online for her sons’ visas and should have received a response in 48 hours, as stated on the website. I had made the suggestion in good faith, to reduce the stress of dealing with the Nigeria High Commission. When she had heard nothing about her visa applications after two weeks, she called the High Commission to get an update. She spoke to a man in the Visa Section who mocked her for submitting an application “in the white person’s style”. She countered that with a comment that the High Commission should not have put out information on its website saying that online applications were acceptable, if they were not. 

I arrived at the High Commission better informed about the opening hours than I was on my earlier visit, a couple of days earlier. The first thing I noticed as I pushed open the dark and uninviting front door was that the opening hours for the Visa Section were still stated as 10 to 1pm.   

I descended the dark, dingy stairs and walked into the basement which housed the Visa Section. The place was packed, mostly with Nigerians or people who looked like they might be of Nigerian descent, even if they did not consider themselves Nigerian. It could have been a wake, judging by the subdued and pensive expressions I saw on many faces. 

This time the ticket dispenser labelled “Visas” still had tickets in it. I took one and sat down. Almost immediately, I struck up a conversation with the man seated next to me for two reasons: it was the only way to find out what the procedure was for submitting visa applications as there were no relevant notices or helpful staff around. I had brought a book and a newspaper to read but could not concentrate in the din around me. Besides, I had to watch and listen with full attention, otherwise I could miss hearing one of the frequent all-important announcements made by the staff. Crucial snippets of information seemed to be imparted this way. 

I saw Mr Big again, but we didn’t speak this time. At the cubicle that passed for an inquiry desk, a woman made the mistake of disagreeing with him over the issue of whether she had stepped, even unknowingly, into the inquiry cubicle. Mr Big said she had put one foot (or was it both feet?) across the invisible boundary that separated the all-knowing Inquiries Officer from the great unwashed. The lady said she had not crossed the boundary. Yes, you did, he said. No I didn’t, she said. They played ping pong with words. Then Mr Big launched into a pseudo-analysis of the Nigerian psyche – “Nigerians never admit they are wrong…” 

His ping pong opponent overheard him as she was leaving the inquiries desk. “Don’t insult me, Sir”, she warned Mr Big, as she descended the stairs to join the other visa applicants in the basement. Her tone was respectful and slightly aggressive. 

The woman, perhaps unknowingly, had challenged Mr Big, big time. 

Her words were like a red rag to a bull. Frothing at the mouth, he bellowed to another staff member: “What did that woman come for?” Without waiting for an answer, he said, “Whatever she’s here for, she won’t get it!”.  

The other staff member said the woman was applying for a visa. To this, Mr Big roared, “I will make sure she doesn’t get it! I will teach her a lesson she won’t forget!” And with that he stalked off. 

Someone started to make half-hearted attempts in support of the woman who had challenged Mr Big. Conscious of his apparent authority to issue or refuse a visa, I stayed out of the discussion. I had gone to the Nigeria High Commission to submit a visa application, not to lead a revolution. Call me a coward if you like, but I didn’t want to jeopardize my husband’s chances of getting a visa.  

I had a really interesting discussion with a few of the other applicants during the four or so hours that I spent at the High Commission while waiting to submit a visa application. One applicant told me that she’d had her own share of frustrations in dealing with that office. Once she had wanted to complain about the service she had received but there did not seem to be any complaints procedure in place, or anyone responsible for dealing with complaints at the Nigeria High Commission). When she tried to get the name of the staff member about whom she wished to complain, he retorted “If you want to complain, you’ll have to ask the other staff for their names and complain about them too!” Ingenious! 

My new friend and I exchanged phone numbers and agreed to stay in touch. Making connections with likeminded people I met at the Nigeria High Commission helped me cope with the tedium and frustration of dealing with that office.  

A couple of days after I had submitted my husband’s application, I went back to the High Commission to collect his visa. At least I hoped that he would be issued a visa. In the days before I went back, I called to find out what the procedure was for collecting visas. I couldn’t seem to get past the recorded message for a while, but at least the recorded voice was less aggressive and clearer than the live voices I had heard in the past. Finally, I managed to speak to a man who was brusque and unhelpful. 

When I returned to the High Commission, I sat down in the same corner of the room as I’d sat on my previous visit, waiting for my name or receipt number to be called. Half an hour later, I heard a familiar name called and I recognized the man who walked towards one of the glass screens as a friend’s husband whom I hadn’t seen in several years. When he had finished at the passport counter, I went up and said hello. After a few minutes, he asked me if I had come to collect a visa. I said yes. He then told me he had overheard someone say that there was some sort of a system for visa collectors on the other side of the room.  

Note: there were no spoken announcements or written notices about the visa collection system during the entire time I was at the Nigeria High Commission. The system involved moving along rows of seats towards the counter, kind of like musical chairs. The ticket system was not in operation. Instead, two staff members called out the names of visa applicants. 

I thanked him and ran to take a seat on the right side of the room. I had wasted half an hour waiting in the wrong section of the room. I don’t think I even said goodbye to my friend’s husband – unfortunately, the environment at the High Commission was not conducive to good manners. I joined in the game of musical chairs and was pleasantly surprised that the chairs, or rather, the occupants, moved up quickly. In about an hour, I was in the “top five”, meaning that there were only four people before me waiting to collect their visas. “Soon,” I said to the white man seated in the fourth position, “we’ll soon be out of here.”  

“Don’t count your chickens”, he admonished me. I was slightly embarrassed because I felt I should have known what he was hinting at: the unpredictability of procedures at the Nigeria High Commission. Anything could happen anytime. So I waited with bated breath and muted excitement until my husband’s name was called and I walked up to the counter to collect his visa. 

Before I left the High Commission, I went to the toilet with my friend Nicky, who I’d asked to meet me at the Commission because I wasn’t sure how long I would be there. I was curious about the state of the toilets and tried to keep an open mind. As soon as we’d walked into the ladies’ toilets, a sickening stench assailed our nostrils and almost knocked us out. We got out of there real fast, since only a desperate person would have used the smelly toilets, and we weren’t desperate. I was reminded of the toilets in the refugee camp in West Africa that I had visited a few years earlier.   

I’d like to know what other visitors to the Nigeria High Commission in London think. And I sure hope I won’t have to go there again for a very long time.

Chichi Layor's first collection, BREAK EVERY RULE, was published in 1989, and her poems have subsequently appeared in various magazines and journals in Nigeria and the United States. In addition to writing poetry, she has written a weekly column for a national newspaper in Nigeria. She currently lives in London where she works in the field of human rights.