I wake before dawn, with Phuket on my mind. Its memory is a candle in the dark: translucent green water, soft sand under my feet, laughter drifting from the market stalls. Last year’s Bali was easy—digital visa, a day’s wait, and everything fell into place. Bali felt like home then. But Phuket was different. It haunted me.

I planned my return: August, seven days in Phuket, five in Bali for a friend’s birthday. Flights paid, hotel booked, itinerary pinned. I logged in to apply for the Thailand visa, hopeful again. A simple form—until it wasn’t.

“Please submit hotel booking in your name, photograph, bank statements, pay slips, signed contract, letters notarized and legalized…” The list came like a decree. I stared at it. My heart fluttered—not fear, but disbelief.

Still, I gathered everything. I had faith. Signed documents in my name. Clean photo on white. Certified bank statements. Notarized letters. They asked for legalisation by the Ministry—I sent that too.

Then—they emailed again. The same letters. The same photo on white. Again. I felt irritation rise: I had given all they asked already.

Why must I prove so much? I ask in my head, the suspicion twisting, growing like a vine. I complied again.

But each new demand chipped a piece from me. Pride, patience, expectation. A photograph correction here. Another stamp there. A legalized copy. Another certified copy.

I fell asleep one evening realizing: I was tired of paperwork more than excited about the journey. The image of Phuket—once clear and vibrant—blurred. I imagined bookmarks filled with legal seals, not surfboards.

Then—another email: certified bank statements again. That was it. The final blow. I couldn’t endure another upload. My heartbeat slowed. The brightness of the plan faded.

I closed the tab. I thought: Why am I fighting to earn the right to step on foreign sand? I turned to Vietnam’s visa instead—easier, less draining.

In the silence that followed, I recognized this was not mere inconvenience. This was the cost of my passport. The African passport—thin paper, invisible burden. A minor dream taxed by major suspicion.

I think: It must suck to hold an African passport. While others click and pass, I token through ministries and notaries and ministries again.

Each email was a small sentence—a weight. Each certification—a cage. I never wanted bureaucratic proof; I wanted movement. I wanted Phuket’s waves again.

Now the dream is quiet. And I sit by the window, wondering: when will travel stop being a trial?

—

Reflection
Citizens of many African nations face this quiet injustice: visa barriers that sap the joy before the journey even begins. As recent reporting shows, African passports open the door to low‑level trauma—endless fees, invasive documents, emotional tax on desire to move, to visit, to belong.

We speak of digital progress. Some countries—Rwanda, Kenya, Benin, Gambia, Seychelles—are moving toward intra-African visa-free travel.  But until global systems catch up, many African travelers remain trapped in a Kafkaesque loop, their appetite for travel whittled down by forms and fear.