"Good evening!" one eager cop recited to us, after our driver had turned the interior light on. My associate returned the greeting, with a smile, maintaining the pleasantries as is often best the case.
“You have something for me?” He asked. Oohhh, of course. “Ah… the road tax,” my associate stated with resignation, and handed him a hundred Naira note. Barely seventy-five US cents, though of course the principal of it matters more than the sum.
We wandered through the coffin neighbourhood; in that third world fashion everyone who is of a certain trade tends to gang up right beside each other and fight viciously for every customer that comes through looking for their product. Here they made coffins, and pleasant signs in front of their tiny shops stated flatly that the spaces were reserved for the dead. Also in Lagos even the signs had nails sticking out their tops so as to aver anyone from even leaning around.
"No 419ing allowed" signs were taped up all over our handy little internet café, though their effectiveness, of course, could truly be questioned. Our road trip was east to the town of Benin City, a place where my associate had learned a few potential business partners were residing. Their offer was to arrange an internship with the Nigerian government for 500 US dollars; we had agreed, that to check on the verifiability of their operation, a surprise visit could be interesting.
Indeed it was - the highways around Nigeria are surprisingly well paved, and it was high speeds there and back. Soldiers waved people through during the early morning and midday, and a concrete strip through thick jungle finally brought us into this smaller town of three hundred thousand. We had tipped the minibus driver to take us to the address we had been given via email, though after a half hour of circling the town and several phone calls later we finally let him go. The office was nowhere to be seen, though over the phone they had promised to meet us at a street corner if we could only wait a bit.
A bit passed; still no sign of the people we had called. We agreed that perhaps one of us should hire a motorbike to go around the town and see if someone else could find the address, and one could wait in place and see if the potential business partners showed up. I opted to wait, under the scorching sun, ignoring the kissing sounds behind me that Nigerians use to beckon others. Finally a passerby caught my attention and pointed behind; some fellows invited me to sit down with them.
A circle of local businessmen, they were intrigued at the white guy standing on the side of the road. I told them the story; “We want to be sure they are not 419ing us, so we thought we could pay them a surprise visit,” I said with a halfway grin. Minutes later my associate resurfaced, with no lock on the address, and the businessmen went to work.
Indeed, they were even more curious of these people than us two. Asking for the phone number, they called again, and finally had them agree to an address they could understand. Two of them went to check it out while we relaxed in the shade; they were worried that perhaps these could be the “dangerous” types of Nigerians, the ones that kidnap for money, rather than the ones that simply scam for money. Perhaps fifteen minutes later they returned.
"The man was shaking!" the Nigerian laughed, smiling, reciting his story of walking into their new office(they had, they said, “recently moved”) and questioning them on their business. We had a good laugh, and the other locals suggested that indeed this seemed to be a classic 419 situation, a scam, though my associate was not as convinced. He wanted to meet them in person, and with the approval of our new friends, we walked perhaps only two blocks away to this new office: entirely empty save for a desk and a couch, and two men inside.
They were reasonably friendly, and my associate questioned them thoroughly on the nature of their business. He requested references and what exactly the funds were used for - since after all they promised that their enterprise was not-for-profit, why would they require so much money?
The excuses came, the roundabout sentences, the explanations of trips and hotels and possible flights. A local who had accompanied us was tapping frantically on his cell phone, asked them if they had registered their business with the appropriate authorities, and quietly kept tapping away some more. It was a cordial meeting, and we shook hands and left. Not even a fan in their tiny squalid room, it was getting warmer, and we walked back to the bar where we had originally met these locals and exchanged addresses.
Their expert advice: don’t trust them. The cell phone man could not confirm that they were a registered business, in spite of their web site, and the others surrounding us agreed. They had a good laugh, took us to a Peugeot, and made sure we weren’t ripped off too much for the ride back.
Sun began to set and soldiers on the road became more bold: openly demanding bribes, slowing down more cars. A passenger with us was a soldier in plainclothes himself, and saved us many hassles by simply stating “Esprit De Corps” to the army personnel we met. To my left, a passenger broke out the snacks for the ride back: fried snails. However, they looked more like slugs to me. They tasted quite swampy, were very chewy, and luckily heavily doused in some spicy sauce with a few diced vegetables. Escargot this was not.
It was getting late, or rather, late-ish since the second installment of our day was about to begin – reggae rapper Sean Paul was in town and we had employed the hotel manager to make sure we had tickets for the show. The simple fact that this western pop guy of moderate recognition was playing in a messy metropolis such as Lagos made me want to go – surely this is a rarity. However, some musicians need to test these developing markets, and Sean Paul was willing to take the risk.
Nor were these tickets cheap; on par with first world tickets, when everything was done we had paid a little over 40 US dollars each for our tickets, not including bribes. Which, perhaps not surprisingly, would be required.
