In the heart of Brazil, amidst the bustle of Guarulhos Airport, a disquieting experience unfolded for Nasike Akello that would challenge perceptions of safety and belonging in an unfamiliar land. Here begins Nasike Akello: my experience of racial profiling at a global airport.
What began as an ordinary travel day quickly spiraled into an unsettling encounter, sparking a profound dialogue about racial profiling and its far-reaching implications for individuals like Nasike Akello.
Upon arriving in São Paulo, Nasike approached the immigration counter like any other traveler. With her Kenyan passport in hand and all her documents in order, she expected nothing more than a routine entry process.
But what followed was anything but routine.
The immigration officer accepted her passport, looked up, then back down again—her expression unreadable, yet heavy with suspicion. She began flipping through the pages slowly, too slowly. Not searching for information, but for a reason. A reason to doubt. A reason to delay. A reason to treat Nasike differently.
Minutes passed in silence. No questions. No explanations. Just scrutiny.
Then another officer was called. Together, they inspected the passport like a puzzle needing solving—then walked off with it, leaving Nasike standing alone at the counter, her identity and freedom quite literally out of her hands.
Eventually, she was asked to follow one of them. She was led to a bench off to the side, where she found two Nigerian men and four Asian-looking men also seated—each of them travelers, each of them visibly “other.” This was part of Nasike Akello’s harrowing experience of racial profiling.
No white passengers. No European or North American passports. Just a quiet row of faces pulled aside for reasons never spoken.
What should have been a moment of welcome into a new country became a stark reminder of how power, race, and perception still intersect at global borders. Nasike had committed no crime. She had violated no law. Her only “offense” was fitting a profile drawn by systemic bias.
Though her passport was eventually returned and she was allowed entry, the emotional residue remained. This experience was not just about immigration policy—it was about dignity, belonging, and the persistent dehumanization faced by travelers from the Global South.
Nasike’s story is not an isolated one. It reflects a broader truth: that racial profiling continues to shape the experiences of people of color around the world, often in invisible or unspoken ways. And it reminds us that even in the most international of spaces—airports, meant to be gateways—they can still be made to feel like checkpoints of exclusion.
Here below is her story:
I was racially profiled in Brazil. Yo! At an international airport. Let me tell you this is the last thing I expected from this South American country. Of course, I was aware of the racism given their history, but I thought I would come here, do my work, dance a little samba and go home.
Shock on me!
At the immigration checkpoint in Aeroporto Internacional de Guarulhos, I handed over my Kenyan passport. The officer looked at it, then at me. Then back to the passport. She started flipping through the pages slowly, methodically as if trying to catch me in something.
After about ten minutes of silence and suspicion, she called over a colleague. They both scrutinized my passport without saying a word, then walked off with it.
I asked what the issue was.
They said, “Nothing.”
Let that sink in.
An African lady. In a foreign country. Separated from her passport. Given no reason. Just told to wait.
I followed them. They told me to stay put. I waited 30 minutes.
Eventually, one of them returned and asked me to follow her. She took me to a bench where two Nigerian men and four men who looked Asian were also seated, passport-less for the Nigerians.
The Nigerian next to me asked where I was from. I said “Kenya.” He nodded and went quiet.
We didn’t have to say it out loud. We all knew what was happening. And why. This moment was a part of Nasike Akello’s ongoing experience of racial profiling.
After sitting there for two minutes, I stood up and went to another immigration officer. The two who had taken my passport were nowhere to be found.
I asked the officer where they had taken it, he said he’d check. I waited again. Twenty more minutes gone.
Then came a man in jeans and a black T-shirt with a police badge, walking in with an immigration officer holding my passport. They walked straight past me and cleared the Asian-looking men first. Then they came to me.
Again, I asked, “What’s the problem? Is it my visa, is it the passport itself?”
Again, they said, “No problem.”
But we both knew that wasn’t true.
The female immigration officer then handed my passport to another desk to “clear me.” That officer too took her sweet time flipping through it, as if she was still trying to find an excuse to hold me back.
Meanwhile, I had a connecting flight in 30 minutes. I missed it. No explanation. No apology. Just quiet indifference.
Qatar Airways, to their credit, were understanding. They rebooked me on the next flight at 16:40 pm. By that point, I was drained mentally and physically.
And just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, I boarded my domestic Azul flight to Recife. There wasn’t a single announcement in English. Every time I asked what was being said by the pilot and the cabin crew, I was met with a blank stare that said “No English.”
I sat there in silence, completely shut out, hoping I’d at least get to my destination.
I finally reached my hotel in Recife 40 hours after leaving Nairobi. Humiliated. Exhausted. Angry.
Not because I did anything wrong.
But because I’m African.
Let’s call what it is: Racial Profiling.
This is how it works:
They isolate Black people, especially those of African origin whom they suspect of smuggling drugs. They hold you, delay you, let you miss your flights, and watch you. Why? Because they think you’ve swallowed drugs and they’re waiting for you to excrete them.
That’s the silent procedure.
Delay. Intimidate. Observe.
So let me ask:
Does being black/African automatically mean we must be drug traffickers?
Does carrying a Kenyan or Nigerian passport make us criminals by default?
This isn’t immigration control. It’s racial harassment dressed up as border security.
Yet this is the reality many African and Black travelers face. You don’t have to be guilty of anything, just black.
Embassy of Brazil in Nairobi, the Brazilian authorities at Guarulhos International Airport may not say it loud, but their actions speak volumes. They profile black people, they humiliate us and it needs to stop. #TravelingWhileBlack
Nasike Akello : My Experience of Racial Profiling at Brazil Airport
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