Sanni and the God of International Flying

I have to wonder if Sanni has pissed off the God of International Flying because when he flies internationally something invariably goes wrong!

Phnom Penh to Nairobi

It took two attempts to get Sanni out of Cambodia to Nairobi.

The initial plan didn’t include Nairobi at all. He was first going to Thailand to get his Brazilian visa as he’d been offered a trial there. If denied the visa, he was going to take advantage of being in Bangkok to trial for the next Thai season. With the invitation letter and visa paperwork already receipted by the Brazilian Embassy, Sanni applied for a Thai tourist visa. They denied his visa because they wanted his tickets to & from Brazil, which we’d not yet bought because the visa process to Thailand is too difficult to assure.

To trial in Thailand, Sanni also needed to get clearance from his present club. The club management wouldn’t sign. It took many talks to finally convince the coach to sign, by now timing for Brazil was running out. He applied for another visa with the tickets, this time they denied him because he didn’t supply an address of where he’d be staying. I booked him a cheap bed in a hostel he’d never sleep in (he was staying with a friend) and he returned the same day to get knocked back yet again. “No,” they told him, “you need to provide us with a bank account in your name in a Thai bank.”

What they didn’t add, because they didn’t need to, was the well-known fact that Thai officials do everything they can to prevent Africans, especially Nigerians, from entering the country. It happens time & time again to many of our friends until considerable bribes are paid.

After the final rejection, we discussed his application for Brazil and decided he could apply from Nairobi, where he had also been offered a trial. The idea was he’d trial for Nairobi and if not selected we’d find out if the Brazil offer was still open.

I found and booked his flight, first ringing the company to ensure that a transit visa wasn’t required between the Phnom Penh to Bangkok leg that connected with the Bangkok to Nairobi flight. I was assured by the Air Asia personnel Sanni wouldn’t experience any delays at Immigration. I also double checked on Visa HQ. No transit visa required. Great!

On the day of his flight in late December, he was all packed. He had done the rounds of his friends biding them a final goodbye. His excitement was palpable. I loved hearing the energy and happiness he exuded knowing he was finally leaving that country. He arrived at the airport 3 hours early and I waited for his call, which he’d promised would be just after he’d collected his ticket. An hour before departure, he still hadn’t rung. I rang him thinking he’d run out of credit. “Babe, they’re not letting me on the flight,” his anxious voice said through gritted teeth. I was shocked. “What, why? I don’t understand, I booked this flight, I called them,” I exclaimed. “Babe, security’s coming, I have to go. I’ll call you when I know more.” He hung up. I was left in fearful silence, alone and no way to know what was happening.

Later, back at his apartment, his disappointed voice told me they’d denied his boarding pass because he didn’t have a transit visa. I was enraged. After advising him to call his agent to push his open-ticketed, Nairobi flight back, I hung up and rang Air Asia once again and this time got told that each airport has their own discretion to deny passengers for whatever reason they like. I was shocked and furious but nothing could be done. The flight, and the money we couldn’t afford to lose, was gone. I vowed we’d never fly Air Asia again.

The next day, I emailed my Australian travel agency, The Adventure Traveller, a company I’ve done business with for more than five years. The director, Dean, was fantastic with his research. He found out that the real reason Sanni had been denied boarding was because he did in fact require a transit visa. Although it is an international flight between two countries, Dean explained, Air Asia considers it a domestic flight because they arrive at the domestic terminal. He would need the transit visa to make his Nairobi connection at the international terminal. As I read Dean’s reply, a considerable string of profanity sprang from my mouth.

Dean then looked at what airlines he could fly with from Phnom Penh, through Bangkok, that would not require a transit visa. It took another three weeks before I could afford to buy him another flight, this time on Bangkok Air and this time with a guarantee from the Bangkok Air Thailand office (via Dean) that it would arrive at the international terminal, not requiring a transit visa. Despite being late, what I jokingly call running on African Time (or was the God at it again?), he made the flight with just enough time to call me from his plane seat. And he arrived in Nairobi without a problem.

Nairobi to Melbourne

Sanni was in Nairobi for a month when we received confirmation that his Australian prospective partner visa had been granted on February 28th. By early March, Dean had arranged his flight. I was taking nothing by chance this time. Determined that not even African time would prevent him from boarding this flight but there are some things I simply cannot plan for. The God of International Flying was to strike again.

His flight was due to arrive at 10.30pm on March 7th. I got to the arrival area 40 minutes early, only for his flight to be 20 minutes late. As I tried to calm my nerves, I stood at the best vantage point I could find, my knees slightly bouncing, unable to stand still. I waited and watched as all the passengers arrived and went through their own jubilant welcoming.

