14 Safar, 1431,A.H (29 January. 2010) Vol.3: No 89

Welcome to The Pointer Express, The Views Expressed in this newspaper are not necesserily the official view of the Islamic movement in Nigeria.

Europe by Desert Tears of African migrants (2)

One after the other, save for the weeping girl, all the travelers were taken inside the crate-stacked room for a fetish oath. When this reporter was called in, the spiritualist, under the watchful eyes of Rajah and Aunty Queen, explained almost apologetic, that the exercise was a spiritual help to forestall possible arrest and repatriation from Europe and to administer an oath od secrecy and loyalty.

For a moment, the spectacle was disarming. On the floor was a magical circle outlined with native chalk. Inside it were patches of animal skin, a small three-pronged spear, a gourd and other fetish articles. The spiritualist had shed his well-embroidered white Kaftan. Over his trouser brocade and across his waist, he had tied a red-coloured skirt with a set of beads stitched to it in the shape of the human eye. Basically, the witchdoctor recited some incantations in Bini language, and then requested the traveler to repeat some lines after him. Next, the traveller was made to pick a gourd, hit it three times on his forehead and another three times on his chest saying that he is a beneficiary of the traffickers' kindness and that with his own mouth and soul he hereby invites the deity Osunene to visit him with its most potent venom, sickness, misfortune and death should he under any circumstances divulge secret information or snitch on the traffickers before the police, Immigration or some other authorities.

Also, that the traveler invites Osunene to visit him with its wrath should he fails to remit to the last dollar, the amount specified in the contract paper as soon as he begins to earn money along the way and or at the final destination. Before Rajah, this reporter had been introduced to another trafficker by name Ikechukwu but fondly called ThankGod. At the first and only meeting in Lagos, this handsome, light-completioned man wasted no time in saying he only took women to Libya and Europe. No amount of money offered by this reporter to take him along made any sense to ThankGod. He pointed out that before he took them along, each of his girls were made to take an oath in agreement to pay him $25,000 for taking them to a land of opportunities before they can start working for themselves. He emphasized that no man would be able to pay him such an amount whatever the ambition of doing two or three jobs. This trafficker's international telephone number, obtained by this reporter, is +218928523513.

Something happened that the reporter never bargained for. Picking a razor blade, the spiritualist ordered the reporter to stretch out his hands. The reporter retreated, clinging on the excuse that a used blade cannot be permitted on account of HIV/AIDS. From some junks in a corner, Rajah produced a new blade. The witchdoctor proceeded to make three incisions on each of the reporter's knuckles. He wiped the blood with his own fingers and dipped same into the gourd with a liquid content. With the same blade, he scrapped some strands off the nape of the reporter's neck, throwing the hairs into the gourd. He shook the content and ordered the reporter to drink from it. The nature of the ritual concoction was hard to say; however, encouraged by the unmistakable whiff of local gin, this reporter did as he was told.

For the rest of the evening everyone was moody; the 17-year-old was hysterical. She was the only one that refused to take the oath. From snatches of conversations, it was gathered that the girls had been subjected to more abusive rituals. In addition to the incisions, the witchdoctor had, at Anty Queen's insistence, collected cuttings of their fingernails, pubic hairs and panties; the very ones worn to the ritual.

Beginning to get paranoid, one of the girls complained she couldn't stop feeling a part of her soul had left her. An older girl, Uhreva, dismissed the feeling with a laugh. About 24-year-old, Uhreva said it was her second blood oath. With the assistance of a human trafficker, known in the business as sponsor, she had made it to Italy in 2005 only to be deported 18 months later. Ever since, she had felt like a fish out of water. Insisting that she left Torino without a pin, Uhreva catalogued some of the possessions and nice male friends she left behind. For her, it made sense to find a way back even though her first trip had been by air and far more dignifying. With her stay in Torino not long enough to pay off her sponsor, she still had some debt hanging over her head. Yet, she was optimistic she could use the second chance she was getting to pay off both her first and second Madame and still have enough to build a house in her village, own cars, a fat bank account, a boutique or beauty salon.

