Investigation: Untold stories of smuggling, struggles at Nigeria-Benin border

The sun shone with gleeful elegance when the Nigerian Tribune arrived Idiroko, Ogun State, the border town between Nigeria and the Republic of Benin. Business activities were at a crescendo – shops located at either side of the road buzzed, hawkers displayed their wares, motorcycle riders drove recklessly as they moved both goods and humans.

The Nigerian Tribune was in this town on a dual edged mission – find out how the border closure policy had affected businesses in the town and investigate if the borders were closed, really. The latter, would eventually take a large chunk of the two days spent at Idiroko.

After meeting with a fixer (a man with knowledge of the town, who would help in getting around) who got a motocyclist the journey to the border commenced. Few minutes later, the bike halted few meters away from the official Nigeria-Benin land border. The gates were shut with some officers of Nigeria Customs and Immigration service, mostly in mufti, gladly seated, taking shed from an umbrella close to the gates.

Behind the bike bearing the Tribune correspondent, motorcyclists lined up waiting for passengers, which, one of them would reveal, were scarce due to the border closure. Sensing that the reporter was new in the town, one of them said, “Bros are you going to French (a popular slang for the Republic of Benin)? I will take you there.”

So, it is this easy to cross over to Benin, the reporter thought. The reporter beckoned on the fixer and intimated him of the desire to cross to Republic of Benin. The reporter expressed his fears and it was clear what the dangers were. The reporter could be caught and his identity revealed. It was either the Customs officials branded him a smuggler and parade him alongside some suspects or lock him up indefinitely. This was scary. The desire to get the fact could be an invitation to disaster. It was a crossroads situation.

The fixer (let’s call him Mike) thought it would be more dangerous to pick a random bike, hence the need to consult one of the most trusted youths in the town. After some consultation, the Nigerian Tribune reporter and the fixer were under a semi thatched roof waiting for the contact who would link them with the trusted rider. The contact eventually arrived. He was  6 ft tall, fair and a heavily bearded man. After introduction, the contact dashed out and returned with a man who would eventually serve as the rider.

But then there was a challenge. The rider did not understand English but Yoruba while the reporter did not understand Yoruba.  On the other hand, Mike did not know the terrain well. So, another fixer had to be engaged for the trip. The contact suggested his ‘boy’, who he called a core ‘border boy’. The border boy was now the second fixer (let’s call him Segun). A fee was agreed upon after which the trip started. But there was another concern, as the reporter neither had the ECOWAS nor International passport, but a temporary National Identity card and his workplace identity card.

Since Nigerian government unilaterally shut its land borders, there had been a barrage of allegations that some of these borders were still open and smuggling still ongoing. Significant of the allegations was the one made at the floor of the House of Representatives by Fatuhu Muhammed, member representing Daura/Mai’adua/Sandamu Constituency, Katsina State. He alleged that the border in his constituency was still very open as some Customs officers were seen at night allowing smugglers bring in goods after paying bribes.

Another cause for worry was the presence of foreign grown rice in the markets across the country. No doubt, the availability had reduced and price spiked, but the grain was still prevalent.

N300 passport

All was set for the trip to Republic of Benin. The rider meandered through a community of look-alike buildings with rusty roofs, and untarred roads. From a village called Four-corner, the bike arrived at a checkpoint. This was not the conventional checkpoint with rifle-wielding security agents manning the post but a makeshift arrangement created by the indigenes of the community in collaboration with some Custom officials, Segun told the correspondent.

Here, a bamboo stick was placed across two other sticks and three men in their 40s were in charge. The rule was simple, ‘settle’ and you would be free, where you were going made no difference. No one would search or interrogate you. Just settle and the bamboo stick would be lifted.

However, not all bikes were like the one hired by the reporter. Others had contraband goods like frozen turkey, rice, used shoes and clothes. Once the barricade was lifted, they zoomed.

