How belgium ebassy in Nigeria treated me

I had always fantasized the mood of the moment
when she will be deflowered – a bespectacled
fellow in starched shirts finally taking her virginity
inside a cubicle with such savagery as to leave, in
his wake, stains all over the sheet.
Or just one crisp masterstroke of the visa stamp
across a page of my virgin international passport.
But as I’m writing this behind my desk, I’m
threatening to burst at the seams with bitterness
and rage – bitter that I was denied an opportunity to
attend an event that, clearly, would have enhanced
my career as a journalist. And enraged that almost
two months after I submitted my passport for a visa
application to Brussels, it’s yet to be returned to me.
And repeated efforts to ascertain the status of my
application have yielded zilch.
From all intents and purposes, it is now clear to me
that the Belgians have abducted my international
passport and holding it hostage.
I say ‘abducted’ because since May 20th, when I
applied for a visa to travel to Brussels for a
seminar, I have not set my eyes on the booklet
again.
It all began on May 13th when I received an e-mail
from Marjan Tillmans, Project Manager at the
European Journalism Centre (EJC), informing me
that I had been confirmed to participate in the
seminar ‘The Common Visa Policy,’ scheduled for
June 16-17 in Brussels, Belgium.
The seminar was organized by the EJC in
conjunction with the Directorate General for Home
Affairs of the European Commission.
The mail further advised me to start my visa
application process “as soon as possible.”
And without waiting to be reminded a second time, I
went to work.
A couple of days later, I had assembled all the
documents required for the trip – personal
insurance cover, letter of introduction from my
organization, company bank statement, and other
basic requirements.
I removed my international passport from its
vantage point in my room where it had served as a
veritable artefact over the past three years.
With all the documents ready, I set out for the
Belgian Embassy Visa Application Centre at Lekki
Phase 1, Lagos, on the morning of May 20th to put
machineries in motion for the final deflowering of
the virgin.
I arrived the application centre to an army of touts
loitering outside the premises of the centre, made it
through the heavy security screening at the gate,
and climbed onto the third floor – the section for
visa application to the Schengen area.
“How may I help you sir,” a uniformed gentleman,
whose smile was so wide he looked like he was
going to burst into tears, greeted me.
“I wanna go to Belgium,” I replied.
“Ok sir. What’s your number?” He took the piece of
paper which had been given to me downstairs,
indicating my serial number, turned to a wooden
board propped against a wall and wrote ’57′ in the
section for Belgium.
There are just over half a dozen counters from
where smartly dressed staff attend to prospective
visa applicants. Two bank tellers sit inside their
cubicle at a corner in the hall. Beside the cubicles is
a photocopying desk where a lady performs the
task at N20 per copy.
About three uniformed men, including Mr. Smiley,
are stationed at strategic points to assist customers
when the need arises. And to also, as it appeared,
covertly solicit for tips; despite the almost graffiti-
size inscription all over the walls in the hall that no
staff should solicit for money from any customer.
I counted about a dozen people going to France;
twice that number were processing for Spain.
I was the only one going to Belgium.
A young man seated beside me, a teacher in one of
the schools in Lekki, was on his way to Spain for
the Summer holiday.
I asked him: “Why aren’t people going to Belgium?
Why is everyone going to Spain?”
“It’s probably because there’s nothing in Belgium,”
he replied.
The lady behind one of the counters called out my
number.
After tendering all the requested documents before
the lady, we ran into murky waters.
It was my passport photograph.
Actually, I had taken extra precautions to come
along with six different passport photographs of
various shapes and sizes.
But as it turned out, the six were not enough.
“Sir, these passports do not meet the specification,”
the lady behind the counter told me.
“You mean none of these passports?…” I asked,
incredulous.
“Yes sir.”