Dayo Akinbode: How Can We Build a World Where Access Is Not Defined by a Passport?

I should be celebrating right now. But instead, I am sitting here, heart heavy, mind swirling with emotions I can not quite name. Emotions ranging from pride, frustration, weariness, and, maybe, grief. A strange mix of joy for how far I have come and sorrow for the battles fought just to reach this point. Only nine runners in the world are known to have completed a marathon in countries representing every letter of the English alphabet from A to Z. Well, except X, because there is not yet a country starting with the letter X. 

Eight men. One woman. I am that woman. A Nigerian daughter, running with a low-mobility passport, armed with determination and dreams, not privilege.

But running the marathons themselves was never the real challenge. The real race was always before every start line: Fighting to get a visa, proving I was “safe” enough to enter, facing suspicion, condescension, or silence simply because of where I was born.

While others simply signed up and showed up, I had to advocate, prove and persist just to stand at the same start lines. This achievement is not just about running marathons; this is about breaking through barriers most people never have to face.

Breaking through barriers doesn’t feel like a dream milestone. It has not come with the joy you would expect. Because while others focused on training, I spent just as much time battling visa denials, closed embassy doors, and silent rejections, all because I hold one thing: A Nigerian passport.

From Antarctica to Zimbabwe, the hardest part was never the running. The hardest part was getting into the different countries. Crossing borders that were never meant to welcome people like me. Knocking on doors that were bolted shut long before I arrived. Explaining over and over again at immigration desks that I am not a threat. That I am just a woman chasing a dream, one finish line at a time.

Despite these hurdles, I show up. And still, I run.

My story is not unique. Millions of talented, law-abiding, passionate people from the Global South are locked out of opportunities every single day. Locked out not for lack of merit, but because of passport privilege. A lottery of birth that dictates who gets to see the world and who does not get to see the world. This often makes me wonder why seeing the world is such an uphill battle for some of us.

Yes, I understand the need to protect borders, but is there not a better way to separate genuine global citizens from perceived threats? Hasn’t the time come to rethink how we define risk, access, and equity? Not everyone can endure the repeated humiliation of being told: “Sorry, not for you.” “Apply through the embassy, which doesn’t even exist  in your country.” “We regret to inform you…”

In our running club, when new races are announced and someone says, “The visa is easy,” I always respond with, “I’m Nigerian, are we also allowed?” Too often, the answer is silence, or a reluctant “No.”

I made it to these marathons. But how many others will not? Not because they lack talent, resources, or intent, but because their passport shuts doors before they can even knock.

This is not about running a marathon. It is about access. Equity. And the quiet, daily fight for dignity faced by millions like me. 

So I ask the global community, policymakers, gatekeepers, and everyday travellers: How can we build a world where access is not determined by where your passport was printed? How can we recognise, challenge, and dismantle passport privilege? And who will help lead the way?

If you work in policy, global mobility, education, immigration, or travel or if you have ever had to explain your identity before your abilities, I invite you to join the conversation. How can we start building a world where access is not defined by the passport you were handed at birth?

Let’s talk. Let’s rethink borders. Let’s make space for more stories like mine, but without the scars.

I’m a Nigerian woman with a low-mobility passport, running races the world tried to keep me out of. And yes, I run with pride. At every finish line, I raise the Nigerian flag. Not just to celebrate 42.195km, but to make a statement: Nigeria also belongs on the global stage. We are not invisible. We are not lesser. 

We show up, and we are here.