Few meters away was another checkpoint, the same as the one just passed, save for the presence of four semi uniformed and mufti adorning Nigerian Immigration Service officers.

As the rider approached this point, the reporter didn’t want to pass without getting the attention of the officers, so he feigned naivety and it worked. One of the officers asked him to get down from the bike. But the rider would later reveal that the officers knew virtually most of them that plied that route and it was easy for them to detect a stranger.

The reporter disembarked from the motorcycle and found himself before a short, dark, bald officer.

“Who are you and where are you going to?”, he asked sitting on a makeshift chair made of dry bamboo sticks.

Having not rehearsed any line to recite, the reporter looked in the direction of Segun and the rider who were busy discussing with the other men who manned the post alongside the officers. Segun did not notice the reporter’s uneasiness but would later tell him those men were called ‘camp boys’. They worked with the officers.

As the reporter motioned to talk, his mouth heavy with emptiness, Segun and the rider rushed close to him, “Twale Baba! Na my uncle. We just wan see person for Igolo,” Segun explained to the officer. “You sure?”, he asked. “Let me see your ID”. I handed him my temporary National Identity card. “Ok, you go give us something”.

Segun come to the reporter’s rescue by giving the officer  N300. That done, no further question was asked. The reporter had a backpack containing just a shirt and a pair of trousers, diary and power bank. The backpack was big enough to contain a substantial amount of any contraband items. But it was not searched, neither was he asked of its content.

As the journey proceeded, Segun warned the reporter not to engage any officer or camp boy in any discussion. “The money you paid the bike man has covered all the settlements on the way,’’ he said. The advice was heeded and no further payment was made as the trip took them through other checkpoints – not less than five – although manned by the camp boys, alone, even in Beninese territory.

Soon, the team was at a small garage with dwarf shops and a handful of traders. This was Igolo, Benin Republic. There was no major difference. The language of transaction was Yoruba, apart from patches of French.

Having seen first hand the corruption on the road, the reporter informed Segun of the need to see where the contraband goods were loaded onto bikes for onward transmission to Nigeria. The bike man, on Segun’s instruction, continued with the trip for a few more minutes. That took the team to the park. The  rider parked his bike and the team continued the  journey trekking.

Brisk business

Sweltering in dutifulness, a man in his 20s, packed cartons of turkey neatly stacked in a small cold van. He would bring them down from the stack and load on waiting bikes, as another man, seated beside the van, watched keenly and took note. Motorcyclists were seen carefully packaging the products with black polythene bags and then tying them on their bikes. In calculated motion, they zoomed off one after the other, while others drove in. The cycle continued.

These products would find their way into Idiroko and would be transported via road to different parts of the country. Turkey is the first on the list of Nigerian Customs Service import prohibition list. But this product and many others were still available in Nigerian markets.

When the reporter asked Segun about the process of buying and then transporting to Nigeria, he smiled and said “it is easy na. Just buy the one you want and buy the nylon. We will package it for you and it would be moved”. Within minutes, the product would be in Nigeria,” he said.

Besides turkey, there were fairly used clothes and shoes. Few steps away lay a motorcycle park where bags of packaged fairly used clothes and shoes were. Each bag had been marked and their owners stood close to them, as they chatted away, waiting for their motorcyclists to arrive. The transportation arrangement was so concrete that some merchants who had many bags would wait behind while their motorcyclists delivered the products to the agreed destination(s) and returned to pick the remaining bags.

Camp boys rule

During the return trip, the reporter agreed with the rider and Segun to trek. The bike, which was parked at the park, would be picked half way through the journey to enable the reporter have a clearer picture of the situation.

At all the checkpoints, camp boys held sway. Officers would only interfere in very rare cases. Numbering at least three at each point, they would collect the ‘settlement’ and noted the face of the ‘settler’ for the trip.

