A Journey to Niger Republic

“No, it is not possible,” my mother said, believing I was hiding something from her. For the life of her she could not understandsomeone going to a trip for nothing at all. In cases like this she would bring up a pathetic story, for which failure to meet its demand will result in shame. So, instead of wasting the money she tabled a motion: “Give me the money. I am travelling this week. Aisha had delivered a child. I didn’t attend Murja’s wedding. Hauwa is marrying off her daughter.”

Mother is one of them people for whom if you don’t tell a lie they would not accept the truth. I was at quarrels with myself. My life had contained no bizarre coincidence or unpredictable zigzagging. And now she was saying no to what could be an adventure. I needed to do anything that would break this and confirm my independence, small sins, like offending her without offending God. So yes, I am going to Niger Republic for a business trip.

A week ago I made arrangement with one of our former teachers at makarantar allo, a Nigeriene now coming to Nigeria every week to buy stock. I had never been to Niger Republic. I would follow him and spend the week and get back the next week he would be returning. We rarely met for years and this time we had a chance to chat for almost an hour. Knowing I didn’t, he asked me jokingly if I had married. I left in the end with his number on the understanding that our journey would take place in a fortnight. I was so excited and talked about it to everyone.

Two weeks passed like twinkling of an eye. I contacted him on a Monday night to put the final touches. Would the trip be in the morning or in the evening?

“Really, what do you want to go to do? Nothing is happening. Why can’t you leave it till something important is happening?” he said. Anyone in my position would naturally feel the man had seen me as a burden. But I wanted to follow him only as a guide since he has the knowledge of the two countries. I tried politely to reason with him, to no avail.

I felt very terrible. How could I face the world and tell them the journey was cancelled? The odds were against me; as though by conspiracy everyone I met was asking,“When is your trip Abu, tomorrow?” I assured them yes it was. So, I had to make the trip by any means to save my face. ButI didn’t know now where to go.

I strapped a bag the next day and went to the bus station, fearful and nervous in Adai-daita Sahu. I refused to tell anyone what was happening. I didn’t want any counseling to upset the trip. By that time I had resolved against any external assistance, like someone linking me up with someone they know in Niger Republic. Lost in thought, I was jolted with a start at the sudden halt of our vehicle at the station.

Which town should I go? The question banged again at my mind, so loudly I thought the person next to me could hear. There and then I decided to go to the first town that NURTW people would mention.

“Yes Maradi,” I said to the man who approached me. I followed him to the bus. I picked out some few naira notes and changed them to Franc. The car crawled out of the station after 4pm. Everything was new to me, the new currency; the motion of the car felt differentfrom the car traveling within Nigeria for another town.

The driver negotiated his way, very smooth and effective. It was a wonder that out of thousand cars the security men would only selectively flag a car.Without hassle or argument the driver would extend a hand and make a contactso swift &effective youwould think nothing has happened. All you saw were regular cars on the road with security men at work. I later learnt from the cars’ looks the security men knew every driver that plies to Niger Republic.

It was a torturous journey all the way. Bodies were jammed, sandwiched against each other. What the women did at Niger-Nigeria border flew me back to the olden days when the mothers in my family were returning home from a trip. They would buy bread to bring home for us kids as a gift. This reverie was cut short with another little bad news.The driver announced border was closed. I thought in my mind: “Driver, you know border is closed and you still take us?” But a miracle happened soon after.

For every check-point at Niger-Nigeria border within Nigeria 200 naira is the solution per individual passenger. But the situation changed once you crossed the border. The car would stop at every security point and the driver would announce for everyone to go to report to the authorities, sitting and waiting in their offices. Some went, but the women stayed behind. I didn’t budge either. No, actually no. Niger, after-all, is just like Nigeria. I didn’t need permission to visit the country I believe to have kinship with. When the driver announced that the border was closed I had expected to see walls and gate but there was none. From this I just realized that land is a vast spread gift from God which humans should enjoy and move freely that the modern concept of border wishes to deny.

But even Nigerien officers were lax at some points. Our driver put one guy without papers on a vehicle to bypass security point. Some officers saw this and didn’t lift a finger. This laxity was born out of concern, I supposed, because strict observance of the law would put too much difficulty on people.

We couldn’t get done with the various security points on the road until almost 10pm. Bushes continued to fly by and by 11pm we were glimpsing the city’s street lights. We entered the town and the car pulled in to a station to unload a passenger who was going further to the capital Niamey. The station was alive with activities, buses pulling out for various West Africa destinations. The body language in Niger Republic encouraged mobility. Parents here could easily throw independence at your feet. It was just so easy here to leave without the family worrying.

As we pulled out, I began thinking a place to sleep. The driver and the rest of the passengers conversed casually, arguing over where to halt. They obviously make this weekly journey. I was the only stranger. The driver asked where I was alighting. Ah, driver, I am a stranger! Carry me where you are going and give me a place to rest. The driver suggested a major bus station a mile farther. On reaching there I alighted and walked in.

I was pointed to the farthest end of the station for an inn. I went there and negotiated a deal, came back and bought a tea with my changed money from Nigeria. The weather was ten times colder than in Nigeria.

