I got fired today. I no longer have a job or a visa. And I’m sat here in a home, the closest semblance to family I have in England, inhaling the warmth of a newborn to soothe the sting of the tears building up, and writing, because what else am I supposed to do? Where do I start from?

I would love to gleefully mention that the last two years have been nothing short of phenomenal! But that is a mile away from the truth. It was a normal job with good days and bad days and in-between days. I was loved. I was hated. I was supported. I was sabotaged. Some people cared. Some were indifferent. That’s what happens in the real world, this is not a movie. I learnt the ropes pretty early and settled into routine, I learnt to love the job and occasionally, the people. The kind of love that comes from familiarity, like when you settled for the boyfriend that forgets your birthday because we’ve been together for long…

Yet, per contract, I showed up and clocked in, with a commitment to care. From remembering he preferred his medications with orange juice to keeping the promise to not let her die alone, mortal hands clasped with an immortal soul but lifeless body- I was fully present and happy to help. And I think that makes all the difference. But today was my last day. A sad end of a flawed chapter.

None of the colleagues I shared memories, swapped inconvenient shifts, rectified damning errors for or gave a hug on a bad day dared to hold eye contact, to acknowledge me in a dignifying way. Except, Bertha. As if extending compassion was going to betray a non-existent loyalty to capitalism.

It’s half 3, and a pre-schooler just ran up the couch and snuggled me. She has no idea that my world is crumbling and I’m ducking under flying debris without a rescuer in sight. She wrapped her tiny hands round my neck and told me for the umpteenth time that the baby is cute. I agree with her. When I first saw the baby, I was in awe and almost asked to take the baby home but that goes beyond the boundaries of reason. Her hands are a little too tight around my neck , I can barely breathe but it’s also soothing in a strange way, so I say nothing and hope she does not suffocate me.

By mercy, sad endings are often succeeded by beautiful beginnings. There’s zilch rainbow of a beautiful beginning in sight.

I won’t say I didn’t see it coming but the finality of it still had me dazed. My manager had spoken to me about their loss of sponsorship license and asked me to switch to a dependent visa and when I said I was alone in England, she gave a weary smile. Two more meetings and then the verdict arrived. It’s May 13th to everyone but today, the job I left Nigeria for has ended.

I want to bawl my eyes out and let the sobs choke me, perhaps, it’ll dissolve the heaviness on my chest but it would be really awkward and turn the attention towards me which would be inconveniencing for my host. So, I’ve saved it for the my shower-time tonight.

If you’re wondering how I got here, it actually began 6 months ago, if I want to sound like the overly-grateful woman giving testimony of a miraculous breakthrough in church, I would say, “it began in 1964 when ….” I don’t intend to annoy, I am writing to cope. How I wan take start?

The new year had rolled around with an answered prayer, a renewed certificate of sponsorship, popularly known as CoS. If you’re an immigrant in England and you don’t know what that means or have never needed it, you don’t know what the Lord has done for you.

For non-British nationals, the UK government set a guideline for overseas recruitment. First, a shortage occupation list, then, after confirming that there’s actually a shortage, they issue the employer a document to say, “yeah, go ahead and hire an alien”. And that, my friends is CoS. Something I always took for granted until I couldn’t. My company lost their license to sponsor which meant the CoS issued was invalid even when I had already applied for a visa and was awaiting a decision. This lagged for months, without an update. And by law, I was allowed to keep working while I hunted for other roles.

I’ve been offered warm food, cold food, a drink, a blanket, kind words, reassurance and for a moment I think Ogadinma, which is to say, everything will be alright. The pre-schooler has let go of my neck and I miss the warmth of her tiny hands. I want to say, keep holding on but I say nothing. It’s my heart that actually needs to keep holding on to God’s promises for a future and a hope. This morning, I read, “The mountains melt like wax before the Lord, before the Lord of all the earth.” Psalm97:5‬‬. And pictured a burning candle liquefy as fire runs down its string. I hope it comes true for me. I’m familiar with despair but this feels like a new low. And my sigh has been, God abeg.

Then, home office suddenly responded and I have to leave in 5 days, on or before May 18th. I am not allowed to stay except I have an employer that sponsors. The abruptness makes me want to scream in horror. I’m in conversations with an immigration lawyer and the cost of the “permission to stay”, lawyer bills inclusive is north of 6,000 British Pounds. When the counsel first came, I laughed to keep my mind within the confines of sanity. Because what in the…..???!!!!!

Since March, I have travelled far and wide to interview for new roles but they wouldn’t sponsor. The rules are strict. I can only be sponsored when there’s no indigenous person that can fill the role but have you seen the job market? My mummy said Jesus is bigger than the economy and I believe her. I also have a track record of God’s faithfulness to anchor my flailing boat. My life is a series of a million little miracles. My anchor has always held steadfast and sure!

My church members probably sigh silently each time I submit prayer requests for a CoS. But I won’t stop. I have not got enough faith to sustain continuous prayers. I will lean on theirs despite my fear of bothering them. Jesus hears those sighs too. Or they’re probably not sighing and it’s all in my mind.

Today, I lost my job and I have to leave the place I’ve called home for 3 years in 5 days. I have eaten everything offered because hunger complicates my emotions. My belly is full but my emotions are still tangled. I’m processing my thoughts the only way I know how to, write.

I am not sure how to scribble a conclusion when I’m tossed up in high winds but Ogadinma, everything is going to be alright.

Tutu mkpong.

Yours, through the stinging tears

Edima.