Like cows, we were herded by scrawny Esan to a nearby canteen where we could eat Nigerian foods. The 17-year-old Omosan refused to go anywhere. It was not clear if she had eaten anything all day. By the time we all returned, Aunty Queen had exploded, pouring expletives on Omosan:

“I've had enough of your rubbish. I treat you like my own daughter but you want to use your “ogbanje” to mess with my business. Your parents begged me to take you along. There were other girls to pick from. All the girls you came here with have since moved on and you are here acting like a child.”

Rajah barged in. He too was spitting fire. He held out a cell phone towards Omosan: “Your father wants to speak with you. Take the phone…”

Omosan was not crying, but she was not saying anything either. Rajah barked again and pulled out a designer belt from his jean trouser. He stepped forward, threatening to hit Omosan with it. “Take the phone. I say take it, because your father has said we should make you do what every other girl is doing…”

Herded to Togo

Like a full moon that started out a crescent, Rajah's lawless mind was getting more robust by the day. Like cows again, we were herded to a park to begin our journey to Togo. Eight new girls had appeared from nowhere with their bags in the morning. There was no prize for guessing where they had come from after eight girls in the room were moved out to start a new life in Jonquet brothels. These traffickers, besides freighting human cargoes to Libya and Europe, also feed the trans-Saharan sex market, guaranteeing a steady supply of fresh young women to brothels.

Uhreva was left to stay in our group. Omosan told uhreva that she would love to go to Europe but added that she would die first before submitting to a blood oath. She gave no indication that she understood the nature of the jobs lined up for girls in Europe. Reports had it that in Europe, some of the trafficked women are subjected by male clients to sexual abuses, forced into pornography and perversions like sleeping with dogs.

Rajah was yet to decide what to do with Omosan when Aunty Queen herded 13 of us, nine girls and four men, to Togo. Disguised as a devout Muslim, she was dressed in an orange boubou, her head and shoulders covered with a flowing headscarf. We journey through Quidah, Dohi, Agatogbo, Gadome, Come, Grand Popo and finally Lome.

At the Benin-Togo border popularly called Hilla Condji was a replay of what was witnessed at Seme. Again, the extortion by border officials was a mockery of the spirit and letters of the ECOWAS (Economic Community of West African States) Protocol which proclaims free movement of people and goods across member states. At this border, this reporter encountered a Beninoise by name Dossou Gilles-Carlos Yaovi. Son of a UN diplomat whose father is currently servinh in Haiti, he was on his way to Ghana. Dossou, whose father once worked in Immigration, said that most of the officials he knew had built big houses just a few years serving at Hilla Condji.

At Lome, we were quartered in a compound of two small houses and a courtyard in a dusty street off an even more dusty Boulevard du Haho. This compound was clearly a family home occupied by poor and courteous Togolese whose young children happily dedicated themselves to the service of Aunty Queen a trafficker who it turned out could speak fluent English, French, Bini, Yoruba and a smattering of Arabic. The children, three girls and a boy of about nine, ran errands fetching water and going to the stores throughout the three days their parents hosted the visitors. It was difficult to say how Queen had made the acquaintance of this poor family in the first place. Most of the houses in this poor neighbourhood were without numbers; however some of the unforgettable landmarks included the Africa Bar and the Englise Neo-Apostolique church.

The following morning Queen took the eight girls away and returned late afternoon with another set of girls. Everyone was to depart Togo the next day but that plan was thwarted after Queen bitterly discovered there would be no transport to our next stop, Burkina Faso until two days later. Out of boredom or perhaps genuinely seeking the face of God, Queen suggested we attend a church service. Not one person saw it as a bad idea. We all walked to a pentecoastal church headed by a Nigerian pastor. Written on the wall were “House of Excellence Church” and the same name in French: Eglise Maison D'Excellence. This church, with service conducted in English, is one of about a dozen that cater to the spiritual needs of Nigerians living in Lome. Half way through the service, thinking for the umpteenth time about Omosan and what may have happened to her, this reporter left the church, found a telephone service and put a call to Godefroy Nacaire Chabi, a Beninoise journalist based in Cotonou.