After an hour and a half, I was the only one left, apart from people waiting for the next flight’s arrival and one African man. I was now genuinely worried, not only because he was taking so long, but also because I didn’t actually get confirmation that Sanni was on the flight. Yet again, Sanni had trouble boarding because the image in his passport was of a black man and on their system he was yellow. It was a pathetic reason to delay him, but this was their intention, even going to the extent of asking for his previous ticket from Bangkok to Kenya. Sanni wondered if they were really trying to bribe him but unlike Cambodians, the Kenyans never alluded to extra fees. They just didn’t want to help him. As he raced on to the plane the flight attendant wasn’t surprised, “you’re Nigerian, aren’t you?” he asked as Sanni nodded, “well, that’s why then.” As though it was commonplace and acceptable to make life difficult for Nigerians.

The last time I spoke to him was at 2 am Australian time when he was battling with the authorities. I didn’t hear from him again.

As fewer & fewer passengers exited the doors, I began to feel tremendously tired and emotional. After the early morning call, I slept restlessly, and at work spent the day in a fluster-fuck of concern as to whether he made the flight or not. I made calls to the airline (who couldn’t confirm anything because I wasn’t the passenger), spoke to Dean (who couldn’t confirm anything because the time difference made it Nairobi’s night time) and tried to decide if I should book the hotel for us or not- money, again, I couldn’t afford to lose. Nothing felt certain but I had to trust that had he not made the flight he would’ve called.

It was nearing 12.30 am by the time I saw the African man enter the customs office that I hadn’t known was there. As I entered to make any enquiry, I immediately burst in to tears, suddenly overwhelmed by tiredness and the emotional stress of not knowing Sanni’s whereabouts. The customs officers were not able to confirm if he had arrived, they didn’t actually check though, they just recommended I call the Australian Federal Police to lodge a missing persons report. I shook my head, amazed that that’s what I needed to do when my gut feeling told me he had arrived in Australia and was being detained behind the solid, white, glass wall that marked those who made it into the country and those that were denied.

I walked the length of the arrivals floor in a daze of tears & confusion. When I reached the end I saw a man in uniform exit the back area. I chased him up the escalator and begged him to help me find Sanni, telling him that he was meant to arrive but he hadn’t come out. He told me that the customs floor was empty. Pathetically, I begged him to call, to check. He tried to brush me off by saying I’d probably got the date wrong. Exasperated, I explained to him that I booked the flight and gave him Sanni’s reservations details; he saw that I was right and made a call. He confirmed that he was being detained by customs, my stomach knotted in anguish. “Why,” I asked, “he hasn’t done anything wrong.” The man looked kindly upon me as he shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, ‘Lady, it ain’t my job to know.’

Leaving me in a heap of tears and fear, he left to investigate. Not long after he came back to tell me that customs were questioning him about his reasons for coming to Australia and that customs wanted to speak to me too. Attempting to hold myself together, I watched nervously as two women customs officers walked the length of the floor towards me. Beckoning me to sit in the public waiting area, I too was to be investigated over the legitimacy of our relationship.

All I could do was speak openly and honestly, giving them the details I knew they wanted to confirm answers Sanni would’ve already given. They tried to focus on our age difference by suggesting that the 11 year difference we share was too considerable for genuine love. I didn’t reply immediately, too shocked by what they were implying. All I could say in response was that on our 50th wedding anniversary no one would ask us about our age difference. Finally, after what seemed like an exhaustive amount of personal information had been divulged, I begged them to let him go, exclaiming, with fresh tears falling, that I loved him and knew he loved me, and all I wanted to do was spend my life with him; we’d already been apart for too long. They smiled reassuringly and explained he’d be out soon. It seemed I’d given the information they needed.

While waiting, I went to the bathroom to freshen up. I needn’t have bothered, I was a mess. There was no way to make my bloodshot, crystal-green eyes any less shocking to look at. Coming out of the bathroom, I decided to walk the length of the floor again. I don’t even know why when I knew where he’d exit from. Perhaps I just needed to clear my mind of the pent-up anxiety. I got to the end and turned. Thinking my eyes were deceiving me, I rubbed them trying to make them focus, but they were showing me true, he really was standing there with the biggest smile I’ve ever seen.

I was that girl in the movie, you know the one that runs the length of the room and throws herself into the arms of the man she loves after they’ve been through an unbelievable saga. The movie was real. I really did that. In the remake, Drew Barrymore plays me.

