"HOOK OR CROOK" A short story of African Illegal Migrants

I felt like the harmattan wind, or would I say I felt like the sun? I was hot, dry and quirky as the sound of a faulty car. I could realize my failure. Life had spanked me with its hand and left me to wail dolefully. I read of hell only in the bible but now I sat face to face with hell.
Unsettled, I ran from pillar to post as the authorities kept on our trail— around suburbs of Napoli, Italy. I was lost in worrisome thoughts before I heard my name “John the police.” It was my friend Sam. We kept at hiding from the authorities. Our permits had expired and we couldn't do an extension. All these time we had no social security numbers so we couldn't work to get even a euro. We were beggars or better still foreign beggars.
My sister Jane who lived in Vienna and married to an Italian journalist supported financially and called daily to know our positions. She had suggested we returned back to Nigeria when our visiting visas expired but I stamped vehemently, “I'm not going back to that country handcuffed by economic an recession.” “It’s better to be a beggar in your father's house than in another man's”, she pleaded. But I flouted because I had dreamed of living abroad, either by hook or crook. Before I could make a move after Sam's call, the authorities had detained us and we were going to be deported.