Unwholesome handshake at the borders

I t is 4:30am, still dark and the rain heavy. But I have to leave the comfort of my bed and get drenched in order to catch the Accra-bound commuter bus scheduled to leave by 6:00am. In doing so, I risk being robbed by street urchins who lay in wait for early risers to work within my neighbourhood. Well, that did not bother me because the bigger risk awaits me on the Lagos-Accra route where after months of preparations, I am determined to unravel the stench across the West African borders.

Of course, I did not mention my mission to my loved ones, just to stay focused. Well, on getting to the bus station at 5:10am and seeing the crowd, I discover that most of them slept in the bus station, considering how early I left my house. Moments later, the station manager announces that our bus is ready and orders passengers to board.

My first baptism of fire is at the boarding gate. After screening by the bus security officer, another tough-looking security man, acclaimed to be from one of the border security agencies, looks at my passport and asks for N1,000. I ask why, he says because my new passport has not been used on the Lagos-Accra route. Earlier, I recall watching most passengers pay the money, and I wonder if they were all travelling with new passports. Still under scrutiny, I open my second passport (attached to the new one) and show him stamps at different borders on the route. He insists I have to pay for the new passport, I also insist on not paying having travelled several times on that route with the old passport.

After minutes of heated argument, a staff of the transport company confronts me, saying: “Oga, you have refused to pay, and the only way to allow you inside the bus is if you agree to face immigration, customs and other border security personnel on your own at the borders.”

I did not answer him, but he asks me to go in. It is at 7:30am that the 54-seater luxury bus crawls out of the baggage area of the bus station en route Accra. You can tell the bus is taking time to pick up speed, as if it is still trying to determine how best to engage its gears for the tortuous journey ahead. As the driver picks up speed, the bus conductor collects our passports to be in his possession until we arrive Accra.

Moments later, he calls “Passenger 20,” my seat number. When I meet him, he says, “You should have complied, it is normal on this route, we use that money to settle security on the way. I hope you will not give me trouble.”

I still did not say anything, but take my leave and wonder why there is no receipt for the money collected from passengers in the name of new passport and in disguise of settling security. On my way back some passengers (who are used to paying all manner of fees to ease their journey) were discussing me, calling me names; “Mr. I too know,” “Righteous man,” among other derogatory remarks. That did not bother me; they are already giving me facts. “Good,” I say rhetorically.

As usual, the journey to the Seme (the border between Nigeria and Benin Republic) is not smooth due to traffic going out of Lagos, but the checks were less as the emphasis is on passengers coming into Lagos, and not those leaving. However, from Badagry, the border town, the situation starts to change. About 10 minutes after Badagry Roundabout, a roadblock appears and Custom personnel stop our bus for searching. Our driver submits our passport to them.

Moments later, a little argument ensues between the driver and the officers. There is a passenger travelling without passport and that means more money and not the N1,000. Of course, money changes hands and we leave. But less than a kilometre, our bus stops at another roadblock. This time, it is a combined team of Immigration and Drug Law Enforcement Agency personnel.

The driver follows the same routine; stop, greet, go down to submit passport and wait. After about five minutes, an Immigration officer comes in and asks after me. “Who is Passenger 20,” I raise my hand and he beckons on me to follow him out of the bus. As I stand to leave, some passengers start making derogatory remarks again, Mr. I too know, Police CID, and so on. I did not mind them. On getting down, one officer asks why the many visas in my old passport. I ask him, “Is it an offence to have visas.”

He beckons on the superior officer, who asks: “Youngman you have many visas and you travel a lot. What do you do for a living?” Due to the investigative nature of my mission, I simply say: “I am a corporate Nigerian who travel for fun. I visit places that interest me.” With the looks on their faces, that did not sound convincing. They ask after my bag. I bring the bag and empty the content and pick them myself. “Nothing,” one of them says as the superior officer orders me back into the bus with a smile. On getting into the bus, two officers were searching a passenger’s bag with keen interest. They seem not to get what they were looking for, they move to the passenger’s luggage in the compartment outside.

I am impressed with their professionalism. The scene takes almost 10 minutes, later the youthful passenger returns to the bus lamenting in harsh voice, “Do I look like a drug trafficker.” I move closer to him and tap him on the back to cool down, all with a view of getting him to talk more to me later. Meanwhile, the bus conductor is busy sorting out the other passports with the security personnel, and probably giving out some money from the amount they collect at the bus station. After 15 minutes’ drive, the bus conductor announces that we are in Seme Border.