I went out in the morning and explored the town. The people and language are the same with that of Nigeria. But somehow everything felt different. I didn’t feel I was learning any new thing. The whole thing had started to bore me until I discovered a shop where young men in the area populated. I went there and joined the locals and stayed there till around 10pm when I went back to my room. I didn’t carry the key on me as it was left with the room owner. I feared about my personal effects, especially the computer. Every time I went to bathroom and left the door open I couldn’t help thinking about the computer, only to come back and find everything intact.

I tried to make the trip as memorable as possible. The next day I planned to visit some other places. At the town’s emir’s place a group of dancers were singing. A wedding was taking place. I walked past through the first gate, into a wide corridor and then into a yard. A man and two young boys were sitting on a wooden bench beneath a shade. I introduced myself as a stranger from Kano. I expected a happy smile.

“A stranger, get out! A stranger and you entered up into his highness’s wives’ purdah?” I felt embarrassed and quietly moved out before my head was chopped off.  The man was literally carrying a cutlass running after me shouting Allahu Akbar.

I am used to aggressiveness and loudness of the Nigerian life. Unlike back home, trust here is very much alive. But life is a bit expensive since I was buying things with the naira exchange in my mind.

Tonight I wanted to buy noodle. One of the locals warned me that since I was used to buying noodles in Nigeria I’d find this too expensive. One pack with two fried eggs sold for 600 naira which I normally buy witihn the range of 200 naira in Nigeria. A roasted chicken costs 1800 to 2000. Within two days I had burned money over little things.

Life is a bit expensive, true, but I couldn’t shake off the feeling that in every town there is the urge to fleece strangers.I didn’t understand the exchange rate. So, whatever I bought I spread the money on my palm and asked the sellers to pick their money. They were at liberty to do what they wanted and I suspected some did. But I could see even when an acaba rider was called by a kind person to take me to a radio station a short distance away the price was too expensive.

I would sit with the locals in the morning out front of a shop to watch the world go by, shop owners opening their stores and loaded camels trudging the dusty streets. The dusty wind spells out the importance of turban to the tuareg.

I would be going home Friday, the next day, but I couldn’t stay any longer. The people at the shop said there was no club around. The football field was far. It was not festive season so nothing was happening. On that day after visiting two radio stations I boarded a car for the return journey to Nigeria.

At the border back in Nigeria the immigration officers were doing their work. We slowed down for the routine inspection, which was very casual. I was in the cab, in the middle between the driver and one other man.

“Sannu dai, Nigerian or Nigerien Baba?”The officer peeked through the window and talked to the elderly man. Baba is a Nigerien attendinga wedding in Kano.

“And you,” it was my turn. “Are you a Nigerian?”  I burst into laughter.

“Park,” he barked at the driver. The senior officer was sitting on a bench at a small distance. “Oga,” he spoke to the senior,“we are asking him, he is laughing. Go and laugh. You will have to stay here and laugh.”

My laugh was well-meaning laugh. Of all the places on earth it was in Nigeria that I would be interrogated over my Nigerianness. Sure as hell from the mere look they knew I am a Nigerian. I nudged at my pocket to confirm my papers.

“So, where are you from?” The senior officer asked. Telling truth made me feel naked. Between harmless lie and useless truth I’d rather go for the former.

“Jibiya,” the officer knew I lied. He was amused by that. By now our driver had parked the car and arrived at the scene.

“Driver, where are you from?”

“Maradi,” the reply shot out like a bullet and hit me. Earth, open and swallow me.

“Now you see,” the officer said, gesturing his arms dismissively. “Why do you lie? We know where you are from. We know every driver here.” Apparently, years on the job made them know all the tricks. They have many ways to kill a rat. “I can ask you to give me the number of the person you said you visited.”

He continued. “Let me see, what is in your pocket?” I brought out the contents of my pocket. A green passport. National ID card. Old WAEC ID card and a paper containing the phone number of one of the men I visited in the radio stations. I just realized the odds were against me. The officer looked at the paper and looked at me back, his eyes saying, “See now. See now!”

“What have you got to do with this paper?” he finally asked.

“I am a journalist.”

“A journalist?!” he gasped. That’s it. I went to Niger illegally to collaborate with foreign elements and destroy the government.

“Which radio station do you work with?” I told him. “Which program?” I told him. I was candid and honest. He sensed I was telling the truth. His attitude changed; from that of menacing Oga to a friendly demeanor, not so much by the fear of the press than by the proper papers he saw on me. Seeing this, my confidence rose. He examined the rest of the documents. A shocked look appeared on his face. By now he looked at my passport.

If all the previous evidence were not strong enough against me this one had nailed it all. “So, as a journalist, you entered the country illegally? You have a passport and refuse to use it?”

No sir, my passport is for serious business. For the countries like the UK and Canada. Not for Niger Republic that I can enter with or without papers.  I wished he had known that.

“Where is your bag?”

Inside the car.

“What is inside?”

My clothes and computer.

“What did you go to do in Niger?”

“Nothing,” this had either aroused his suspicion or had just struck him as a great surprise. It took him some seconds to process the consequence of a journalist crossing the border to do nothing in Niger Republic. Sensing his reaction, just in moment I stepped up a defense to wash away his suspicion.

“Just for sightseeing. I don’t know anybody. I just went. Officer, it is the end of the year so I went for a holiday.” Several people couldn’t believe that, including my mother. We moved.