Aduro is the name Nigerians call themselves, especially those living in Germany’s many Asyl Heims or aduro houses. We never really got to find out the meaning and origin of the word, but you inherit the name on arrival. You can only live in Germany either as an illego or as an aduro. There are other options too but these were not easily within reach, one of which is to come in as a student after going through the Goethe Institute ritual in Lagos. Your status may also change eventually if you decide to marry a ‘germo’ (German).
Because of the squalid conditions of the aduro houses (overcrowded rooms, poor sanitation, drug havens etc), every aduro therefore aspires to leave the aduro house for better accommodation, offered in the first instance by fat, ugly and older German women (see ‘descriptive’ accompanying photo). The type that are easily picked up at Black discotheks and who may have lived out their days, or are in need of some ‘black magic’, they couldn’t care much about the cynicisms and hurtful remarks of fellow Germans, who rain abuses on them for betraying the cause, and contaminating the superior Aryan blood by ‘going black’. They help aduros out by giving them the much revered kpale or ‘peppes’ (papers) a la Ghanaians.
I’m sure you must have run into some of these brothers with their human cargos around Lagos Island on their way to the German embassy on Eleke Crescent to apply for the German spousal visa.
I don’t know about you but some of us were not born in London, America, Germany or… OK, we have seen you, England born, lucky you. Aduro was the shortest route and easier option.
You’ve got to have a tale ready for Bundesamt if you want to stay in Germany. As for me, all i know is that my late grand father conjured the spirits of his ancestors and bingo! I found myself on the streets of Germany. What type of story haven’t they heard? And what type of story haven’t we told them? There are tales of those that swam through the oceans, dug and slithered through a tunnel from Amakohia to Berlin, and those that visited Okija and were turned into smoke and consequently evaporated through the skies on their way to Germany.
At Germany’s famous aduro houses, you will be amazed at the tales Africans and other immigrants tell in their asylum applications. I used to think that I have heard it all until I came across this classic. A very smart tale indeed because though Nigerians do not enjoy political asylum status anymore, this brother is making a strong case for asylum on humanitarian grounds.
His case is typical of the growing trend of Nigerians crossing over to the UK from Germany and other EU countries. Germany has always been regarded as a closed society, especially to black people who enjoy limited socio-economic opportunities, unlike in the UK where black people have more opportunities, compared to some other EU counties.
It is hoped however, that the Jurgen Klinsman World Cup effect will help in opening up the German society, and make their citizens less hostile and more accommodating to foreigners.
The names of the individuals and places in this asylum tale have been substituted with fictitious ones. You will be dumb not to do the same if you plan to use it in your own application (for those that need it), or if you plan to forward it to someone who may need it. And don’t you dare accuse me of encouraging brain drain by this simple act of public service; I am not the one paying their fares out of Nigeria, am i?
My name is Emeka Obi; I am from Okigwe, a town near Owerri- Imo State in Nigeria. Since I came to the UK, I have been hiding to avoid deportation to Nigeria. I have not visited my hometown and this is due to a number of reasons.
Firstly, I will begin by telling you about my family background. My late father was a town chief and a traditional chief priest. He was involved with worshiping of idols which involves making human sacrifices and ritual killings etc. He was married to my late mum and they were blessed with two children (myself and my late sister). My mum, my sister and myself are Christians and we refused to accompany my father to his ritual killings, which he and his cabinet members were not happy with. Although being a traditional priest, he still allowed me to go to school to be educated up to university level
When my father died, things changed. After the burial, the members of his cabinet approached me and told me that according to the customs and tradition of our town that I am the right person to take over his kingdom. This was a very big problem for me because it is something I do not want to get involved with at all, not to talk of leading in human sacrifices and ritual killings. The burden was too much for me, my mum and my sister. I told them that I will accept the title because I knew the consequences of refusal was death. The elders and the cabinet members then had a meeting to set a date for the coronation. While they were preparing for the event, my mum, my sister and myself went to discuss this issue with a missionary priest in a nearby town. The Priest is late Rev Fr John Wilson. He was very sympathetic of the whole situation; he did not want me to take up the leadership of the idol and ritual killing. He then made arrangement for me to leave the country before the coronation date. He assisted me in acquiring an international passport and a travel document to Germany. We all kept this secret and I was also pretending as if I was delighted in my new position in order not to give any room for suspicion. About two days to the coronation, I left to go and buy some of the gears required for the coronation. This was an excuse to disappear from the town. My mum and my sister also made arrangement to leave the town.
I departed Nigeria with the help of Rev Fr John Wilson to Germany. On arrival, I slept at bus stations for 5 days without bathing. I was unable to communicate with people as I could not speak German. On the 6th day, I met a lorry driver called Mark at the bus station who was from England. I told him about my predicament and he offered to help me to come to England.
He took me on board his lorry in the upper deck and smuggled me to London. On arrival, I slept in the underground station for 4 days until I made friends who accommodated me and helped me to find a job in a building site. I worked to support myself and also enrolled in a college.
On arrival, I made several attempts to contact my mum and my sister and Rev Fr John Wilson but all was in vain. A year later, I contacted my mum’s friend through a letter and she told me that my mum and my sister are dead. She told me that my sister was used for ritual sacrifice by the elders to appease the gods because of my defying the custom of the land. She also said that my mum died as a result of my sister’s death.
This is the situation I found myself for the past 4 years. I am very sorry for not contacting you all these years; this is due to the fear and shock of what I have gone through. I don not want to be deported to my country to face death.
As a result of these, I went underground to avoid any contacts with the police, immigration offices and any one who knows my story especially people from my town.
< p>At the moment, I am self employed and pay my tax. I am a law abiding person
I’m begging to be allowed to remain in this country. I have no other place safe to live than here. I have known here as home, have made friends and will like to remain here to contribute to the economy and the entire society.
I’m therefore pleading for my application to be considered on humanitarian grounds
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