It was difficult to get to the Immigration Tribunal.
As usual, waiting for the bus was painful. It might arrive, or it might not, and the waiting itself began to feel like a cruel kind of lottery. The stop was half-broken, the wind sharp, and every passing minute made the trip ahead feel heavier.
Finally, the bus popped up over the hill like a miracle with bad timing. I boarded quickly, relieved, but that relief didn’t last. Not long after, the driver pulled to a hard stop and got out.
“A roadblock,” he muttered, half to himself, half to anyone listening. A narrow road. Two vehicles face-to-face. Neither would budge. And our driver—stubborn, proud—refused to reverse. “They can back up,” he said, folding his arms.
We weren’t going anywhere.
So I got off. There was no time to lose. The bike was a TfL bike, available at a TfL-like station. I unlocked it and started pedaling. The wind pushed against me, cold and heavy, but I was moving. At least that.
By the time I reached the court building, my hands were numb and my legs were stiff. I chained the bike and headed inside. Of course, the lift was slow—as always. When it finally arrived, it had just gone up, so I waited again, watching the glowing numbers descend like molasses.
Eventually, I reached the interpreters’ room. A queue of five people greeted me, but I was relieved. I was there. If they said I was late, I could dispute it, point to the queue, the lift, the blocked road. I had receipts—if not literal, then at least lived.
“Room 19,” they told me.
I waited again. An hour, maybe more. Then the appellant arrived. Nervous, pale, carrying the weight of something far heavier than lateness.
The Home Office representative, a man in glasses with a heavy binder, sat across from the barrister, both quietly preparing to perform the roles carved out for them.
When the judge entered—her face focused, eyes already scanning the file—there was a moment of stillness. She asked for clarification.
“There’s been a miscommunication,” the barrister explained. “My client expected his solicitor today. He didn’t realise I’d be the one speaking for him.”
The appellant—a thin, nervous man in his 30s—nodded slightly. He spoke simply. “I’ve made mistakes,” he said, voice low. “But I’m working hard now. I earn well. I love my children. I used to see them... before I went to prison.”
There were allegations of threats—toward his mother and stepfather. He denied them quietly. “We’re close,” he said.
They confirmed it.
His mother told the judge how she had tried to help, had fought to get him support as addiction tightened its grip. She had been told to submit a statement against him, believing it would serve as a step toward recovery. “But it wasn’t used to help,” she said bitterly. “It was used to cage him.”
The stepfather agreed. “We’re close. He needs another chance.”
Even the mother of his children, composed but clear, spoke in his favour. “I don’t want to be with him,” she said, “but I brought the kids here today. They need him. That’s why I’m here.”
The Home Office rep held his ground. “He’s a criminal. There’s no remorse. He can maintain contact with his children from his home country.”
But the barrister leaned forward. “He has remorse. He’s committed to change. He promised his daughter he’d be there for her. That’s not just sentiment—it’s a commitment. A reason to believe he’s changed.”
The issue of race came up—words said in anger at a police station.
The appellant looked down. “I was out of control. But I’m not a racist. That’s not who I am.”
At one point, his eyes turned to me. He didn’t speak, but the question was clear: Will I be allowed to stay?
I looked at him and shook my head gently. “I’m not allowed to give advice.”
But I felt the question deeper than that. It was about more than status.
He was stuck—like I’d been on the bus. But for him, it wasn’t just traffic. It was his past. His record. A system that didn’t always listen. People who refused to move, to make room, to believe change was real.
He wasn’t asking for perfection. He was asking for a path forward. For movement. For compassion in a world that often led with suspicion.
And that was that.
Another day at the Immigration Tribunal. Another story caught between failure and hope. Another man, waiting—for a judgment, for a chance, for the world to budge just enough to let him through.
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or to actual events, is purely coincidental. The story does not refer to any individuals I have met, any cases I have worked on, or any real-life events I have been part of. All characters, dialogues, and situations are entirely imagined for the purposes of storytelling.
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