Transport to Burkina Faso from Lome was pretty irregular and depended largely on traders from landlocked Burkina returning home from Lome markets. We journeyed from Lome to Sogode to Kara to the Togolese border town Bitou and on to Burkina's frontier town Sekanze to Koupella to Ougadougou and to Bobo-Dioulasso. Against all expectations, the journey took three days. Several times the bus broke down on the way, traveling day and night; and at one point in the middle of nowhere, hungry passengers resorted to buying fruits, boiled potatoes and sundry farm produce off a long line of peasants trekking to a distant market. At a town called Koupella, the bus with registration number 10 KK 8533 BF, completely broke down. We camped outside a tea seller til the following morning. This reporter was directed to a facility within a mosque complex where for CFA100, he brushed his teeth, had a bath and washed his shirt, all inside a cubicle housing a pit latrine.

By the time we arrived Ouagadougou, Rajah was waiting. Queen got out with the girls. The men were told to continue to Bobo-Dioulasso. On arrival, without any arrangements for a sleeping place, everyone loitered at the motor park and waited. There were an appreciable number of migrants in Burkina Faso; some having arrived from Ghana, Nigeria and Cote d'Ivoire and all waiting to connect to Niger Republic, specifically Niamey. Here, this reporter met a Nigerian by name Kenneth Akwekwe. He said he was on his way to Bangkok but he must first get to Senegal where his travel documents awaited him. We slept at the motor park, smudged with red earth. Almost all night, a loudspeaker blared the music of Alpha Blondie, Jerusalem.

When Queen turned up the following day, she had eleven girls behind her. It was gathered that most of the émigrés in Burkina Faso were Nigerians, predominantly of the Yoruba and Ibo tribes. A Burkina youth, trying to sell satchet water to this reporter insisted that the English word for water was nmiri. From Urheva, it was gathered that the new girls had been fetched from a part of the capital called Ouaga Due Mil, better known as Ouaga 2000. This place is said to be one of the transit camps for female victims of human trafficking. Ouaga is said to be the Jonquet of Cotonou with its fair share of brothels. It is estimated that about 250 young women, mostly Nigerians and Ghanaians, are involved in Ouaga's sex industry.

Condemned to the same transport company, Fasowcar, we departed for Mali. Something happened that almost blew this reporter's cover. It happened at the Burkina-Mali border. The reporter's passport had been stamped and CFA3000 demanded when one of the officials spotted a camera in the inner pocket of the reporter's jacket. A search of his bag revealed the reporter's notebook. Questions after questions about identity, destination and mission. The reporter was dragged before one Urbain Gnoumou, a Police Nationale who had a pistol in his waist and a portrait of President Blaise Campore glowering over his desk. In a mixture of English and French, this reporter explained he was a schoolteacher on his way to Mali to visit a sick Nigerian. Gnoumou barked that any journalist visiting or passing through his country must have first obtained a written permission stating his mission. The reporter tried his best to stick to his story which nobody seemed to be buying. Exhausted, Gnoumou decided to transfer the puzzle to officials at the Malian side of the border. Fortunately, at Hedamakonu, the Malians did not even bat an eyelid. From Hedamakonu, we journeyed to Sikazou, Boogoni and finally Bamako.

Dreams die first

We arrived Bamako about 4A.M. The spectacle at Sediankoro motorpark spoke volumes of the fate of African migrants along that route. There were over forty homeless young men sleeping in awkward positions inside the park. It was gathered that every one of them was a migrant that has come to a dead end in Mali. Again, the majority was Nigerians. Out of cash and unable to move on, they had resorted to touting, while waiting for new arrivals to fleece. Later, this reporter found more of them at Gekoroni, Zebenikoro and Dabanani Merche. Meanwhile, their female counterparts could be found as sex workers at Yamakoro, Hotel Kokoti, Amadina, Domino, Kaye and Mani Bar; all with a high concentration of young Nigerian girls. It is estimated that about 1400 Nigerian girls live in Mali. Everyone of them had left home with Europe as dream destination. One Camara Kaba, a Guinean with Rastafarian hairstyle took this reporter around town. A resident of Bamako, his telephone number is +223-76139168.

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