It was the first week of October 2024.
Peter had grown to really like Bayode.
There was something about the man that Peter had come to respect. At first, he only knew him as the welfare president of the church. Then he discovered that Bayode had other commitments outside the church.
He was always somewhere.
Helping someone.
Speaking to someone.
Connecting someone to someone else.
There was a community Bayode was involved with that supported people who were waiting for decisions on their asylum or Further Leave to Remain applications.
The main programme held on the first Saturday of every month brought people together. Some were waiting for asylum decisions. Others were waiting for decisions on applications they had made after their previous immigration routes had come to an end.
There were also volunteer lawyers and advisers who came around.
They did not make a show of who they were.
They listened.
People told their stories.
Then, through Bayode, they were guided on what steps they could take and what questions they should ask about their cases.
Peter found that interesting.
He wanted to see it for himself.
So, on a cool October morning, Bayode picked him up from home.
As Peter got into the car, he smiled.
“You really have plenty of things going on,” he said.
Bayode laughed.
“I told you. Church is only one part of my life.”
“I am beginning to see that.”
“You wanted to understand what happens to people after they enter the system.”
Peter nodded.
“Yes.”
“Then come and listen.”
Peter looked out of the window as they drove.
“I want to hear from them directly.”
“You will.”
“And these are people who have been waiting?”
“Some of them.”
“For how long?”
Bayode looked at him briefly.
“That depends.”
“Months?”
“Sometimes.”
“Years?”
Bayode nodded.
“Sometimes years.”
By the end of June 2024, 118,882 people were waiting for an initial asylum decision in the UK.
Peter was quiet.
When they arrived, people were already coming in.
They came in twos and threes.
Some greeted Bayode warmly. Others walked in quietly and found seats.
There were about twenty people in the room.
Black and Brown men and women.
Some had come from work.
Some had come from home.
Some looked tired.
Some looked like they had been carrying something heavy for a very long time.
Peter sat quietly beside Bayode.
He did not know what to expect.
The room did not look like an immigration office.
There were no counters.
No security officers.
No Home Office signs.
Just people.
People waiting.
Bayode stood up.
“Let’s just make this simple,” he said. “Nobody is here to judge anybody. We listen first. Then we see what options are available.”
One of the volunteers introduced herself.
She did not say she was a lawyer.
She simply said she was there to listen.
A man spoke first.
Then a woman.
Then another man.
Different stories.
Different routes.
Different problems.
But Peter began to notice something.
Many of them had not entered Britain through an asylum route.
They had come through other immigration routes.
Bayode later explained that, in that room, fifteen of the twenty had come through work or study routes before finding themselves in the asylum or further leave system.
Their stories were not identical.
But there were similarities.
Some had lost jobs.
Some said their employers had refused to renew their sponsorship.
Some had complained about unpaid wages.
Some had raised concerns about working conditions.
Others said they had challenged employers over issues they described as exploitation or modern-day slavery.
And when the visa attached to their previous route could no longer continue, they were left with difficult choices.
Find another sponsor.
Find another lawful route.
Or risk becoming an overstayer.
Peter listened.
He knew how difficult that choice could be.
He had been through his own period of migration uncertainty.
He understood what happened when a person did not have a CoS and could not find another lawful route quickly.
It was not simply paperwork.
It was survival.
One of the volunteers leaned forward.
“It is important to understand something,” she said. “People do not always move from one immigration route to another because they want to. Sometimes they are responding to circumstances that have changed around them.”
Peter looked at the people sitting around the room.
Then he noticed a man sitting alone.
He looked to be in his forties.
Bayode noticed Peter looking at him.
“That is Tade,” he said.
“What happened to him?”
Bayode paused.
“You should hear it from him.”
Tade was eventually invited to speak.
He sat forward.
For a few seconds, he said nothing.
Then he began.
“I came here to work.”
Peter listened.
“I worked in care.”
“For how long?” someone asked.
“Two years.”
He paused again.
“I thought I was doing everything right.”
His voice was calm.
Almost too calm.
“I was working. I was paying tax. I was sending money home.”
Peter looked at him.
Then Tade continued.
“The problem started with my employer.”
He explained that there were issues with his pay.
He said he was not receiving the full amount he believed he was entitled to.
There were also disagreements about holidays.
“When I asked for my holiday, I was told if I wanted it, it would be unpaid.”
Someone in the room shook their head.
Tade continued.
“I complained.”
Peter could hear the frustration in his voice now.
“I challenged him because it was my money. My rights.”
He looked down at his hands.
“After that, things changed.”
“What happened?” Peter asked.
Tade looked up.
“They told me they would not renew my visa.”
The room became quiet.
“I had already spent about ten thousand pounds getting the visa and everything around it.”
Peter’s face changed.
