At my door: a young man in jogging pants, wearing a hat. I was about to eat. Let him in instead.

He was the first of the young Africans to show up in this part of my life. Three years ago. Four? I helped him through his lessons. Helped him write his first official letters. Watched him handle a first job, an apartment, a budget. Now, at residency permit renewal time, everything grinds to a halt, again.  Catch-22 time is back: while awaiting renewal of the permit, he gets a receipt that says he can’t work. But if he doesn’t work, he’s subject to deportation. “What happens next?” he asks the clerk. “Next, you’re in deep shit,” she answers.

He’s used to deep shit, so he hangs on. Makes phone calls. Visits offices. Goes back again. (“What, you here? Didn’t I tell you…”).  Hangs on. Goes to Paris when they say he needs a passport now. A biometric one. Except the folks in his country of origin don’t have enough cash for biometric machines everywhere they’re needed. So the civil servant travels around with his biometric machine. You miss him, you wait for the next visit.

And so on. And since his boss is going through a tight spot, he can only renew his contract for eight months. Chances are his residency permit will be adjusted to the duration of his contract. Therefore, eight months from now: end of contract, end of residency permit.

With luck, they’ll deliver a 4-year permit. Luck is a notion we like to talk about – a notion that sets off gales of hilarity because the damn thing is so fickle, what else can you do but laugh?

I mentioned some of the hard times another boy is going through right now. He agreed with me: back home is a load of problems, and over here is a load of problems too. So choose which load you’ll take on, and keep moving.

He was wearing the hat I offered him as a graduation gift. He’s no longer with his girlfriend, but living with a buddy. He was sad to learn my dog had died but happy to hear two kids he knew are safe in a Child Protection Home.

Then he left with the promise he’d keep me posted. I ate supper, and wrote this. Will I send off another query letter tonight? It’s half past nine. Either that or read, and mail off another first thing in the morning.