A marriage of inconvenience

Christine Aziz married for love - then Immigration stepped in

LIFE HAS been hell since we married. When the registrar pronounced us man and wife I was unaware that a third party had suddenly stepped in between us like a shadow. It wasn't until I visited the Immigration Office in Croydon two weeks after our marriage that our mnage trois with the British government became apparent.

Kojo is from the Ivory Coast, and we met two years ago in Africa while I was working as a journalist. We married in February last year, during one of his visits to England. We were in love; it was not a marriage of convenience. Navely, I believed that as I was a British citizen, Kojo would be able to live with me here.

Two weeks after the wedding I arrived early in the morning to join a long queue which stretched the length of the Immigration Office. I presented the necessary papers, proof of earnings and accommodation, marriage and birth certificates, our passports, and a form we had previously filled in answering questions such as: How, where and when had we met? When did we decide to get married? Why did we marry when we did? Plus details of previous marriages, etcetera. I believed we met all the Home Office requirements. Then a throwaway comment from behind the thick glass at Counter Seven hinted at what lay ahead. "Of course you realise your husband may not be allowed to stay," the immigration officer said. She returned my passport but kept my husband's. We should ring in several weeks' time to see how his application was proceeding. In the meantime he would not be allowed to work, and he could not leave the country. As long as he wanted to stay with me, until the Home Office resolved the matter, Kojo was in effect being held prisoner.

I kept ringing Croydon to check our applications. Several weeks later I was told the papers, including Kojo's passport, were lost. Finally I was told the papers had been found and passed on to Case Working Party Number Five. While I worked to support us, Kojo passed the time learning English and discovered where to buy African food and French newspapers.

He felt frustrated and humiliated. When he arrived to visit me we hadn't planned to get married - and now he was unable to return to sort out the business he had left behind.

By May we were beginning to question the delay. The Home Office apparently did not suspect us of being a marriage of convenience. But by then we were better informed. The issue was not whether or not our marriage was bona fide, but why my husband had married me. "The Home Office can agree that you married for love and that you will spend the rest of your lives together," said one immigration adviser. "But the Immigration Office can say that under the `primary purpose' ruling of the Immigration Act, the primary purpose of your marriage was for your husband to obtain entry into the UK, and refuse him permission to remain here on those grounds. The onus is then on you both to prove otherwise." The adviser added: "Your husband is black and of working age. I'd say you don't stand a chance."

Suddenly life was on hold. We were unable to plan for the future. We slept poorly. I couldn't concentrate on my work. Kojo lost his appetite and weight and began to suffer from headaches. Under the stress we began to bicker over petty things.

Each time I rang Working Party Number Five I was told the application was still under consideration. Apparently there were two ways to bypass the primary rule: have a baby or move to another European Union country. Under the EU's rules on family unity, whole families are able to move when an EU national takes up a job in another member state (whether or not the other family members are EU nationals).

After a minimum period of six months, the foreign spouse can return with his British partner (those from countries where a visa is needed to visit the UK require a family permit). Under EU rulings he can then apply for a resident's permit (which lasts for five years and is renewable), allowing him to live and work in the UK. Fed up with waiting for a positive Home Office response and fearful that it would be negative, I went to look for work in Amsterdam.

On my return I was shocked at how gaunt and ill Kojo had become. He had received news that his father was ill and wanted to return home to visit him. Eight months after our marriage, he requested the return of his passport so that he could fly to Abidjan. The officer dealing with our case reminded him that withdrawal of his passport meant a withdrawal of his application and that he would have to re-apply from the Ivory Coast. This could take up to four years or more.The officer made a final request. Could we supply proof that we were living together? She suggested we send her bills or letters addressed to us, and details of his bank account. I pointed out that Kojo was unable to work, so how could he pay the bills? He was not allowed to open an account unless he had a visa to stay. We managed to find a few envelopes and sent them off.

As we prepared to leave for the Netherlands, Kojo was given permission to live and work in Britain for a year, at the end of which he would have to re-apply. The news hardly lifted his spirits: he was too emotionally exhausted and disillusioned, while I felt too bitter and angry to be pleased. We left.

Since our ordeal, I have heard of many more Britons like myself, who have had worse experiences trying to get their foreign spouses to remain in or to enter the UK. It is especially hard for black Britons. Many marriages break up under the strain.

The anger remains. It has been a painful wrench leaving family and friends, who keep asking when we are going to come back. It will probably be when our anger subsides and when we have a government that does not punish its citizens for whom they choose to love.