Crying From Outside My Fatherland!

Nigeria is now into her 50th year after independent, but millions of her youthful and resourceful citizens are looking for their ways out of the land on daily basis. In this Story I will narrate how I tried to sneak out of this country through a border town in Ogun State, Ajegunle by the aid of a bike (Okada) rider.

The adventure was about to begin as we started crossing the border via a muddy pathway in the forest. The young man (about 24 years of age) riding the motorcycle on which I was carried was been hailed as ‘Mai chau’ by some hoodlums we met on our way. Not been bordered by the rain that was beating me that evening, but the fact that I could not see any other thing except tall trees of tropical rain forest and few sparsely situated mud houses gave me some serious concern. Some hoodlums were also extorting money from every bike passing-by through the use of logs and big stones to block the road. I only prayed to God to make my journey a save one.

We came across more than three so-called toll gates and Mai chau paid fifty naira to the hoodlums at each gate. He told me about some footballers he also helped to cross the border few days earlier. He said that some of them were heading to as far as Abidjan, Cote d’Ivoire to find a better day in their carriers. After some minutes in the forest, we eventually arrived a Benin Republic town called Igolo, at around 6pm. That was my first time ever to cross the Nigerian border. It was almost a late hour at Gare Routier d’Igolo (Igolo motor park or so) as commercial activities in the market center were almost closed for the day.

After paying him his fare, Mai cahu directed me to the place where I could catch a cab to Cotonou. He also told me that I had to convert my money to French currency as he pointed at a woman sitting under a canopy (made of planks and roofed with metal sheets) saying that she would help me. I went to her. We spoke in Yoruba and exchange my naira notes with her French-West African money known as CFA. Due to the fact that it was late then, I waited so long before I could catch a cab to Cotonou. We started the journey to Cotonou along with a dark complexioned young man whom I met when I was waiting for the cab. He spoke Yoruba fluently and was also speaking in a Beninoise language with the driver. I was sitting alone on the rear seat and enjoying a music been played by a radio station. It was getting dark then, around 7pm. The journey was cool and pleasant!

I started acknowledging the differences between my country and a foreign land right from Igolo. The message on every bill board I saw was written in French. Even the power lines looked different. The power transformers were very small and were hung on the poles. It was strange to me as the system was uncommon in Nigeria. The sign boards along the highway looked new as if they were just been placed there. Some bore traffic signs while some bore the name of every village we passed-by. The driver pulled over along the way to pick three other men. They were all exchanging conversation with the driver as we drove on.

We reached Porto-Novo at around 7.15pm. Passing through the Old Portuguese town, otherwise known as Adjasse, was among the experiences I cherished a lot. I looked with astonishment, the old structures, reminiscence of the former Portuguese settlers, standing on each side of the road, the bright streetlights, the road tiled with interlocking pave stones, the electric traffic signs and the good looking people sitting in front of their houses. I felt like jumping out of the car and joining them. The journey continued as we drove out of the city to join another highway. Sitting quietly by the rear door, there was nothing I was thinking about but the situation of things in my country. Poor health and educational facilities, dilapidated infrastructure, epileptic power supply, corruption in public offices, lack of security of life and property were among the numerous problems facing my country which made me sober as we drove on. I wondered how could a small country which is smaller than western Nigeria, be far better in terms of infrastructure and organization when compared with the ‘almighty’ Nigeria.

When we approached the Toll Gate of Cotonou, I was caught by another surprise. The toll plaza was automated. I had never seen such a nice facility before. There was also a special lane for bikers. I also saw some uniformed men sweeping the road under floodlight. The traffic control system was totally electrified and no single traffic warden could be seen on the road. There were no check points whereby police officers would be extorting money from commuters as it happened in Nigeria. At exactly 7.52pm, we entered the city of Cotonou. That was when I started thinking about what brought me to the country. Where to sleep and where to tell the driver that I wanted to be alighted were the contents of my meditation. I later resolved to alight only at the final destination of the cab. The last bus stop was indeed, Marche Dantokpa!

I paid the driver and alighted without knowing where next to go. Looking at how the place looked rough, the big buildings with closed shops, the kiosks and many bill boards, I concluded that Dantokpa must be a big market place in which business activities had been closed for the day. I was wandering from one street to another. An agony of being in a foreign land for the first time includes the fact that one would find it difficult to buy whatever one needs because of lack of knowledge of the purchasing power of their currency and inability to speak their language. I was a bit hungry and I had some money with me but I could not communicate in French. Interestingly, the city was lively at night. There were cafeteria and bars everywhere. You would always find people walking around on the streets and their districts were well planned.

However, it reached a point where I decided to try if I could buy something to eat. I saw some boys, most of whom I believe to be teenagers, sitting in front of a house. One of them had a bowl of baguette in his front. I went to him and pointed a five hundred CFA note at him and said in English, “I need bread” He replied in French, but I could not understand. He then called another boy who was limping. The limping boy said to me in English, “He said that he doesn’t have change” meaning that he could not sell because he did not have the means to balance my five hundred CFA note. As I was leaving, the first boy said something again in French and I almost got him wrong because I could only pick the word ‘problem’ from what he said. But, the interpreter quickly intervened and said “he said that he hope you are not worried” I replied “No, thanks” and left. The warm gesture I received from the boys gave me a picture of how the people in general might me like.

I continued jumping from one street to another with a small nylon bag which I brought along. I got to a place which looked like a garden or park. It was an open night club with a lot of fun catchers enjoying themselves. Some were dancing to the music been played at the bar while some relaxed with their dates enjoying some drinks. Out of curiosity, I went close to the bar and found a vacant seat. I was contemplating on whether to sit down and take the weight off my feet or dare not, when a lady attendant approached me and spoke in French. I understood she was asking me of the type of drink I might want. I quickly turned back and left for a more remote side of the park. I found a bench shaded by a wall of flowers against the illuminating light of the bar. I lied down and rested my head over my bag which contained only few clothes and a bedcover. No sooner than I started thanking God for giving me a place to sleep for the night that a young man came to me and woke me up to let me know that sleeping was not allowed in the park.

It was getting late in the night and the number of people I was seeing on the road were waning with time. I was still searching for a place to sleep when I saw some people standing in front of a cafeteria watching movie. I joined them. After some minutes, I eavesdropped some people were speaking my native language, Yoruba. I quickly moved closer to one of them. I whispered to him in Yoruba that I was an immigrant and I needed a place to sleep. I also explained to him that I was a qualified computer operator, specialized in desktop publishing, but I would not mind taking a menial job to sustain my self for a while. The response I received from the gentleman was not too encouraging. I later left the place in disarray. At that time, the whole streets have become quiet. I then saw a table in front of a closed shop with a boy lying on it. I drew closer and found a broken chair close to the table. I rested on the chair and removed a bedcover from my bag to protect myself against the desperate mosquitoes. After some hours, may be around midnight, I found that the other boy had left. I jumped on the table and continued my mosquito ravaged night.
Life is very difficult in an environment where poverty strives, where corruption, embezzlement and mediocrity was the order of the day in public offices, where qualitative education and good health care facilities were beyond the reach of the common man, where there was no basic amenities, where the available infrastructures were dilapidated, where millions of unemployed youth roam the streets, where there was no security of life and property and where the few aristocrats put the whole country in shackles of enslavement. For the above reasons, many other youth like yours faithfully have been frustrated to migrate out of their fatherland even to a smaller country.