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Robert I left my country for political reasons. My father's employer was a member of the opposition party, so we were too. My mother died before our trouble started, and my brother went to Gabon. So only my father and I were left of the family. In 1998 my father was killed by government troops. I wrote a letter asking for an explanation. For this, I now think, as much as for my own membership of the opposition, I was arrested soon after and imprisoned. I remained in prison for about a year. There I was beaten and assaulted, and sustained head and internal injuries. The practice was to restore prisoners' health sufficiently to carry on with the beatings, so when I was nearly dying I was taken to hospital. Before I was properly recovered I ran away from the hospital. Together with six others, three men and three women, I travelled in a car through several countries. This took many weeks. The journey was very dangerous, particularly in Burkina Faso, where gangs attacked and dismembered people for juju. Our car was attacked by one such gang. The three women were caught and killed, but we four men managed to escape and hide in the forest. From there we started walking in the direction of Mali, until we found a man who agreed to take us in his boat. This was very expensive - 10,000 SEFA - and took all my money. The man took us as far as the capital, Bamako. There we parted. Some went to Niger or Guinea. I couldn't go anywhere, because I didn't have any money left. I stayed in Bamako for nearly six months. My trade is building and decorating, but I could hardly ever do that. Most of the time I worked as a porter for very small sums, around 100 SEFA (about 10 p) per job, starting very early - around 5 a.m. - every day. But I was very careful, I slept outdoors or in abandoned cars, and I saved as much as I could. I am Catholic, and was brought up by nuns. So in Bamako I went to a Catholic church to practise my religion. The priest there was a very kind and Christian man, and after a few months, when he realised I was sleeping rough, he took me in. When I had saved enough money I told him that I still did not feel safe, and wanted to go as far away as possible from Africa. He said he would help me. I had no passport, but he got me a visa for France. So I finally left Mali and flew to France. I thought, and still think, that the visa the priest gave me was valid. But when I arrived in France I was accused of travelling on a false document and sent to jail. In jail my injuries flared up and I became ill. Again the priest helped me, because his sister offered to take care of me. After two weeks I was bailed and went to live with her in Marseilles. But after a month or so in Marseilles I became too worried that they would arrest me on signing and send me back, so I left and went to Paris. I stayed in Paris with a friend for a few weeks. Then he said I would be safe in England, and he gave me a false passport. That's why I came: because I thought England would be safe. I went on the ferry. As soon as I landed at Dover I was arrested, and immediately claimed asylum. I was sent to Oakington. At Oakington I was approached by a lawyer, whom I engaged. After a month I was released and sent to a NASS hostel in the city where I still live. I was given vouchers for £10 a week. My lawyer asked me for money, and when I said I couldn't pay he put an unqualified legal assistant on my case. At my Appeal the barrister was bad, he clearly didn't care and didn't know my case. My interpreter was bad too (my English was still poor), and I did not understand very much of what was happening. I have never seen my determination: as long as I was in touch with my lawyer he said it hadn't arrived, and then he disappeared. I learned I had lost the Appeal when NASS said that I was no longer entitled to support and would have to leave the hostel. So I left and went to live with a friend. It was now 2002. I had to give up the college courses I was taking in English and IT, and I had to work, even though I knew I was not supposed to. How else could I survive? I went to an agency and registered under my own name, with my student card. For some time I worked like this, part-time, for cash, mostly in warehouses. I was always paid less than the minimum wage, as we all are, but on the whole my bosses treated me well. One in particular liked my work and wanted to employ me full-time. I told him then honestly that I was a failed asylum seeker and not allowed to work. He said that if I could get a NI number he would employ me. So I went to a friend whom I had met both at work and in my church, who was leaving England, and asked if I could use his name. He agreed, and I began to work full-time at the company. I lived like this for about two years. It was very hard. I lived alone and paid my rent in cash. I made no more friends at work, because everyone is too scared to open up and talk to anyone else. My religion is more and more important to me, but even at my church I was afraid to tell people my real situation. When something bad happened, I couldn't do anything about it - eg when I got arrested again, and my boss never paid me what I was owed. I could not do anything that required papers - drive, or have a bank account, or go to a doctor or a hospital. This was particularly difficult for me because I was still suffering from my injuries, as I still am today. While I was awaiting the outcome of my Appeal I had an operation for my