The ‘business’ was brisk and the harvest bountiful. The ‘settlement’ was based on the number of people carried as well as the quantity and type of contraband goods. And the riders had a clear understanding of the categories and their attendant ‘settlement fees’. The rider said it could range from N100 per carton of turkey to N500 per bag of rice, which he described as ‘gold’.

A product which would later be learnt was another ‘gold’ was Premium Motor Spirit (PMS), popularly known as petrol. But then, it rarely passed through this route, but another.

The reporter trekked past three checkpoints, no question was asked, save explanation by the rider that he had settled earlier. The reporter still had his backpack on.  But then, something was striking at these checkpoints. There were hierarchies. Usually, two people stood, manning the barricade while one or two persons, in some cases, would sit with some wad of cash in their palms. They looked older and their eyes more probing when riders said “I have settled earlier”. Some minutes later, the team passed through all the checkpoints, including the one where officers sat idly, without a blink. No interrogations.

When President Muhammadu Buhari ordered the closure of Nigeria’s land borders in August 2019, he hinged it on the increasing cases of smuggling, which, according to him, was crippling the nation’s economy. But President Buhari had no inkling that the policy would not eradicate the menace entirely.

The directive seemed like an answer to the cries of the Comptroller General, Nigerian Customs Service, Hameed Ali, who had beckoned on Nigerians to plead with smugglers to desist from their nefarious activities. His plea was greeted by a barrage of criticism. Fears were expressed that, for the head of an agency in charge of securing Nigeria’s borders to openly admit helplessness in his responsibilities, there was a bigger problem.

However, the government had listed many benefits of the policy to include reduction in unemployment as a result of farmers and rice mills employing more hands, increased revenue and reduction in fuel subsidy payment. But it has failed to tell Nigerians that part of the problem was with the security agencies manning the borders.

Long queues at ineffective checkpoints.

On the way to Idiroko, the reporter  boarded a Toyota Sedan car driven by a Nigeria Police officer. From Sango-Ota, the journey was smooth as the passengers chatted away ‘the politics of Nigeria’. The reporter asked questions as to when the vehicle would get to Idiroko and the driver said to watch out for a long queue. “When you see the long traffic, know that we are at Ajilete and from there to Idiroko is less than 30 minutes.”

Soon, the vehicle arrived at the much talked about traffic and eventually spent one and a half hours covering a distance that should take not more than 180 seconds. Within such a short distance, the reporter  counted nine checkpoints manned by members of Oodua Peoples Congress (OPC), officers of Nigeria Customs Service, Nigeria Immigration Service, men of Nigerian Army and Mobile Police officers. Each point had a mix of these operatives while some had just OPC members.

After the border closure, the federal government ordered stoppage of fuel sale within 20 kilometres to the shut borders. The measure, it said, was meant to stop smuggling of the product to neighbouring countries.

Statistics shows that fuel is sold at a cheaper rate in Nigeria than other West African countries. This difference created a huge gap for smugglers to mine. Hence, the essence of the ban was to push the smugglers out of business and save revenue for the country. But with what I saw, the government is yet to succeed.

One of the major duties of the officers at checkpoints at Ajilete was to ensure no vehicle or motorcycle heads to Idiroko with fuel in a jerry can. “Even if it is one litre of fuel you are carrying, they will take it. Anyway, that is for those who don’t settle them very well”, Segun told the reporter.

The driver had bought four litres of fuel in a jerry can, carefully placed in the car’s trunk, after filling the tank to the brim. On the journey, he was never searched. The police cap and belt conspicuously placed on the car’s dashboard was a clear coverage. “How na?”, he would fling to any officer who came close to him. On seeing the cap and belt, the officer would in return give an esprit de corps nod and the driver would move on.

First rule of the game: ‘Tell officers the truth’

Back to Idiroko. Fuel stations dotted the roads. Although they were now under lock and key, they would not be totally missed. Beside almost all of them were parallel market fuel sellers, popularly known as black market. No doubt, they all sold the same product but obviously not at the same price. While some fuel stations, at Owode – the next major town to Idiroko – sold at the approved NNPC pump price, at the ‘black market’ a litre went for as high as N280.

