Into Nigeria
Zinder is our last stop in French-speaking West Africa. Next up is Kano, the principal city in northern Nigeria – where, apart from the hundred-plus local languages, English is the main tongue.
I have mixed feelings about going to Nigeria. Part of me is full of trepidation at the prospect of plunging myself into a country about which one only tends to hear negative things – crime, overcrowding, corruption, kidnappings…
But, equally, in the planning of this trip I spoke to many people who cast Nigeria in a different light to the media-driven image of murder and mayhem, and had only good things to say about Africa’s most populous nation: that it’s a place of warmth and humanity. There’s only way to find out who’s right.
We manage to find two seats in a car heading south from Zinder to Kano. The road is good and the going quick. After only about an hour and a half, we arrive at the border.
My stomach is beginning to turn at the prospect of the border formalities. Stories are rife of travellers having large bribes extracted from them as they try to pass into Nigeria. Will we catch the guards on a good day or a bad day? I’m pinning my hopes on one vital factor: today is Friday, Islam’s holy day; about 95 per cent of northern Nigeria’s population are strict Muslims. Hopefully they’ll have their minds on pleasing Allah and not on giving two young white guys a hard time.
We pass through the Nigerien border control post without problem. Next up is the Nigerian border; it’s here things could get tricky.
We’re ushered into a little room full of large, gleaming black men in uniforms. The only two whites in the place, we’re taken to one side. A big man with a moustache sits down and studies our passports. ‘British?’ he eyes us. ‘You are welcome to Nigeria.’
Without further ado he puts the necessary stamp on our passports and sets us on our way. We’re in.
Or so we think. As we leave the room feeling elated that getting into the fearsome Nigeria was so easy, we hear someone hissing at us and indicating that we need to go into another building next door.
Here the officials are not in uniform and there are none of the friendly smiles we’ve just seen next door. The main man is dressed in a bright white robe and Muslim skullcap. He has two large scars on his cheeks, denoting his Hausa background and giving him a sinister air.
He sits me down. ‘What is your job?’
I lie, cooking up the same story I used to obtain my visa – that I work in community sporting projects in the UK and that I’m here Nigeria to visit similar initiatives. That, at least, is what my invitation letter from my Nigerian friend Kayodi says.
‘This Kayodi, what’s his address? Where does he work?’ The official looks like he’s not buying the tale.
My mind goes blank. I’d not expected these kinds of question. How should I know what Kayodi’s address is? I tell him that it’s all written down on the invitation letter Kayodi sent me, which is buried amidst all my gear in the car.
‘Please go and get it,’ the official says. He looks smug, like he thinks he’s just called my bluff, but I run out to the car and return with the letter. He grabs and studies it carefully, looking for holes in my story. He keeps looking up at me as he reads. There’s tension in the air.
Then suddenly it breaks. His face cracks into a big grin. ‘Ok, this is fine. You are very much welcome to Nigeria. Enjoy your stay. I’m sure you will find it a pleasant place to stay.’
We’re really in this time.
Tags: Travel
djnorwood