My name is Tanyi, and I’m from the Northwest region of Cameroon. If you asked me a few years ago what my dreams were, I would have told you I wanted to teach English in my hometown. I never imagined I’d flee my country, end up stranded on an island I had never heard of, and eventually fight my way through borders and bureaucracy to reach safety in the United States. This is the story of how war forced me from my home, how lies left me trapped in Antigua, and how, by nothing short of a miracle, I eventually made it here. ⸻ Fleeing the Flames of War I was raised in Bamenda, the capital of Cameroon’s Anglophone Northwest region. Before the crisis, it was a peaceful place, with friendly people, mountain views, and a thriving market scene. But everything changed in 2016, when protests erupted over the government’s decision to impose French-speaking teachers and judges on our English-speaking schools and courts. At first, it was just peaceful marches. But the government didn’t listen. Instead, soldiers fired on demonstrators. I was there when they shot at us. I saw people fall. That was when I knew this was no longer just about language—it had become a matter of survival. Over the next months, our towns became war zones. Armed separatists began demanding independence for Ambazonia, while the military responded with airstrikes, arrests, and village burnings. My cousin was taken by soldiers and never returned. One of my neighbors was accused of aiding the separatists and was executed in front of his children. When I started getting death threats for attending community meetings, I knew it was time to leave. I sold everything I had and fled to Nigeria. From there, I connected with a man who said he could help me reach America—a country I heard had given temporary protection to Cameroonians. He said I just had to fly to Antigua first, and they’d arrange the rest. I had never heard of Antigua before that day. ⸻ Trapped in the Caribbean The man who arranged my trip made it sound easy. “It’s just a stopover,” he said. “From there, we’ll get you to Nicaragua or Colombia, and you can walk up through Central America to the U.S. border.” It cost me $5,800—everything I had. I boarded a charter flight with dozens of other Cameroonians. There were men, women, even children. Everyone was hopeful. But the moment we landed in Antigua, I realized something was wrong. There was no one there to receive us. No connecting flights. No one with our names on a list. Days passed. Then weeks. We started asking questions. The travel agents had vanished. The flights were one-way tickets. We had been abandoned in paradise, with no food, no jobs, no idea what would happen next. Antigua is a beautiful island, but we were not tourists. We slept in parks, empty houses, or under trees. Some people begged. Others tried to work informally, but most employers wouldn’t hire us. We were invisible. Stranded. The local people were kind, but the government didn’t know what to do with us. Officials admitted they hadn’t realized our charter flights were part of a scam. They suspended the flights but did little to help us. Some Cameroonians tried to organize. We formed small support groups, sharing food and contacts. But depression hit hard. One woman I knew tried to take her own life. Another had a miscarriage. We were fleeing trauma only to find more of it. ⸻ The Long Road to America After four months in Antigua, I connected with a local church group that helped me raise money for a plane ticket to Ecuador, one of the few countries that still allowed Cameroonians entry without a visa. From there, I began the overland journey that so many African migrants take—one filled with danger, hunger, and heartbreak. I crossed through Colombia and entered the Darién Gap, a lawless jungle between Colombia and Panama. I walked through that rainforest for five days, drinking river water and sleeping on mud. I saw corpses—people who had drowned or been robbed and left to die. At one point, bandits took all my belongings, even my shoes. I kept walking barefoot. In Panama, I was detained briefly and then released. From there, I passed through Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Honduras, Guatemala, and Mexico. Each border was a test. Each day was a gamble. When I finally reached the U.S.-Mexico border in Tijuana, I thought the worst was over. But it wasn’t. I waited two months to apply for asylum under the metering system. When I finally crossed, I was detained by ICE for nearly six months in Texas. It was cold. The food was terrible. They treated us like criminals. But I was alive. With the help of immigrant advocacy organizations, I was released and given a court date. Today, I live in Maryland, working odd jobs, learning English, and trying to rebuild. My asylum case is still pending. I wake up every day with both hope and fear. ⸻ Reflections from the Other Side I think often of those still trapped in Antigua. Many are still waiting, still living in limbo. Others have vanished. Some have died. We were caught in a web of political conflict, global indifference, and exploitation. We fled a war that no one talks about. The world barely knows what is happening in Cameroon. We took a journey that no one should have to take. And still, we’re asked to prove we deserve protection. I didn’t come here for a better life. I came here to stay alive. If I could ask the world one thing, it would be this: see us. See Cameroon. See the forgotten. We are not numbers. We are not burdens. We are human beings, and we are still fighting to be free.