This had spiked prices of goods in the town, driving the cost of living to the rooftop. When the fuel stations were operating, transportation fare to Owode was less than N300. But it had doubled, Oluwatobi Solaka, who operated a barber shop in the town, told the reporter.  His business and those of others had witnessed high cost of operation and low profit since the new policy became effective.

“Before now, we collected N300 to barb adults but now, due to the difficulty of going to Owode to buy fuel and even the high cost of buying it here, we can’t collect such amount again. And when you tell them to pay more, they would say there is no money.” Hence, few people now visit Oluwatobi and his colleagues’ shops. “Many people are no longer in the town,’’ he said.

One would ask how parallel market sellers got their products since security operatives conducted thorough stop and search at Ajilete. “That is not a problem. If you want me to buy for you, I will”, the rider said.

The situation created brisk business for motorcyclists in the town. Most residents of the town, who did not know the terrain of ‘settlement’, ended up wasting their time and money going to Owode to buy fuel in jerry cans, because the products would end up in the hands of security operatives at Ajilete. But the same products would get to Idiroko in their choice jerry cans if the riders were contracted. It would cost N4000 to fill up a 25-litre jerry can at Owode, the rider said, but N6500 if he or any of his colleagues got the job.

Asked how easy it was, he said, telling officers the truth is the rule. “We usually cover it with rags or nylon. Even when we carry other things, the officers will ask us what we are carrying and we usually tell them the truth. If we don’t tell them the truth and they find out, it would be a big problem.”

‘So you came to report us to Abuja’

Etikoto Festac was where mechanical and dutiful smuggling took place. The route is largely for the golden products – rice and fuel – as movement of turkey or used clothes and shoes was rarely noticed.

For a first timer, it would look like a calm place tucked away in green vegetation. But inside the valley was a border that held a lot in itself. Here, destinies dangled on illegality, bones were bruised in struggles, sweat streamed like boundless rivers and legs crushed mother earth in prepared rhythms. It was a jungle for the strong, committed, shameless and desperate.

As the newly contracted rider (contract with the other rider ended the previous day) dropped the reporter off alongside Mike, the first fixer, the presence of four transmission cars indicated that there was more that met the eyes than the trees and sliding red mud. At the left, more than 10 boys, in their 20s, chatted in loud voices with the stench of Indian hemp most of them smoked defeating the carbon dioxide from the trees surrounding them. Beside the cars sat three men, smiling as they chatted.

As the team walked close to the entry point to the valley, a boy sweating profusely and panting silently popped out with two 50KG bags of parboiled rice laden on his head. Few seconds later, another came out, this time, shirtless, shoe-less and younger, struggling with a bag of rice on his shoulder.

After peeping into the danger that lay ahead, the reporter discussed with Mike on how to manoeuvre their ways through the slippery steps carved on the steep way that led down.

The order of smuggling here was easily predictable. Rice came in while fuel went out. The fuel was usually in yellow 25 litres jerry cans and each of the boys, transporting it across, carried at least two cans and moved in swift manners.

Now the reporter had found his way down the valley, not without removing his footwear and spending more than 20 minutes taking steps which the boys did in less than two minutes, for fear of falling over. Down there, there was a small stream and a bridge made of wood, across it. That is the boundary between Nigeria and Benin. When the products got down there, another journey would start up another mountain to the main Beninese territory.

There were about 10 idle boys seated with empty jerry cans of fuel. After exchanging pleasantries and some suspicious glances, the reporter walked up to a hidden spot to take some pictures. This would become one of the greatest risks of the trip.

After some clicks, their eyes met again. “So, you are snapping us. You came here to see what we are doing, abi?” In a few seconds, more than five of them were approaching the reporter. He walked down and prepared his mind for the worst. “So, you came to report us to Abuja. They sent you abi?”