He held me tight, allowing me to bury my crying face in his neck. He laughed and smiled so broadly. I looked into his eyes and laughed too. “Ahhh there they are,” he said. “I’ve missed your tears my girl.” I laughed, I do have water faucet eyes.

For all the anguish I experienced, Sanni’s own paled in comparison. He told of how he came to the first immigration counter, easily stamping his welcome, before he was then asked for his immunisation documentation, which he didn’t have. He waited for 20 minutes for an in-house doctor’s assessment before moving through to customs. The way Sanni tells it he was never worried about why they were asking him personal questions about our relationship, “my mind was clear” he said matter-of-factly. I laughed, amazed at his confidence, wondering if he understood the severity of his predicament. He told how they went through his bag, item by item, as the officer came across his football documents they began to talk football. No mention was made again of his purpose for coming to Australia or marrying me. Yet again, Sanni’s charming disposition won him new supporters as they promised to look for his Facebook football profile and follow his game.

Of one thing I am now certain, is that it’s a bloody good thing Australia is an island because Sanni won’t be going anywhere until I am convinced he’s made his peace with the God of International Flying.

Sanni’s in Australia: Reunited after 15 months

As of two days ago, Sanni has lived in Australia for two months. He mentioned recently feeling as though the haze had begun to lift from his eyes, the reality that he was with me again finally seeping in. It’s surreal for me too.

I left Cambodia in December 2010, and with it left the inspiration to write about our biracial relationship. Leaving him behind, in the country that had been our home and our hell, while I attempted to build us a foundation was easily the hardest challenge I’ve ever met. Melbourne, Australia. The only city I could bear to live in because, at its minimum, it has cultural diversification and acceptance, art, music and a vibrancy other Australian cities lack.

The first few months saw me move around a lot. First, back to my parents in Brisbane, where I visited for only a few weeks, before moving to my sister’s who lives too far from Melbourne for me to get work. And then finally, two months after my return, into a long-stay backpackers hostel.

To some degree, I expected the reverse culture shock that I was going to face. I was profoundly depressed when I left Cambodia because of how culturally exhausted that country made me and accumulative daily difficulties Sanni & I faced. What I didn’t expect was the prejudice, judgement and criticism I would receive from my siblings and father. Nothing hurts worse than knowing your father is against your relationship because of his narrow view of the world and innate racism. No one believed that Sanni was in love with me for me, the person I am, not the country and opportunities I could present to him. Every day I met with some form of criticism against the quality of man he is, and every day I had to shut my mind away and believe in the love we share.

Once living in Melbourne, I had the challenge of finding work. When I found out I couldn’t work in my chosen profession as an English teacher (in Australia you need a Certificate IV in Training & Assessment to train/ teach if you don’t have a teaching qualification) I returned to my prior experience in office administration. It’s certainly not what I wanted to do and for a long time mentally fought against the passionless work I did for my recruitment agencies. I took a temporary contract for a university that finally provided me with sufficient stability to move out of the hostel and into a share-house and reasoned that I could change jobs when I had enough saved.

It also afforded me the opportunity to fly back to Cambodia to visit my Puppy again and lodge his prospective partner visa application. It had been seven months since I left.

I’ll never forget submitting his documents to the Australian Embassy; how cold the experience was. At the allotted appointment time, we arrived into an unadorned, white-walled waiting room. It had a glass window with a small slot to feed papers under and to the right side a small interview room with the same type of window. We sat until called. We thought we were to be interviewed, instead we were called to the glass window in view of everyone else waiting. After little pleasantries, it was down to business. We attempted to feed the folder, at least 2 inches thick, through the document slot, but the Cambodian receptionist sharply responded, “paper only, no plastic.” I was shocked at how rude she was and couldn’t stop my hands as they began to shake removing the documents from their neatly ordered plastic sleeves. She flipped through some of the pages, ticking a form as she went and then without looking up, requested the fee.

Blood drained from my face as she announced it was $400 more than we thought. “Yes,” she said, still not looking at us, “it went up in June.” Sanni & I exchanged a look of fear. We fortunately had the correct amount to pay, not that we could explain to her that it was the last of my holiday money. I had $100 to last another seven days. By now I was shaking tremendously, trying not to get emotional, as Sanni held my hand reassuring me with its tight grip. The last thing she told us as she stamped the receipt was not to expect to hear anything for a minimum of twelve months. Again, Sanni & I exchanged a look of concern. Again, the immigration website stated something different. She didn’t care, we were just another couple, “that’s what the expected time is now, you’ll have to wait like everyone else.”

