On Citizenship

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14 May 2007

Location: My home, Benin City

Efe and I have had to travel to our state capital, Asaba, to get our Nigerian passports renewed. It has cost us far more than it should at over a hundred dollars each. Efe thought it best we use a middleman in the immigration office to cut through the bureaucracy and expedite the process. It can take several full days spent at that office before one can obtain a passport. Mr. Tijani is our middleman. He is a fair, cherub-faced Hausa man with deep horizontal scars across his face. It is hard for me to decide whether I trust him or not, much less whether I like him. He has taken quite a bit of our money, and even that we negotiated down from what he originally asked when he found out that I was an Oyibo and not a full-blooded Nigerian.

At the immigration office, an albino officer called me in for interrogation. This wasn’t supposed to happen with all the money I had paid. I went in, Efe accompanied me (he was extremely nervous about the whole thing), and the officers didn’t seem to be too comfortable with his presence either. We were all uncomfortable. They asked me whether I was a Nigerian. I said yes. By what right, they asked: was I married to a Nigerian? They glanced at Efe. “No, he’s my cousin. We share a last name because his father and my father are brothers. My father is a Nigerian.” They asked me from what local government area and I answered with ease. They seemed surprised at this. All my documents were correct. We had spent a good couple of days in April going round to get them. I now have a certificate from my local government authenticating me as native to Ughelli South Local Government, as well as a drivers license (obtained by yet another middleman who was much easier to deal with), and an affidavit on my paternity from my cousin who is a civil servant in the Ughelli South Local Government Area.

After some consultation among themselves, the immigration officials called me for further interrogation; this time by a stout Hausa man with a thick accent. I could tell they had settled on making this process difficult. I was seething with anger over this, because Efe informed me in a text message that he actually slipped the Albino two thousand naira (my money) in the hope of getting him off our case. The stout officer began his questions. Why do you want a Nigerian passport? “I am a Nigerian. I should have a Nigerian passport.” But you don’t look like a Nigerian. “My mother is an American, and my father is a Nigerian.” I ventured to ask them, “What is a Nigerian supposed to look like?” He didn’t answer. Yes, but why do you want to have this passport when traveling with your American passport is so much easier? “I have come to do my fieldwork here, and establish my own social and professional networks for my future career. I would like to eventually buy a plot of land here and have a home I can come to from time to time.” Doesn’t your father already have a home? “Yes, but I would like to establish myself independently of my father. I plan to come and go.” He smirked at this. He didn’t seem to believe me. Clearly, he found all this amusing. It is as if it was a joke that someone with the most coveted American passport would consider holding a Nigerian passport (shunned by most First-World nations). Or perhaps it was that I, an unmarried woman, should venture to establish myself independently of my father. After some silent deliberation, he decided that I would need to give proof of my father’s citizenship. I would have to give them a photocopy of my father’s Nigerian passport. This meant speaking to my father, who I had not spoken to in over a year. Is it worth it? I haven’t decided.

I left with Efe feeling so angry at the whole system. So much money lost, and still things are made so difficult. The Albino and the Hausa man watched me walk away, gloating with satisfaction at the frustration they had inflicted on us, swollen with pride in the money they had extorted in the process.

On our drive back, on the freeway leading out of Asaba, we passed a dead, bloating body laying on the side of the road; a man with a yellow shirt. He was just there, lifeless on the side of the freeway. His body had clearly been there for some time, with rigor mortis and the vultures ready to begin their work. It is not the first time I’ve seen a dead body on the side of the road. It is not easy to write about this; not easy to think through. How did these people die, and why had nobody (including me), especially the state, been moved to dispose of their lifeless bodies properly? Efe and I speculated that the man may have been homeless and was hit in the night by a vehicle and left there to die; or he may have been involved with criminals, or perhaps he was involved in the recent politics of the elections. Who knows? Everyone, including me passed this man’s body and we do nothing about it.

I don’t know what this says about the value on human life here…or if it is any indication of value at all. People die here everyday without any claim on, or identification of their bodies. The Nigerian state does not, perhaps cannot, keep track of its citizens. Why bother to get a Nigerian passport? What does it really mean in the scheme of everyday life here, when a person can be missing, be dead and no one (not even the police…and they are ubiquitous on the roads here, busy extorting hard-working citizens) cares to search for him or her? There are more questions to ask, but my anger and despair is choking my ability to think through this further today. How can I claim to belong to such a place?

Democracy, Naija Style

15 April 2007

Location: Home, Benin City

Democracy Naija Style…or the “N” Factor

Today is tax day in the U.S. How smoothly that system seems to work, at least from this vantage point. I know that I have to pay taxes every year, and I have a general idea of how those taxes are used. Of course, there are certain things that I wish more of my tax dollars could be applied to: for instance, education and health care instead of increased militarization and the prison industrial complex. There are also those things my taxes pay for that I don’t think too much about in my day-to-day life in America, things that I take for granted: functioning roads, park maintenance, infrastructural upkeep of electricity and water supplies. Here in Nigeria, the only people who pay taxes are civil servants, and even in that sector, it is not consistent nor can it be tracked well by government due to disorganization, incompetence, and corruption (it is hard to enforce regular taxation when most civil servants don’t even get paid regularly).