Mike signalled to the reporter and he had to walk briskly towards the entrance.

“Stop,” he said. “All of them are coming.” The reporter froze, he could not turn, his  heart began to race. Now surrounded by more than 15 of them, some stinking of Indian hemp, cigarette and others, dry harmattan sweat, the reporter’s heart was in his mouth.

His phone was seized and all the pictures deleted.

“You are not going anywhere. You will die here today,” one of them told him as he made to leave.

When going in, the reporter had greeted, profusely, one of two older men under a shed, close to the stream. It was the man that now came to his rescue.

Clutched to his left arm, he climbed with the reporter up to the entry point, while the boys who asked for his  head protested. Having warned them sternly against hurting the reporter, he asked him to leave. While the reporter and the fixer were walking up, business was still going on as usual. Fuel and rice carrying boys passed without joining the bandwagon.

The ones smoking at the entry point had gotten information that an informant had come to spoil their business, so they prepared and joined the other group. Despite the warning, they were not satisfied. At this point, Mike had to introduce himself and then the reporter as his close friend who came to visit. After some minutes of explanation, the reporter was allowed to go.

‘This is not my state, I came here to hustle’

While the threat blared, the reporter  spotted one of them, tall and fair with black lips, who seemed the angriest. When their anger had subsided and the reporter was let free, he met and tried to ingratiate him. “Why, you dey vex like this for your guy na. Me na guy like you. You no suppose vex like this. I just say make I come see as my fellow guys dey hustle”.

“My guy no vex. We think say you come spoil business for us. This is not my state, I came here to hustle. Job no dey. Person no go steal na”, he explained with a squeezed face. He shook hands with the reporter and promised to see him later, but he never did.

This is only a peep into a larger network spread across the country with over 100 illegal border routes. Through these routes,  the country loses N2 billion (about $5.4 million) daily, to fuel smuggling, Nigeria National Petroleum Corporation (NNPC) confirmed, recently. And it is, sadly, not part of the $2.2 billion worth of textile smuggled into the country, yearly, from Benin, the World Bank said.

Human cost

The border closure policy, as justifiable as it is, has brought attendant effects on Nigerians. Apart from barring people doing legal businesses across the border, it has spiked inflation. The Nigerian Bureau of Statistics (NBS) said inflation rate in November 2019, was the highest in nine months. Very worrisome is the continued spike since the policy was initiated in August 2019 and its attendant impact on prices of goods. But then, there is more. The policy has taken lives, too.

The reporter arrived Idiroko on a Thursday to learn that an elderly woman had died in a fuel explosion which rocked her house four days earlier.

When he visited the scene, around Ansa-ud-Deen axis of the town, he saw  a house with roof and properties burnt down. Neighbours identified the late woman as IyaNike (Nike’s mother). In her 70s, she got into trouble when one of her grandchildren  lit a matchstick while jerry cans of fuel sat in one corner of the house. That Sunday afternoon turned dark as the old woman could not make it out of the room. She was burnt to death, while one of her grandchildren sustained life threatening degree burn. Kabiru, a seamster in the neighbourhood, said.

If not for the timely intervention of neighbours, who fought the fire with sand and water mixed with detergent, the scale of damage could have been bigger, he said.

Efforts to speak with the victim’s daughter did not yield any positive result as she was said to have travelled out of town, while the late woman had been interred.

Like a time bomb, this danger ticked in almost every household in the town where electricity supply is still a nightmare.  Resorting to power generating sets, which use the banned fuel, has led Idiroko residents to resort to storing up fuel, when they eventually get it, in their houses.

No doubt, smuggling has dealt Nigeria’s economy a big blow, but while just a few border routes are closed, many are still open. And smuggling, brazenly and subtly, is still being abetted by the very people who should fight it.