Europe Says No: The $Millions of Africans Lose Chasing Visas They’ll Never Get

By Adonis Byemelwa

It’s a question that’s been asked in hushed tones at embassies, murmured in waiting rooms, and echoed across social media timelines: why is it so hard for an African to get a European visa?

The statistics are revealing, and frankly, disheartening. Nigerians submitted 111,201 applications for Schengen visas last year, paying €90 apiece—a cost that doesn’t just bite, it bleeds, especially considering that 46% of them were denied.

That’s over $5 million in non-refundable fees, lost not to travel or experience, but to the opaque machinery of a system that seldom explains its rejections. Kenya, a country often viewed as a regional hub of stability and international diplomacy, saw 66,329 applicants, 29% of whom were turned away.

That’s nearly $2 million gone. And in Comoros, of fewer than 3,000 applicants, only 37% were approved. The message from the numbers is chillingly clear: even when Africans play by the rules, the game remains stacked against them.

Marta Foresti and the team at LAGO-COLLECTIVE have dug into the data, drawing disturbing correlations between a country’s GDP and its visa rejection rates. The poorer the country, the higher the rejection rate.

It’s a pattern that doesn’t merely suggest bias—it screams structural inequality. And it’s not just an administrative inconvenience; it’s a blunt economic and psychological blow to those who save, apply, and are left with nothing but a silent “no.”

Amid these frustrations, people are speaking out. Some, like Barack Yunus, a software developer, don’t mince words: “What are you even going to do in Europe with no skills in any job but hard labor?” It’s a harsh take, one that reveals a deep cynicism even within African communities about who deserves access and why.

But others are asking bigger questions, like Sarah Garrod Massengill, a data scientist, who pushes for a broader view: “I see what you’re trying to say, but I think there’s another side to show—visa data from around the world. I want to believe the picture you’re painting, but I have questions.”

Her skepticism isn’t hostility—it’s a reflection of how complicated and obscured this issue has become. Even those who want to believe are forced to dig through a fog of missing context and diplomatic double-speak. The truth, it seems, lies somewhere between policy and perception.

Then there’s the economic angle—a cynical but inescapable reality. “Hell of a lot of money is being made from visa and English test fees,” observed Toheeb Azeez, a farmer with a finger on the pulse of public sentiment.

His point is that the rigidity of the process may not be accidental. There’s money to be made in disappointment, especially when there's no obligation to refund rejected applicants. It begins to feel less like screening and more like a racket.

What makes all of this even more infuriating is how arbitrary it often feels. As Osong Christian Tebei, a logistics and procurement specialist, put it: “Visa approval is always discretionary; reasons for denial are most times vague.”

You can tick every box and still be denied, with no clear explanation. That sense of being judged by an invisible hand, of playing a game where the rules shift without warning, is what truly breaks the spirit of many would-be travelers.

There’s also the deep hypocrisy of it all. Michael Ross, a CEO advocating for clean energy and community empowerment, suggests a tit-for-tat strategy: “All African countries should start rejecting EU citizens’ visa applications at the rate they reject ours.” It’s a provocative idea—unlikely to gain diplomatic traction, but emotionally satisfying in a world where fairness feels like a luxury.

But the most poignant critique comes from within Africa itself. “Africans cannot cry over European visa rejection when it is only Kenya, or so that is visa-free to fellow Africans,” someone pointed out.

 In other words, Europe’s gates may be locked, but Africa’s borders are often little better. “If the doors to Europe are slammed on our faces, will Mama Africa also do the same to her people?” they ask, invoking a powerful Igbo proverb: “Onye ajulu, adi aju onwe ya”—he who is rejected by others must not reject himself.

So, why is it so hard for an African to get a European visa? The answers are layered in economics, politics, and prejudice.

Nonetheless, at its core, this isn’t just about paperwork or policy—it’s about dignity. It’s about the quiet humiliation of being told, again and again, that your passport isn’t good enough, your dreams aren’t big enough, your intentions aren’t trustworthy enough. And perhaps that’s what makes the rejection sting the most: not just the lost money, not even the lost opportunity, but the feeling that your humanity was never part of the equation.