I walked towards the embassy that morning like someone frozen to the bones. My pace was short, I tried not to make too much noise as I walked. But my shoes were out to embarrass me. Those pair of low heels knocked hard as they reached the ground. I saw a man dressed in a black suit with an ID Card hanging from his neck standing outside. From the way he looked, I surmised he was an official with the embassy.
“Good morning sir.” I genuflected as I pronounced the words with respect as if I were before Father Abraham for confession. He looked at me as if I had not spoken a word. Perhaps he did not hear me.
“Good morn…”
“Are you here for your visa applications?” He half asked, half-spatted at me. I looked at him for a moment. He was a Nigerian like myself. I wondered why he did not return my greeting. Auntie Fiona had told me to treat everyone with respect at the embassy. Any sign of disrespect would cost me my visa, she had said. If this guard, who was a Nigerian, did not consider my greeting to be of any value, how was I supposed to show my respect to the white people inside.
“Yes. No. I am here for interview.”
“Okay. Do you have all the necessary documents?” I could feel his large bulging eyes sizing me up.
“Yes. I have….” I opened my bag and pulled out the manilla envelope as one would pull out a baby in the labour room. Auntie Fiona had said something about a wrinkle costing me my visa. The man snatched it out of my hands and began to walk away. I turned at once, surprised at the sudden turn of events.
“You are going to need four photocopies of these documents.”
“Four?” My head was racing. I had read the instructions given to me; there was no mention of extra copies. But who was I to argue. This was someone who worked at the embassy. Surely he knew these things better than me.
I trudged along as he walked to a makeshift shed by the side of the road.
“What time is your interview?” He asked absent-mindedly, after handing over the contents of my envelope to another man.
“10am” I replied.
He pulled out a phone from his pocket, glanced at the screen and then tucked it away. The other man conversed with him in another language. They haggled for a while and then the man with the large eyes turned to me.
“Everything will cost you two thousand naira” he announced.
Two thousand naira? That was more than I spent in printing the said documents. I did a calculation of the money left on me. Mother gave me two thousand naira when I left home that morning. One hundred naira was for my transportation to the embassy, another hundred naira from the return trip and the rest was for shopping. I had told mother I needed a new pair of shoes and undies. The one thousand eight hundred was not even going to be enough. But what use were a new pair of shoes and undies if I wasn’t going to get the visa. I turned to the man.
“Please sir, will you collect one thousand eight hundred naira?” I plead, my eyes staring imploringly at the man.
“Young girl, do you think we are selling crayfish here? The price is two thousand naira. In fact, I am even trying to help you. If you don’t want, you can take your documents and go.”
“Ah! don’t do that sir.” I opened the small zipper in my bag and brought out the money. “I only have one thousand nine hundred and I need one hundred naira from the return trip.”
The man shook his head and snatched the money from my hands. He counted it and returned one hundred naira to me.
I walked away minutes later with four photocopies of each documents. I thought I saw the man with the large eyes handing three hundred naira to the other man. I didn’t think much about it. Perhaps, the other man was working for him.
….…
By the time I returned to the embassy, there was a short queue formed outside. i joined the queue and waited my turn. The man at the gate did not seem to be Nigerian. In fact, his skin was pale with freckles on his face. he would ask each person to show some documents before letting them through. The man in front of me was jittery. I overheard him tell another man that he forgot his visa fee payment receipt. I wasn’t scared as I was well prepared. I even had four photocopies of the said receipt.
When it got to my turn, I brought out my bundle of documents and handled them over. The official pulled out the originals and let the photocopies slide to the ground. He then asked me to walk in. I wanted to pick up the photocopies. Tears slowly gathered in my eyes. I knew for how long I had to beg mother before she gave me the money to get a new pair of shoes and undies. I wanted to curse the man with big eyes.
The alarm from the metal detector door buzzed me back to life. It was my low end phone. The man asked me to lock it in a locker and take the key with me. I turned back one last time to look at the papers on the floor and I began to cry.
….……
I stood for what seemed like an hour, waiting for this woman to looked up from the papers that had her attention. I wondered if the papers were more important than I was. It is not as if I cannot stand for long. The problem is with my pair of shoes. The sole on the left leg had worn out such that my leg leg was closer to the ground than my right leg was. Every few seconds, I would shift my leg, trying to balance the uneven weight on my legs. After what was actually one minute, the woman looked at me.
“What is your name?”
I wondered why she was asking for my name. Wasn’t it in the document I provided?
“My name is Amaka.” Auntie Fiona said I should show no fear, that I should look the interviewer in the eye while answering the questions. But then, Auntie Fiona also said I should not show disrespect. Wasn’t looking an elderly person in the eye disrespectful? To strike a balance, I focused on the glasses on her face.
“I can’t hear you.”
The woman had a strange accent. I know American accent, this wasn’t it. I was sure because I watch a lot of American movies. Maybe this was the polish accent. Well, that didn’t make it polished English. My literature teacher in school would called that a pun. I smiled at the thought of that.
“Young lady, would you be so kind to tell me your name?”
I could sense her patience wearing off. I chided myself. I wanted to walk closer to the glass barrier so she could hear me clearly but I was scared that she would smell the okra soup I had for breakfast that morning.
“My name is Amaka.”
“Your full name please,” came the instant rejoinder
“Amaka Nweka”
“Har-make-car right?”
I shifted uneasily when she pronounced my name. I wanted to correct her. Instead, I nodded my head.
“So what are you going to do in Poland?”
“I want to attend Steemfest,”
“Steemfest?”
“yes, Steemfest. It is a….”
“How long do you intend to stay in Poland?”
“One or two…”
“Precise duration please”
“One week.”
“Do you know anyone in Poland?”
“No”
“From your bank statement, you don’t seem to be adequately prepared to make this trip”
“Someone is paying for it”
“Who”
I wanted to say 
“A friend.” I muttered, to be on the same side.
“A friend?”
She looked at me as if she had caught a thread. Intending to pull at that thread, she asked “And what does this friend of yours do for a living?”
I mumbled my reply.
“Could you please answer the question?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is your friend a citizen or a resident of Poland?”
I wondered why she was asking me all these questions. Auntie Fiona had told me they would only want to know if I would return after the conference. I wasn’t prepared for these barrages of questions.
“i don’t know.” I mumbled again.
I could already guess what she was thinking. Young girls are usually trafficking from my country into European countries where they work as commercial sex workers or carriers of hard substances. It was obvious this woman wanted to make a fool out of me. At this point, I wasn’t interested anymore. I wanted to go home.
The woman probably noticed my fallen face.
“har-make-car” I couldn’t believe my ears. She called my name with a very soothing voice I didn’t believe was hers. I looked up to see her smiling at me.
“you won the steemfest contest by 
I nodded.
“What’s your Steemit handle?”