We left the embassy in a daze. Both of us too shocked to feel any kind of excitement for the phenomenal step we’d just embarked upon. We were finally signifying that we would spend the rest of our lives together and yet, we couldn’t think of how we would survive another year apart or how Sanni would survive another year in Cambodia.

I returned to Australia only to find that the battle was only just beginning again. After finding out I would have to move again I then lost my contract job because the project ended. I was fortunate to move into a temporary abode with relative ease and eventually found ad hoc temporary administration work while still providing for Sanni in whatever menial way possible. It was an emotionally draining, financially suffocating time. I felt like a clown, juggling multiple responsibilities, all the while trying to maintain a level of calm assurance that when Sanni was with me again I would be able to achieve anything; nothing would seem so hard again.

In October, things began to improve. I found a recognised training organisation that offered scholarships with government funding so I could study online for the training certificate required to teach English. I finally felt like I was making moves in the right direction for my career. In November, I started a new temporary administration contract and with it started the new year by moving into a new home. “The last move until Sanni arrives,” I told myself. Not that I knew when that would be. I began to yet again build the lost savings and try to create the foundation I’d returned to Australia to make for us.

In February, Sanni was offered the opportunity to trial for a club in Nairobi, Kenya. It was a gamble he wanted to take. Unbeknownst to both of us, Nairobi’s conditions were worse than Cambodia’s. Everything was more expensive and the football opportunities less. He didn’t get the trial he’d been promised, continually told lies by the club management. Sanni’s disappointment and anger quickly turned into despair and depression. He just wanted to do something, anything, to provide a better life for himself while waiting for the visa application outcome.

Back home, I struggled with hearing of his poor living conditions, sleeping on the floor of a friends apartment, barely enough food to eat and no money to stretch further than the bare minimum for survival. It was exhausting just trying to keep him motivated to train, while also motivating myself to keep working in my brain-dead job and studying. There was still seven months to wait.

Determined not to return to Cambodia, we talked about opportunities in other African countries, each time faced with the same reality of Nairobi. Nothing was a given, everything a gamble. It is the nature of professional football, especially when you’re African. We decided he should wait out the time in Nairobi and make the best with what opportunities might present themselves.

Around the same time, I had a chance conversation with a girlfriend who was also going through the same visa process with her prospective partner. I told her of our twelve month waiting period, trying to sound hopeful, when her face contorted. “Are you sure of that?” she asked. “Well yes,” I replied, “why?” She told me how she had researched through all the conflicting immigration information to find that it was twelve months just to be assigned a case officer and then however many months to reach a decision. I was gob-smacked.

When Sanni made the move to Nairobi we had also transferred his case to the Australian visa processing centre there. Like the Cambodian equivalent, their website gave a conflicting processing time. Unlike the twelve months we’d been quoted, it stated only ten months. Just what was the truth? I needed a definite answer. I asked Sanni to call the Nairobi office. I hadn’t really expected to get an answer but I hoped for a confirmation his file was received. Sanni told me he’d had a great conversation in which they joked about the similarities between her name & mine, but reiterated that they couldn’t confirm anything. I was frustrated with the Australian Immigration’s continued inconsistencies.

And then, two weeks later, late on a Tuesday evening, I received an email. It changed the fate of our lives forever with the opening words,‘Regarding the recent transfer of your file to the Nairobi office, I am pleased to advise the visa has been granted today.’

Home alone, in a big empty house, I screamed and jumped up and down, doing a little jiggy-dance before shock set in and I started to cry. I rang Sanni, who, unable to see me, worried for what was wrong. I tried to laugh and say I was okay but the words would not escape my throat, too constricted with excitement. After many deep breaths, I finally expressed the news. He remained in happy-shock for some time, unable to process how dramatically his life would change, and then the smile I couldn’t see escaped into laughter and the same leap for joy jumped from his body.

On March 7th, 15 months after we were separated, he landed in Melbourne.

Ribbon of Africa: An Interview with an Afro-Aussie Entreprenuer

It’s been ten months since I returned to Australia. It’s hard to believe so much time has passed. It’s also hard to believe that I written so little in all that time, in leaving Sanni in Cambodia I also lost my African inspiration; trying to write about something that is no longer immediately before me every day has been more difficult than I could’ve imagined.

It hasn’t stopped me looking out for interesting Africans around me though. Melbourne and Perth both have very strong, vocal communities. From Radio AFRO, to the AfriQan Times magazine, I am continually inspired by the community’s ability to talk about being African in Australia.

