Diana has heard the same story too many times. A Temporary Protected Status (TPS) holder walks into an immigration office, forms in hand, seeking the stability that has eluded them for twenty years.
They’ve built a life in America, raised children who speak English better than their native language, started small businesses that employ their neighbours, and become the backbone of communities that now welcome them as their own.
Yet every eighteen months, they return to that same office, with uncertainty hanging over their heads like a storm cloud that never passes.
“TPS offers critical short-term protection,” explained Diana Konaté, policy director at African Communities Together, to a room full of advocates on Capitol Hill this past June.
“But it leaves recipients in a state of long-term uncertainty.” This contradiction protection without permanence captures the broader paradox of American immigration policy: We rely on immigrant communities to sustain our economy and enrich our culture, yet we refuse to offer them the security that would allow them to fully invest in our shared future.
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As the Trump administration begins to roll back TPS for Black-majority countries like Haiti and Cameroon, the larger question stands out: What is the fate of the Black immigrant in the United States? Even as the threat grows, local organisations continue to push forward.
At the State of the Union on Immigration forum hosted by the Nigerian Centre in collaboration with African Communities Together, CASA, and AsylumWorks, local immigrant issues took centre stage.
What stood out was the visible presence of Black immigration advocates, an image rarely seen in national immigration policy discourse. Too often, the conversation is narrowly focused on the U.S.–Mexico border, sidelining the lived realities of immigrants from Black-majority countries.
Marie Ngoegum, originally from Cameroon and representing CASA, spoke to the growing threat of mass deportation and the urgent need for immigrant families to have safety plans. “People are disappearing, and no one knows how to reach them,” she said.
Every weekend, she watches CASA youth leaders canvassing neighbourhoods, sharing survival tools and critical information with community members. “We organise clinics where we invite the immigrant community to talk about the challenges they’re facing,” she added.
Awel Abdu’s story embodies the shift from survival to leadership. “I was once a client of AsylumWorks,” he shared. “Now I serve as their legal navigation manager.” His journey from Ethiopian asylum seeker to advocate illustrates what’s possible when immigrant communities receive the resources and support they need: they become the leaders who transform broken systems.
While the Trump administration advances its latest immigration policy agenda, local organisations are grappling with the everyday realities immigrants face, from detention, family separation, housing insecurity, to the limbo of temporary status.
The reconciliation bill discussed at the forum further exposed the disconnect. While federal lawmakers push for increased enforcement and expedited deportation, immigrant-led organisations are doing the real work. They are offering legal assistance, housing support, and wraparound services that allow people not just to survive displacement, but to thrive despite it.
Since that Capitol Hill gathering, this disconnect has only deepened. Trump’s ‘One Big Beautiful Bill’, signed into law on July 4, brought $170 billion for enforcement with a goal of one million deportations annually.
Asylum application jumps from free to $100, work permits $550, fine $5,000
Asylum applications now cost $100 instead of being free. Work permits jumped to $550. Miss a court date? A $5,000 fine. Non-citizens face a 1 percent tax on money sent back home to their families. U.S. citizen children with undocumented parents lose the Child Tax Credit, while legal immigrants with TPS, DACA, and asylum status are cut from Medicaid, SNAP, and CHIP.
Adding to these burdens, US–Nigeria visa restrictions that took effect on July 8 now limit Nigerian applicants to single-entry visas valid for just three months, down from five years with multiple entries.
When advocates champion legislation like the Safe Environment from Countries Under Repression and Emergency (SECURE) Act, which would allow TPS holders to adjust to permanent residency, they aren’t simply asking for legal protection. They’re demanding recognition that temporary solutions to permanent problems are not solutions at all.
April Holloway, an immigration solicitor at the Nigerian Centre, emphasised that legal advocacy alone is not enough. Real change requires immigrant-led organisations to collaborate, share strategies, and build coalitions that reflect the full diversity and power of our communities.
