I nearly canceled this trip. America, once a beacon of warmth and freedom, now feels like a place transformed—grotesquely so, in recent months. As a journalist, I’ve long known the absurdity of our profession: we chase the endless news cycle, convinced the world would end without us. But after 60, I decided to step back, to rediscover what normal life feels like. So, I rested my column for three weeks and headed to the U.S., a country where even a visit has become a labyrinth of restrictions and uncertainty.
The visa process has become a nightmare. Since January, Nigeria has been on a partial travel restriction list, joining 14 other African nations. Getting an interview date can take months, if not a year. I’m lucky—I hold a five-year visa issued three years ago, before Donald Trump’s second term reshaped everything. Now, non-immigrant visas are single-entry, three-month affairs, with vetting that might require your grandmother’s wisdom tooth. And from June, consular posts may shrink, raising costs and limiting access further.
But a valid visa is no guarantee. U.S. airports see over 200,000 foreign visitors daily, but scrutiny has intensified since 2025. Customs officers can search your phone, review your social media posts. Last year, over 55,000 electronic-device searches were conducted. I recall the revocation of Wole Soyinka’s visa—Africa’s first Nobel laureate—for criticizing Trump. And just days before my trip, Somali FIFA referee Omar Abdulkadir Artan had his visa revoked on arrival, accused of terrorist links he denies.
I landed at Houston International Airport on June 10, after a grueling 16-hour journey. Approaching border security, I felt that knot in your stomach—like visiting an old friend who’s become the neighborhood bully. But the Customs officer surprised me. He flagged me for a small packet of velvet tamarin in my luggage, but the encounter was warm, courteous, professional. Other officers in Houston and Florida gave me a glimmer of hope. Perhaps the FIFA 2026 World Cup spirit is softening the mood.
Still, I’ve made promises to myself: I won’t drive, even if I could. I won’t walk the streets without my passport. This America is theirs now, not the one I once loved. My old teacher might have been right—journalists will always be here, telling the fraught story of what happened in their America to those in another.
