LANSING, Mich. — On a recent Thursday afternoon, Samuel Kangethe pushes his 5-year-old daughter on the swings at a leafy park near his home. While she swings, the little girl eyes the nearby playground on top of a small hill.
Nearby, Kangethe's 13-year-old son is showing his dad a few things about fishing on the Grand River. His 11-year-old daughter plays with her phone, and helps her sister navigate the playground.
"This is how we spend our days," Kangethe says.
Kangethe is from Kenya, and has been living in Michigan for more than 16 years. He first came here as a student visa-holder. He now has a bachelor's degree in accounting from Northwood University and a master's degree in finance from Central Michigan University.
Up until May, he was working as an accountant for the state of Michigan. Before that, he did a similar job for a local beer distributor.
But in the last few months, his life has been upended.
"President Trump campaigned on immigration and enforcing immigration policies," he says. "So, for me — especially for somebody like me who has an immigration (case) in court — that affects me directly. So, you can imagine the amount of fear that that puts in me."
His immigration case involves a prior marriage that gave him conditional residency. But in 2014, immigration officials deemed that marriage fraudulent. A judge has yet to rule in that case, but since then, Kangethe's gotten divorced and he remarried in 2018. But today in the eyes of the immigration system, he is deportable.
He has not committed any crimes, but he has also not been able to adjust his legal status.
"I have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of — I don't want that case," Kangethe says. "I'm not going to let it put me in shackles for the rest of my life. … I'm not a criminal."
So he has made a decision.
"I need to take the option of self-deporting myself," he says.
The Trump administration has given an ultimatum to immigrants without a legal status: leave voluntarily or you will be detained and deported.
Kangethe is one of thousands of migrants to heed President Trump's call to self-deport.
According to White House border czar Tom Homan, more than 7,000 people so far have used a government app to self-deport. Those who use the CBP Home app receive a free one-way plane ticket home, and a $1,000-dollar exit payment.
But the real number is likely far higher: the official figure does not include people like Kangethe, who are not using the app and are leaving on their own.
Kangethe says he and his family agonized over this decision. The last few months have been incredibly hard on everyone, including his wife, Latavia Kangethe.
"I think after months of going through that it took a toll even on our marriage, to the family," she says.
Latvia is now worried when or if the family will ever get back together. The kids are losing their dad. She's losing her husband.
"It's scary. Essentially I'll be a single mom," she says. "And to go from a two-person income in the home where we're able to piggy-back and do the things together like we've always done — It's going to impact the entire family."
Sam Kangethe says it's one of the most difficult decisions he's ever made.
But he wanted to leave on his own terms — and not in shackles on an airplane bound to the what Florida and federal officials have dubbed "Alligator Alcatraz" or a prison in El Salvador.
"And that way at least I'm safe," he says. "If my family needs to reach me at least they have a clear understanding of where I am, when they can reach me and how they can reach me."
His departure has also wrecked his community.
On a recent afternoon, Kangethe paid one of his last visits to his former colleagues at the beer company Dan Henry Distributing in Lansing.
Company president Dan Henry says he's very sad to see Kangethe go.
"Sam has always been a self-starter, a quick learner, happy to have a job," Henry says.
He understands Trump needs to undo what Henry says was lax border enforcement under former president Biden. But he now worries the crackdown in the interior of America has gone too far.
"We are sort of caught up in a moment of turning back the clock on what we just had by letting everybody in," Henry says. "Unfortunately I think what we are gonna do is we are going to lose an awful lot of good people in the process."
Good people, including Kangethe, he says.
Henry has called his local Republican congressman to intervene in Kangethe's case. It hasn't worked.
Betsy Ford, one of Kangethe's friends, says she's worried about his family.
"I'm definitely going to have to step up then in his absence to let them know we are still here," Ford says. "He may be gone for now, but the rest of the village is still here and we are still going to support you, and we are still going to be what you need us to be, whether Sam is here or not, because I know that's what Sam would want me to do."
That makes Kangethe feel a little better. His biggest worry is what would happen to his kids. Will they be able to afford college? Will they be able to afford to stay in their home?
But Kangethe says his decision is final.
"I'm going to be hit by some hard, heavy emotions. I don't know if I'm ready for those," Kangethe says. "But if that's the sacrifice I have to pay — for me to go sleep in Kenya … so I can safely come back, then for me, I feel like that's a small sacrifice to pay and I'm willing to pay."
Copyright 2025 NPR