Nigerians buy plots of land and put up houses without a thought of property tax. Driving through GRA (this acronym, a colonial hold-over meaning “Government Reserved Area,” when colonial officials segregated themselves from the African population), I often wonder at the incongruence of palatial homes lined up on unpaved pot-holed streets, littered with refuse because there is no such thing as a municipal waste management system. There is no property tax to regularly pay for these basic public needs.

The more fundamental question remains: who are the real tax-payers in Nigeria? The answer is quite simple: the multi-national oil companies. Shell, British Petroleum, Chevron, Texaco, and Agip are responsible for more than 80 percent of the national revenues. In exchange, the government supports and preserves their interests. These multinational companies can make claims on land, on military resources (for protection and for punishment, in the case of resistant communities…just think of Ken Saro-Wiwa and the Ogoni situation), and on special access to government contracts. These are the real taxpayers. If we regular citizens are not responsible for government revenue, we cannot expect that this government be accountable to us. It is that simple.

Today is the day after our federal elections here in Nigeria. Thankfully, there wasn’t too much violence, and things were relatively quiet here in Benin City. In fact, the streets were mostly deserted; most people stayed home, including me. As we watched the local news, we found that many voting centers opened very late, if they opened at all. Election workers had not shown up or the voters didn’t come. Some centers did not even have ballots. There are rumors circulating that over 60,000 ballots were still sitting in South Africa, the printers of our ballots. Supposedly the federal government paid for them, but requested they stay in South Africa. I hope this is just a rumor. A very small percentage of people turned out to vote. It would be a high guess if even 15% of the eligible voting public actually voted.

Days before the election, the government mobilized the army, posting them at all the major thoroughfares in the big cities. It felt very much like the military days of past years, in the 1980s. The tension has been high for the past couple of weeks, as many people scrambled to get to their hometowns to prepare for staying indoors. Aside from possible violence there was fear of a fuel hike, as well as soaring food prices. Thankfully things have remained fairly stable.

This whole election process has been surreal. It was only in December that the President- and Vice President-elect were even announced as candidates (very late in the game), and since then most of the other opponents have fallen away like ants on Raid. The governors’ races went the same route. They are going to announce Yar’Adua as our new president and Emmanuel Uduaghan as Delta State’s new Governor. For Edo State, even though the Labor Party’s candidate, Mr. Oshiomole is more popular, the PDP (People’s Democratic Party) candidate, Mr. Osunbor, will take the seat of Governor. The PDP has this thing wrapped up in most, if not all states, and even within the PDP there is a select hierarchy. There is no viable alternative party.

This was not a free election. People are afraid. And most of the people who ran for office have been recycled from past gluttonous, authoritarian regimes. It is a tragic comedy, the images of people queuing up to cast their votes, knowing that it really doesn’t matter.

 

April 20th

They’ve announced our president. As we’ve all known, the ruling PDP party took most governmental seats. Only Lagos and a couple of other states voted in other candidates (voter turn-out must have been higher in these states, or at least the resistance to the ruling Party was strong enough). In Benin, the women have been protesting for the past couple of days. They stormed the streets wearing black, protesting the PDP candidate, Mr. Oshiomole. The Labor Party candidate did not win the election, even though he was the favorite here in Benin. Today, more women will come out and expose themselves. This is a longstanding practice of protest among women in this part of the country. If a woman exposes herself (her privates) in protest, especially an old woman, it is considered a strong curse. In the midst of their protest, they also condemned the former governor, Lucky Igbinedion, one of the most corrupt governors of the former regime.

Former Governor Lucky Igbinedion of Edo State, Nigeria

Former Governor Lucky Igbinedion of Edo State, Nigeria

Lucky Igbinedion became governor of Edo State in 1999 under the newly formed PDP and new elected President (and former military dictator) Olusegun Obasanjo. Under Igbinedion’s watch, Benin became notorious for its contribution to the global sex trade, especially to Europe; the city’s infrastructure further deteriorated, and Benin continued to roil in an epidemic of armed robbery and thug violence. The people of Benin view him with absolute contempt and vitriol.

People are sick and tired of the political process, but I am always amazed at how much Nigerians can stretch themselves to accommodate this abuse of power. It is so excessive, and so obvious that it is almost a farce.

Postscript: In 2008 the Economic Financial Crimes Commission of Nigeria charged him with 142 counts of fraud and embezzlement, claiming he embezzled over $24 million of government funds. He was convicted of these crimes, but he never served any time, nor has this money been restored to the public coffers.

HOUSE 2

Igbinedion’s mansion in Abuja (courtesy of Jide-Salu.com), 2011