One growing success is that of Perth-based Taku Scrutton, creator and business owner of Ribbon of Africa. What originated as a fashion label is now transforming into workshops and public speaking events where Taku discusses being African, helping to educate about what it means to be African.

I was given an opportunity to discuss with Taku how her business developed and where it’s heading and to also understand what it means to be an Afro Aussie with a unique relationship to the heart of Australia. I thought it important to look first to the design of her business, the name and its tagline Proud 2B African because so much of what a business speaks of comes in its representation. Taku describes:

When I was at university I designed and sketched an idea for a tattoo. I wanted the shape of Africa but flowing like a ribbon. Years later when I decided to start my business I came across my sketch and fell in love with it again. It was a Ribbon of Africa and embodied what I was setting out to do. . . to tie all Africans together. It was an easy decision to call the business Ribbon of Africa. I designed the logo to openly declare how proud I am to be African. I wanted other people to embrace their culture as well and thought branding the shirts and clothing was a great way to announce this. This all started because I was starting to feel out of touch with my “Africanness” after being in Australia for 3 years.

Ribbon of Africa started in 2006, a story that stems from a student who’d come to Australia to study Architecture but when financial restraints came from her Zimbabwean parents, Taku needed to branch out to explore other interests she had:

To be honest, I started designing clothing as a creative outlet; I have always been very creative and have loved fashion for years. Fashion and architecture have closer links than people realise. You have a client who has an idea in mind, you sketch, you create (sew or build) and then present the [fabulous] finished product. I simultaneously continued to work in architecture-related fields to support my growing business.

And it’s to the benefit of the greater Perth community that Taku has ventured into fashion because it has lead to her speaking, and performing at many public events. These events worked to build her businesses reputation in the local Western Australian community and across Australia. She shares her enthusiasm for the collective energy she represents:

I have been very fortunate to be involved in so many events. It has taken a lot of passion, time and commitment to remain consistent in what I do. I believe that has helped forge Ribbon of Africa’s reputation. People know we support anything African, in the best way we can. People then recommend us and/or engage our services and we continue to grow. And yes, thanks to the wonders of the Internet we have built some excellent networks across Australia and travel often to nurture these relationships.

With so many great events featuring Taku’s energy it is little wonder that design is taking some time off to nurture. What was the back bone of her business it has inspired her to source greater community involvements and new ways to promote the African message in Australia. She continues to run the Ribbon of Africa online store through Pistol Clothing, where people can buy the African country flag designed t-shirts & hoodies.

The spin off for Taku has been the obvious involvement of her family and friends back home, their ability to share in her passion and support her growth.

My family and community are very proud and constantly offer words of support and encouragement. I have been able to support them during difficult times because of the opportunities I have gained through starting Ribbon of Africa. They are my constant source of inspiration and when I went home I took some of my clothes and they had fun modelling in them.  

Another lesser known fact, and one of personal interest to my readership is that of her bi-racial marriage to an Aboriginal Australian. There’s is a unique story in a country that few believe to be racially divided but true to the Australian spirit, once knowledge is gained, insight brings a warmth and an acceptance.

I met my husband Shane at university through a mutual friend. I didn’t realise he was Aboriginal when we first met, as to be honest I wasn’t really sure what being Aboriginal meant. He subsequently explained his heritage to me and we found we had so much in common. I’ve learnt so much from him about indigenous Australian culture and it’s been eye-opening. When we got married he had to pay the lobola (dowry) and I loved that he respected my culture enough to do that. When I took him to Zimbabwe to meet my family he loved the experience so much and that’s when he better understood what being an African means to me. We’ve just come back from 10months travelling around Australia and he got to show me where his people come from as he has family in Victoria, New South Wales and the Northern Territory. It was amazing!

It’s true though that inter-racial relationships certainly pique people’s interest. Overall the acceptance of our relationship has been positive and encouraging; we are loved by the people who know us. The beginning was a little difficult for us both because we had to get used to things like people staring at us or asking silly questions like, “Aren’t people of your own kind good enough?” That’s why I think the trip around Australia was a humbling experience. We drove around the country in our 4WD and people were curious and welcoming. It fascinated them that we were together and they embraced our relationship wholeheartedly, even when they were strangers. I was pleasantly surprised.

The beauty in Taku’s growing success is that she has piqued interest in a niche that needs more exploration by the western community who are still largely in the dark about what it means to be African. Being an African Australian business woman has provided her with a unique ability to convey the African story, and provide the western community with insights into, not just her own Zimbabwean culture, but also the representation of Africa on a whole.

You can learn more about Taku by visiting her website, Ribbon of Africa, or liking the facebook page.