“You will seat inside the bus while we cross the border, except Passenger 20. He will follow us to the Immigration to stamp himself out and also cross to the Benin Republic side of the border,” he says. As expected, there were remarks. I follow the conductor to the Immigration post. On seeing me, one of the officers asks, “Who is he and why is he following you?”

The bus conductor replies: “Oga, he is my passenger, he wants to do it himself.” When the officer notices my eyes were on his name-tag, his instincts tell him, this man may be troublesome. Surprisingly, he collects my passport and stamps me out and tells me to wait for the conductor outside the office. But I hesitate; just trying to see how much will drop on the table for the 53 passports. But on my way out, I overhear the bus conductor saying N15,000 is too much, and I laugh. “Is this why most young graduates crave for Immigration job,” I ask rhetorically. To further express his displeasure, the bus conductor leaves me to cross the Benin Republic side on my own. I move, follow others, stop and move whenever they do so. But the Immigration on the Benin Republic side is not different. The only difference is the French language that is spoken here, I see people giving them both Nigerian currency (naira) and CFA franc, the francophone currency. Yet, a few meters away, moneychangers are waiting for customers like me to buy CFA and even Ghanaian cedi. While on queue, people keep crossing the border with CFA 1,000 to get their passport stamped without any official receipt. Imagine if 50,000 people cross the border in a day and how much the officers will make. A

t this point, it seems obvious that the borders of West Africa have been turned into illegal money making ventures, which rake in thousands of cedis, naira and CFA franc for the security agents positioned there. When it gets to my turn, I present my passport. The officer looks at it, not money and he gives it back to me and starts speaking French. It is when a tough-looking armed security personnel approaches me that I discover how important that CFA 1,000 is to them than my life.

My relief is when an officer who speaks English approaches me. He says they will not stamp my passport if I do not give them CFA and he makes the money look official. I tell him to give me my passport that I am going back to Nigeria. They give me the passport, but as I make few steps out of the office, the same officer calls me back saying; “You have visas to America, UK and many others, it means you are a big traveller. But, why do you refuse to pay this small money. Oga, the money is small now.”

I reply saying: “But ECOWAS Protocol on Free Movement…,” before I finish, he collects my passport and stamp me in. Meanwhile, the bus is waiting on the other side with other passengers getting very furious at me. Surprisingly, a friend emerges from the hostile passengers. “Leave him alone, he is doing the right thing, if we insist like him all these extortions will stop, after all there is ECOWAS Protocol on Free Movement,” a passenger says.

While inside, the passenger who is regular on that route meets me and exposes the high level of corruption across the borders. “You can travel without passport or any form of identity if you have money to throw around. Though I pay my way through, I do not feel the impact because as a businessman, I add my expenses to the price of the goods I sell, so the customers bear the brunt.”

We were on this discussion till the conductor announces once again that we were approaching Hilla Condji, the border between Benin Republic and Togo. Unlike the Seme border, we alight from the bus and walk pass the border and security. But while the driver moves ahead to wait for the passengers, the conductor and I move to the security post for the passport stamping. It is still the same experience, except that money demanded for stamping seems to be increasing.

The conductor attaches money corresponding to the number of passports and the stamping begins. I am not happy at this sad development, which keeps breaching ECOWAS Protocol on free movement. For the first time, on the journey, I hear the conductor speak French and something tells me it is about me and may be tougher this time. I guess right as the officers push me back saying in French, according to the conductor that I must pay or they leave me behind.

At this point, the conductor whispers into my ear – “These guys are tough, you must pay to save us time, Accra is still far please.” Instead of responding, I ask him if he is running out of money. Of course, he is, but cannot answer me. His preoccupation is to leave the so-called tough border early enough. Yet, I still insist on not paying. Following my refusal, an officer who speaks English calls on security to detain me for no offense. They take me to a makeshift enclosure and interrogate me in English. But the bus conductor leaves without looking my way. My confidence is that I can go back from there. After 20 minutes of fruitless effort, they release me to join the bus far ahead in the Togo side of the border. Sighting the bus far away, I keep moving and happy for one more accomplishment. On entering the bus, and as expected, hostile eyes trail my movement from the door to my seat. If the decision is in their hands, they will leave me behind. We continue the journey with no one talking with me. But I stay busy writing down my experiences.

To be continued next week…