Issue 8 October 2001 - February 2002by Paul Runge - enquiries to Traders

22h 30, Five-Star (really Two-Star) Hotel, Lagos, Nigeria. Note found on my bed upon arrival:

“Dear Guest,
Restricted access to the airport has caused most criminals to turn their attention to hotels in the neighbourhood. You are therefore advised to thoroughly check the identity of your caller before going out of the hotel. If in doubt, please call security or the Duty Manager. Management.”

I throw my jacket on the bed and tuck my wallet into my pants pocket. It feels decidedly lighter after having just been emptied of US$ 287 for a room—including taxes and excluding breakfast. The room is small and stuffy, so I take a pen and paper and head down to the lobby bar for some quiet visit preparations. I find a table with two chairs, order a beer and start writing. “Can I sit with you, sweetie?”

Black, shiny, pointed shoes and a long leg. I don’t look any further—just carry on writing. “Why don’t we go to the room? We can have some fun”. “I’m sorry, I’ve got work to do”.

She sighs and whispers “I’ll leave my bag here. See you in a few minutes”. Ten minutes later she returns, picks up her bag, mutters something at me and joins some professional colleagues leaning against the far wall of the bar area. A few others are prowling/trawling the lobby lounge, pouring themselves over any new, male arrival who happens to be sitting unprotected by company. Back in my room, I turn on the TV and find a local station. An aggrieved and fiery individual is standing before a packed hall answering questions being directed at him by some old legal personage in a dark suit. At the bottom of the screen the words “Human Rights Violation Investigation Committee” appear. The prosecutor (I think he is a prosecutor) is asking the defendant (I think he is a defendant) about his movements on the day of some past coup or attempted coup. The dialogue goes something like: “I was not aware that General xxxx had arrived in Lagos. Your Honour, you don’t seem to understand that I had first to take my own men into consideration”. Most of the crowd appear to support the defendant and there are howls of laughter and derision when the Chairman, dressed in robes and sitting in a podium above the whole scenario, admonishes the prosecutor for some breach in procedural rules. The last-mentioned is licking his lips and clearly becoming increasingly nervous. As we leave the hotel the following morning, I ask my driver about both the ladies of the night as well as the TV trial. “We are a big country, about 120 million people; but we are a poor country too. The girls must live and you visitors have a lot of money. They give the hotel staff some money to let them past the security and to go up into the rooms. But now there are too many of them worrying the visitors. Obasanjo is trying to fix up the country. We must clean ourselves from the inside. To do this we must know what happened in the past. We suffered very badly with all those military dictatorships”.

We are still in the relatively upmarket area of Ikeja near the airport, but have to go to the main business area on Victoria Island. The traffic is very slow and my taxi is weaving between smoke-gushing trucks, old cars, other taxis and motorised bikes. Among these is the odd Mercedes or “posh car” with one or two suited expatriates sitting comfortably in the back. The occupants are either writing and reading, or staring with bored expressions at the crippled beggars and vendors tapping on their windows in wild attempts to catch the rich man’s attention. “Foreigners don’t usually drive here. If there is any kind of accident, they will have to keep paying for the rest of their lives”. He curses a particularly persistent vendor who has left a smear on the side window. “We always keep our doors locked and windows closed. They can snatch something very quickly”. We move around the slow truck ahead of us by using the broken-up verge and sidewalk. The puddle we go through hides a pothole and is deeper than the driver thinks. Grey water splashes up the side of the car and he curses again. There are uncountable telephone lines tied together with tape and string and hanging in long loops between buildings, shops and residences. Here and there one has come loose and dangles towards the ground. The lines are held up precariously by thin poles and they create a web-like effect where they converge. “You can see that some of the lines have coloured string tied on them—this is so that you find your own line when you have trouble. It’s a mess”. There is a large MTN placard on the island in front of us. “It will be a good thing when the South Africans and the others come to give us cell phones. They say they will launch in August but I don’t think they will be ready then”. We pass a two-storey complex of small shops, the biggest of which on the upper floor carries a sign marking it as an ‘Internet Cafe’. There is a queue of men and women, some with dark glasses and briefcases, extending from the street up the stairs to the entrance. “Nigerians are educated people. We are hungry to use these new things”. He waves at the queue. “All those young people know how to use computers, even though our NITEL lines are so bad”. We pick up speed as we arrive on a long, multi-lane, over-water bridge. “Before they built these, we took hours to get to the islands. They once thought they had a system that would work—odd registration numbers on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, even numbers on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. But some people just bought extra plates”. At the far end of the bridge is a row of high-rise buildings. “Not too far now”. I’m not looking forward to stepping out into the heat and pollution. In the distance and on the lagoon below is a lone fishing canoe bobbing against the skyline. “Oil changed a lot of things here. Some call it the ‘oil doom’ not the ‘oil boom’. We must re-learn the old things—fishing and agriculture. Our President likes agriculture. He is a farmer, you know?” My meeting on Victoria Island is with representatives of a Nigerian Business Association. Most of them are young men—well-spoken and self-confident. The meeting has a ‘no-nonsense’ feel about it and we move quickly to the main issues. “The new political goodwill between the South African and Nigerian politicians must translate into business and more projects, not just MTN and SASOL”. “Nigerians are very price-sensitive. South African suppliers will have to price their products very strategically. This is a highly competitive market, you know”. “I was in Johannesburg last week and I met many companies. There is so much that we can do together”.

On the way back, I remark on the large number of churches. “They used to be warehouses and factories but business became too difficult for the owners. This is a tough place. Things are getting better though and some are being reconverted again”. I spend my last day, Saturday, at the home of a newly found Nigerian friend. He owns a cold storage business in Ikeja. His nearby home is an up-market two-storey house stylishly furnished with a West African theme. “Foreigners don’t appreciated how much time we spend on maintaining our homes and businesses. I have my own generator, water tank, computer-saving equipment … it’s not only the money but the time too. You guys take these things for granted in your everyday lives”. We spend much of the day sitting in his well-kept garden, receiving visits from business associates and friends. All express much interest in me and ask numerous questions about South Africa. One visitor brings news: “Have you heard that the police have imposed a curfew from midnight tonight until five? It’s in protest against the three cops that died in a gunfight with bandits last week”. I listen with much interest. I have to be at the airport at four. The conversation continues with the crime theme. “The police are just too few and besides, their fire power is weaker than that of the gangs. The bastards block off sections of neighbourhood and move in groups of forty to fifty taking out the whole damned area. Even if we get a line to the police, they don’t always come”. My friend drops me off at the Sheraton Hotel before midnight. I must wait in the lobby until the transport from the hotel leaves for the airport at three-thirty in the morning. The Night Manager provides some reassurance. “There won’t be any problems. The police know our cars and drivers”. Some three hours later we are moving through the deserted streets towards the Murtala Mohammed International Airport. We see only one police vehicle and the chatting officers don’t even look up as we pass. In just a few hours these streets will be jammed with beggars, vendors, local residents, businesspeople, civil servants and I imagine even the odd big politician making it through another hot and humid day in sub-Saharan Africa’s most populous country. “Can Obasanjo do it?”

An awakening giant?

Author's Contact Details
Author: Paul Runge - enquiries to Traders
Tel: +27 11 465 8871
Fax: +27 11 705 2431
Email: editorial@tradersafrica.com