No Nigerians welcome
Rev. Matthew Kukah
Recently, my good friend, Chief Udeh, the head of Nigeria’s immigration Service has been sounding upbeat about the changing the face of immigration services. I am so far impressed by his talk and thoughts. I have decided to narrate a story I had for two years decided to live down. It is the story of my own humiliation in the hands of Kenyan and Tanzanian immigration officials. It seems I am also not alone as some of our journalists have suffered similar fates. As the story went, a group of Nigerian journalists had been denied entry in Tanzania on the same grounds that they had the misfortune of being from Nigeria. I suffered a similar fate but perhaps the difference lay in the fact that my own story had the bizarre and rather hilarious ending as the reader will see.
My first experience was in 2003 at the Jomo Kenyatta Airport in Nairobi, I was on a Kenya Airways flight bound for Cape Town, South Africa. We had a stop over and the airline had kindly booked a hotel for me for the night. At the airport, I went to get a transit visa, which I was told was a mere formality. I queued up with a few passengers, mostly white. A bunch of smiling Kenyan Immigration officials enthusiastically stamped visas into their passport. I got to the desk, handed in my passport, but the official took one look at me and handed over my passport back to me, saying he could issue me a transit visa. I was told that I was being denied a visa on the grounds that I had Nigerian passport. I was shocked, but I did not wish to create a scene, so I simply stepped aside. I simply returned to the Business Class lounge where I spent the remaining part of the night. Later, when one of the white who had been behind me on the queue met me at the lounge, as he poured himself a scotch, he asked if I had got my transit visa, I nodded because I felt so ashamed to admit that I had been refused a transit visa and that I had to cry on a white man’s shoulder for a cup of humiliation been served to me as a Nigerian. As I settled down, I said to myself: Nigeria has just turned the corner and ended military rule, the Kenyans had just sworn in Mwai Kibaki as the new President. Both he and Obasanjo were supposed to be a sign of the new dawn in Africa. Was this sign of the Africa to come? Though I had travelled to South Africa on two different occasions, I was wondering what would await me for being a Nigerian at the other end. Thank God, the South Africans were gracious.
My second and more traumatic humiliation took place in 2004 as I was completing a research trip which I had undertaken to Rwanda. As an African, the Rwandan genocide had hit me rather badly. As Catholic priest, I had felt even worse than a Secretary General of the Catholic Secretariat then, I was pained by the feeling of total helplessness that engulfed me. The genocide had come and gone, but I was sad that I still had not managed to get a proper idea as to what had happened to the body of Christ in Rwanda. When the opportunity to visit Rwanda presented itself, I took it with both hands. My trip to Rwanda was a spin off from a Lecture I delivered on civil society in Africa in Dublin in 2003. But that is another story.
My trip to Kigali was fantastic. The people were wonderful and I found that so many doors opened to me as a Nigerian. The people here pronounced President Obasanjo’s name with greater affection than in many parts of Nigeria. In fact, at a Sunday mass in the Cathedral in Kigali, I met some five Nigerians who were members out of the Technical Aid Corps in Rwanda who told me they had found wonderful reception in Rwanda. But my real nightmare, the subject of this piece was outside Rwanda.
In the course of my stay in Rwanda, I had spent time listening to stories, interviewing senior Church men and women, government officials, priests, sisters, lay men and women and so on. I was satisfied with my trip. Due to my experience with Oputa Panel, my interest naturally had gravitated towards the efforts at the restoration of justice in Rwanda. I had first heard this initiative from the Rwandese Attorney General who had shared a platform with me at the University of Edinburgh in 2002. He had helped greatly in fixing up appointments for me. After my field work, I felt that I needed to do a comparative analysis of the effectiveness or otherwise of the Gacaca system of African justice system. I had also known about the United Nations International Tribunal on Rwanda based in Arusha, Tanzania. To ensure my smooth and the Tanzanian High Commission. That exercise was smooth and the Tanzanian officials were courteous.
When I finished with the field work in Rwanda, I had the option of flying by UN helicopter from Kigali to Arusha which was just across the border, but I opted to travel back through Nairobi with Kenyan Airways. I was so anxious to see some parts o rural Kenya and Tanzania that I opted to both fly back to Nairobi and continue my trip by road. My flight was to take me through Kilimanjaro which I would have loved to see, but from Nairobi, I opted to go by road.
On arriving Nairobi, I had checked into the Nairobi Hilton which I was told was nearest to the motor Park where I could get the Taxi/Bus from Nairobi to Arusha. The next morning, I arrived at the Park, bought my ticket and boarded a bus. There were about eight of us in the bus and I recall that apart from the driver, I was only the black face. We stopped for refreshments and finally got to Kenya-Tanzanian border. The bus driver pointed at the border post and told us to go and have our passports stamped.
For some strange reasons, I took the lead, feeling that this being Africa soil; I should be the one to lead the four white men and the three women to the post. I got there first and feeling like a tour guide, I smiled at the officers and then depleted the only Swahili I knew; We are all travelling together, I said. The mzungus handed in their passports and I made sure that mine was the last almost as a courtesy. The officer had no hesitation in stamping the passport of the seven mzungus. When he handed them back to us, mine was missing. Hey, I said, where is my passport? He sized me up and said: My friend, you are from Nigeria. You will have to wait a while. What for? I demanded. Because you have a Nigerian passport, he said. The mzungus looked back and then moved on to the bus. They waited for me in the bus and then the driver came over to find what the problem was. He is a Nigerian, the immigration official said, as if those were the imprints of the badge of my criminality. The driver tried to plead that I was his passenger, to no avail.
After over 30 minutes, the driver went back to the vehicle, took down my bags, brought them to me and drove on. I wondered to myself, what those mzungus would have thought: that the Nigerian had been detained because he was a criminal, carrying drugs, or whatever. But I was calm.
