It’s like I’m already back in Africa. Two weeks ago, at Nigerian Consulate in New York City: “So can I get my visa today?”
“Where’s your invitation?”
“I don’t have an invitation. I just want to go to Nigeria as a tourist.”
“You don’t know anybody?”
“No. I’m a tourist.”
“In order to get a tourist visa, you have to be invited by a Nigerian citizen.”
“Your tourism industry is run like a skanky P.Diddy party?”
(Lady behind plate glass ignores question, examines fingernails)
“How long does it take to get a journalist’s visa?”
“Nobody really knows. The lady who used to do visas stopped working here last month. Even if you had a invitation, I don’t know how long it would take to get a tourist visa. We have to do everything through Lagos.”
“You have no visa person at your consulate. And you have no idea how long it will take to file a visa request. But you’re requiring that I book a flight before I apply for a visa, and that I hand over my passport for as long as it takes for you to do your thing?”
“And we need $100 money order.” Response: Poopgrin.
So no Nigeria as yet. Instead, I spent last week on the phone to the Embassy of the Republic of Kenya in DC: “So if I send you my passport tomorrow, with the extra ten dollars for rush delivery, you guys will get my visa to me by Friday, right?”
“Friday? With a rush? Sure.”
“Because I’ve got a ticket booked for Monday.”
“No way should this be a problem.”
Jump forward to Friday. Type in the FedEx number on my self-addressed envelope and: NO RECORD FOR THAT TRACKING NUMBER. What the dimmy? Call the DC Kenyans, at the same number I’ve called half a dozen times this week.
BooDooWeep. Ma Bell: “All circuits are busy. Please try your call again later. Sixty nine dash three.” BooDooWeep, all day, all weekend.
And so rather than packing tonight, I caught the final episode of Trite Shitheap of a Show Set in the City. This finale stayed true to formula: start with navelgazing, then zoom into a crescendo of vacuous navelbanging. I never understood: was the main character supposed to look like an overfemmed tranny?
And no, I have no idea what happened to my comments section this time. If you refresh the page, the comments sometimes magically reappear.
A daddy blog.