“And after two years, they told you it would not be renewed?”
“Yes.”
“Because you complained?”
“That is what it felt like.”
Tade swallowed.
“I did not have another ten thousand pounds.”
Nobody spoke.
“I did not want to become an overstayer,” he continued. “So I applied for asylum.”
Peter looked at Bayode.
Bayode said nothing.
Tade explained that he had made his application before his existing permission expired.
That meant section 3C leave kept his previous immigration permission alive while the application was being considered.
But his situation was not simple.
His employment had already broken down.
He could not simply walk into another job and carry on as though nothing had happened.
And because his asylum claim had only been waiting for eight months, he had not reached the usual point at which an asylum seeker can apply for permission to work because an initial decision has not been made.
“So what did you do?” Peter asked.
Tade smiled sadly.
“What could I do?”
He explained that agency work was difficult to find and the shifts were not regular.
Sometimes he could go weeks without enough work.
Sometimes longer.
“There was one period when I had almost three months without proper work.”
Peter stared at him.
“My wife is in Nigeria,” Tade continued.
“She has three children.”
Peter lowered his head.
“They depend on me.”
He paused.
“When you are not working, what do you send home?”
Nobody answered.
“Nothing.”
Tade looked around the room.
“And that is when everything started falling apart.”
His rent became difficult to pay.
Eventually, he could no longer afford the rent and had to leave the apartment.
He had nowhere to go.
A church he had been connected to stepped in and allowed him to sleep there at night.
During the day, he moved around looking for work.
Sometimes he took work that was not lawful because he was desperate.
He knew the risk.
But desperation does not always wait for permission.
“For food,” he said, “I went to the food bank.”
Peter’s eyes began to water.
“I cooked at the church sometimes.”
He paused.
“They helped me.”
His voice became softer.
“The church helped me get another place to live.”
Peter looked at him.
“They found a house for me.”
He paused again.
“And they have been paying the rent every month.”
Peter looked away.
He wiped his face.
Tade continued.
“After some time, I decided I could not continue with the asylum claim.”
“Why?” Peter asked.
“I did not know how long I would wait.”
He looked exhausted.
“So I withdrew and applied for FLR.”
“Still waiting?”
Tade nodded.
“Still waiting.”
Peter could no longer hold himself together.
He stood up.
He walked towards Tade.
Then he hugged him.
“I am sorry,” Peter whispered.
Tade held him.
“It is okay.”
“No,” Peter said. “It is not okay.”
The room remained silent.
Peter stepped back.
“You will be alright.”
Tade nodded.
But nobody in the room knew when “alright” would come.
When the meeting ended, people stayed behind in small groups.
Some spoke to the volunteers.
Some spoke to Bayode.
Others simply sat quietly.
Peter said very little.
On the way home, he stared through the car window.
Bayode drove.
After several minutes, Peter finally spoke.
“How many people are living like this?”
Bayode sighed.
“More than you think.”
“Waiting for years?”
“Some.”
“For decisions?”
“Yes.”
Peter shook his head.
“So they leave one system and enter another.”
Bayode looked at him.
“What do you mean?”
“They come here through work. Something happens. Their visa ends. They try asylum. Then they wait. Then they apply for something else. Then they wait again.”
Bayode was quiet.
Peter continued.
“It feels like a trap.”
Bayode did not answer immediately.
Then he said, “Peter, these are everyday realities.”
He paused.
“This is what migration in the West has become for many people.”
Peter looked at him.
“Between the systems in Britain and the systems people came from, people are the ones being affected.”
Peter said nothing.
Bayode dropped him off at home.
Sola was waiting.
“How was it?” she asked.
Peter walked inside.
He sat down.
“Peter?”
“I am fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
He looked at her.
“I met someone today.”
“Who?”
“Tade.”
“What happened?”
Peter tried to explain.
But the words did not come.
He could not eat.
Sola sat beside him.
“You cannot carry everybody’s problem on your head,” she said gently.
“I know.”
“Then eat something.”
Peter shook his head.
“I am not hungry.”
Sola looked at him.
“You have to eat.”
Peter smiled faintly.
“I will.”
But he didn’t.
Later that evening, Peter sat quietly in the sitting room.
He kept thinking about Tade.
About the money.
The work.
The visa.
The complaint.
The waiting.
The rent.
The food bank.
The church.
The wife.
The three children.
And the question that kept returning to his mind.
Why did people have to leave one system only to enter another system that looked like a trap?
His thoughts were interrupted by Sola’s phone.
A message had arrived.
She picked it up.
It was from David.
Sola read it once.
Then again.
Her face changed.
Peter noticed.
“What is it?”
Sola kept reading.
“It is David.”
“What does he want?”
She hesitated.
Then she looked at the message again.
THE TRAP CONTINUES…