I took out my lap top and settled down to work. Since it was a Sunday, I asked the immigration officer if he was sure that his boss was really going to come to work. My plan to be at Sunday mass in Arusha had crumbled. Since I had a ticket, I wondered if I should simply return to Nairobi, abandon my wild life search and take the flight to Arusha. But the officer said: The Mass should finish at 12.00noon so my boss will be here after 12p.m., unless they have a meeting in the Church. I felt relieved by the thoughts that first, the boss was a Catholic and secondly, if he was also a leader in the Church, my problems were over and who knows, I might even get lunch before I continue my journey. At about 12.30p.m, one gentleman walked in and from the reaction of the officer I knew this must be the boss and I thanked God that there had been no Church Council meeting. After he settled in the office, the officer nodded and asked me to go in. what of my passport, I asked? Just go in and explain yourself, he will call for me later, the officer said, as if he and I were acting out some conspiratorial plot. I went into the office, relieved my Habari, the only Swahili I knew and put it again to use. He looked up and then smiled.
Even before I introduced myself he stood up when he saw my collar. Good afternoon Father, he said as he stretched out his hand. What can I do for you? Goodness me, was I pleased to see this gentle man? I was already preparing a plea bargain for his officer because I was sure that the officer was going to be seriously reprimanded by this good Catholic for keeping a Catholic priest waiting, especially having just come from Mass. I was wrong. As soon as I finished my own side of the story, he called the officer. Yes Father he said, you are from Nigeria. Unfortunately, the law does not allow us to let Nigerians in. You fall within a category of countries that we have problems with. So I am sorry, I cannot do anything for you. But, I stammered, you have a High Commission in Nigeria, I have a valid visa from your High Commission, I paid for it. Do you suspect that the visa is fake; I asked him, feeling a bit clerically agitated with an erring parishioner. No it is not about the visa. In fact, Father, it is not your fault. You see, there is something that is supposed to be in this visa but which our officers in Abuja keep forgetting to put. What is it, I asked? The visa has a signature and stamp, so what else do you need? We are the only ones who know, Father I am really sorry about this and for the inconvenience. I thought for one moment. Should I ask him to take me back to his parish priest so I can lay my complaint? I thought no, I would sweat it out and see.
But, he said, what is taking you to Arusha? I was a bit angry but I wondered if I should answer such a stupid question. If I did not have anything to do in Arusha, why would I buy a ticket, apply and get a visa and come all the way here, I thought. But somehow, I thought it will be nice to remain calm and end it peacefully even though it was clear I was going no where. I am going to the International War Crimes Tribunal, I said to him calmly. Whom are you going to see there, he said? Do you work for the United Nations, he asked. No I am just interested in what is going on there. As you can see from my passport, I am just coming from Rwanda. So, I am merely completing the second leg of my research. Not satisfied, he continued: Are you a Researcher for the United Nations? No, I am merely undertaking this research out of interest as a priest and as an African. He gave me a curious look and then asked: So where are you based, Father, in a Parish or a University? At this point, I was pressed on. I am in both actually. But, he said, you cannot be in a University and a Parish at the same time. I shot back: That is what I just told you, I am in both. The dialogue continued: How and where? Do you have any identity? Well, I am a student at the Kennedy School of Government, Harvard University in the United States and I live in a Parish in Boston. As if stung by an insect in his pants, he jumped up. You are from Harvard? A Nigerian, an African at Harvard? My goodness. Let me shake your hands, again Father as he surged towards me. I am proud of you as a Catholic and an African. Harvard, he repeated with the reverence of a babalawo in a shrine.
Sorry about all this Father. Felix, he called out to the officer, stamp Father’s passport immediately. Please get him a soft drink. Tell my driver to please hurry up and check in the Park if there are taxis going to Arusha now. All of a sudden, the heavens opened up. I sipped my coke as I waited for the driver’s return, shocked by this sudden turn of fortunes. There was a taxi, he said, but it was still waiting for two passengers for the front seat, the driver said. Tell the taxi to bring his car here, my new friend thundered. In less than 10 minutes, the taxi pulled up in front of the office. Please take the Rev Father to Arusha immediately. Do you have enough money, Father? I nodded as I pulled out my rosary.
I did not wish to tempt fate by any form of conversation. I could find no words to thank the officer. I felt more shame than gratitude. But, as we sped fast the border post, a sad smile danced across my face. The smile retreated as I tried to wipe a surging tear… I sank into deep thoughts and asked myself. Is this my beloved continent, Africa? Is this the Tanzania of my greatest hero, Julius Nyerere? Is this the Tanzania that our Nigerian soldiers put their lives on the line to save in the 60s? Is this the Africa that the likes of Thabo Mbeki have tried to re-enkindle the fires of the African renaissance? Is this Africa after apartheid? How could Harvard mean more to my brother than our common brotherhood both in faith and skin?
So, when next these African Presidents and Ministers sit in their fitting suits and clink their glasses in Abuja, will President Obasanjo remember to ask why this humiliation of Nigerians and Nigeria persists? The President has been quick to tell Nigerian immigration officials to issue visa in 36 hours. Does he care to know what Nigerians are going through? What exactly is responsible for this nonsense? By the way the big man at the border offered to show me the list in which Nigeria appeared. It includes citizens from Afghanistan, Bosnia, Iran and some strange nations that we have nothing in coming with. This nonsense has to end now. Kola Omotosho has argued for more than 20 years that African should have no reasons to seek visas within Africa. Sadly, our leaders are too comfortable in their little diplomatic privileges to bother about the rest of us. This is the greatest shame of the leadership of Africa.
No comments:
Post a Comment