internal injuries, but it was not successful, and I continued to suffer, as I still do. And I continued to suffer, as I still do, from my head injuries, and from the psychological trauma especially of my time in prison, but also of all the time after, up to today. I have black-outs and headaches, and I suffer from depression. During the two years I lived underground I could receive no treatment at all for these problems. All I could do was buy paracetomol over the counter, and go to Chinese medicine shops, where you must also pay. I did both throughout this time. Once I broke my wrist at work, and was told to go to a doctor. I pretended I'd gone, but really my wrist healed by itself. All this was bad, but nothing compared to others. I knew two other Africans in this period who were very seriously injured at work. The company wanted to call an ambulance, but they said they would go to hospital by themselves. Of course they could not really go; and after a time both of them died. At the end of the two years I was working in a sandwich bar. It was during the elections of 2004, and people's papers were being checked. I was discovered and arrested. This time I was sent to Campsfield House. Here I eventually met a volunteer visitor who was willing to help me. Also, some time before I had met a Latvian woman whom I liked, and who liked me. I'd moved in with her. At that time I was working, so I was able to contribute to our lives. Before my visitor could organise bail for me I was released, and went back to live with my girlfriend. My visitor found me a good lawyer, who agreed to make a fresh claim for me. The trouble is that with no money, and no family left in my country, I have been unable to get any new evidence, and so far she has been unable to do anything for me. So I have gone on like this for another two years. Originally I was required to sign once a month; recently that was changed to once a fortnight. I now regret having returned to live with my girlfriend, instead of asking for NASS support, because I am forced to be completely dependent on her. She wants to marry me, and I want to marry her, but I do not know if I will be allowed to. In the meantime my destitution and my dependence on her have been affecting our relationship. Whenever she has a friend visiting from Latvia, for instance, I have to move out and sleep elsewhere, and it is not always easy to find a friend to take me in. I am legal again, so I have been able to go back to college, and to see my GP again. But my mental and physical problems have got worse. The specialist says I should have another operation, but after the first one failed I am afraid. And I get more and more depressed, sometimes I think I pray too much. Not long ago I got so depressed that my doctor put me on medication, but the lethargy was so bad that I stopped taking it after a few months. At the same time, I have to do some illegal work whenever I can, so that I don't have to ask my girlfriend for every penny - for the bus, or a phone card - so I wash dishes sometimes, or work in warehouses again. And twice in the last year I was caught at work, which I do openly under my own name; and each time, after the police had spoken to Immigration, I was released and not detained. So I am confused, I don't understand what is happening to me, or why. I have never possessed a passport, so maybe they cannot get a travel document for me. So they are just letting me live in limbo, unable to work legally, unable to marry, unable to regain my health, unable to live. If I had not bought new clothes while I was working, and taken good care of them, I wouldn't even have anything to wear. The worst thing for me - for all of us - is this: not knowing what
will happen, always being afraid, trying to survive without being
stopped at every turn. The worst thing is that all these things
drive you mad. When I work I can forget, but when I am not working
my mind goes round and round, my head starts to burn ['ma tête
chauffe'], and I get very very stressed. It happens to all of us,
I can see it at the African Centre when we meet. We talk about how
our lives are stopped and spoiled, we get very upset and angry,
and sometimes we even start fighting each other, because we can't
fight the people who are spoiling us. We don't know what to do,
we feel trapped, and we go crazy. Just recently, for instance, two
guys I know took the money they'd saved - thousands of pounds -
and set off to go home and start a good business. But they were
stopped leaving the UK - not entering, leaving - their money was
impounded and they were put back in detention. How can you justify
that, how can we survive it? That is the hardest part of living like this - we are all so tired and finished by this life that most of us have mental problems. The other hard part is what people say about us. They think we are here because we want British benefit, and British passports. But we don't want passports, and most of all we don't want benefits. We want to save our lives, and to work. No, we don't want to stay in Britain - anyway, I do not want to stay in Britain. If I could I would go to Canada, or Australia, or the US, or back to another African country - maybe Gabon, where my brother is. If things get better in my country I will go back there, gladly. I came to England to be safe, but that hasn't happened, in six years. If it could happen, would I stay? Maybe. I can't imagine it any more. Story collected and written by Carole Angier, March 2007 Read more stories: |