"This ticket’s no good, get out of here!" a bouncer shouted at me, I felt my heart drop, though the situation was little more intense than that: a huge throng had formed around the entrance gate, thousands of others lined up and thousands more looking to sneak in and perhaps pick a few pockets in the process. The city had employed the army, a legion of tight shirted bouncers, and even the navy to keep the peace around the place while ticketgoers entered. The street beside the walled off area(a club of sorts, with an open grass space with stage erected) had filled with cars and people, and the bouncers and soldiers were fighting a losing battle to maintain a queue. My associate, adept at queue jumping, managed to sneak us in through the chaos; though this was after a half hour of intense crushing and pushing, shouting, screaming, women crying that someone had lifted their tickets, bouncers with whips and baseball bats and tazers(I kid you not) zapping and smacking all who were n ot forming a neat line – namely a few thousand more. A soldier undid the safety on his machine gun, and pointed it in the air beside me - another soldier touched his forearm and said calmly "don’t do it."
So indeed these concerts are not normal hat to the people of Lagos. Many people were pushed and probably roughed up a bit, and this is too bad considering the scene had been set for an evening catering to Lagos’ emerging middle class with their kids in tow. White faces were in the throng around the stage, everyone was well dressed, it was certainly a rare event though very rough around the edges. To me, it was just interesting that they had concerts in Lagos at all.
Another wristband check, and they found mine to be bogus. I wandered over a bit more to find someone a bit more official, who could ‘correct’ the problem for a ‘price’. I offered 300 Naira to correct the problem, but the official fellow laughed. "Fine, take this," and I handed him a was of 700 Naira, about 5 US dollars. As we had been advised before arriving, the 5 US dollar amount tends to correct all minor problems in Nigeria.
The crowd was unfamiliar with rock show etiquette: namely, be prepared to be pushed around a bit and always expect the tallest person to stand right in front of you. Neither of these things seemed to be commonplace to the Lagos locals, and in the extreme front of the stage fights constantly erupted: every time someone would wedge their way in, some local would take offense to the whole situation and start swinging. This was only one of several large issues with the Third World Pop Concert.
Aside from the issue that we were situated right beside a swampy area, in the world’s most active malaria belt, various video screens were inoperational half or all of the time and worst of all - the singer’s microphones cut out several times. Sean Paul’s big hit single (the name escapes me now) had a few samples that they had to dance to, and their cues were thrown totally out of whack.
Sean Paul waved his arm and the band stoppped. "Look ya, I tryin ta give ya a good time here in Lagos but they be Fuckin’ wid me all ready! You want me to keep playing, right y’all?"
The crowd cheered.
Interestingly enough, we had toured this site the day before. There was a rather effeminate white fellow doing sound testing, or rather, a lot of screaming at the hired help. He was certainly not happy with the way things were going – however it seemed that the venue was sound, and we decided on getting tickets anyway. But -
As the crowd enjoyed Sean Paul and his occasional vocals when the microphones cooperated, one stage diver(a white guy, of all people) managed on stage and stole his precious microphone. The bouncer on the side of the stage smashed him to the floor in record time - less than a second. My associate, who spent the majority of the show near the very front, mentioned to me later that he saw the poor chap being quite handily beaten by security near the stage after that stunt. No, you don’t get to meet the band after the show when you get up on stage here in Lagos.
Though the band played for quite awhile, Sean Paul making it up to his fans down in Nigeria and doing his best to bring the entire concept of a western pop-rock show to the teeming masses who will, indeed, be the emerging market in the decades to come. A city of thirteen million poor people is slowly but surely turning into a city of thirteen million not so poor people, and at least Sean Paul realizes what this could mean for his bank account.
"You know, I bet you this is the worst possible evening to not take a taxi anywhere. I mean, if you just walked a few hundred metres in either direction of the exits - there are probably dozens of muggers just waiting for you," I told my associate, as we sipped cocktails at a pleasant little joint across the street from the venue. The crowds had thinned a little by the time we left, though the army(and navy, and bouncers) were still chasing people left and right with their whips and bats and tazers. A mini-riot so to speak, and not a bad thing to watch while in a posh little air conditioned venue.
"That’s for sure," my associate responded.
And therein is the fascinating effect of a domino theory: we had agreed to have dinner at a nice place they recommended about 500 metres from this place. The lady who owned this place asked her brother, who had been chatting with us, if he could drive us the three blocks there – but he declined. This place was closing, and we went out with her, chatting. Soldiers had been standing guard at her gate, and we got to chatting with them. They agreed with what we said about the muggers, and offered to walk with us to the other restaurant. We agreed that would be a good idea, since the taxi for such a short trip would truly be extortionate at this time of the evening, We chatted to them some more about Lagos, the show, and the people, then waved goodbye to the lady and the soldiers and walked down the road.
Wait a minute, how did that happen?
Minutes later we were split up, both surrounded by a half dozen pickpockets. I had hidden all of my money in hidden pockets, moved near a car so they could not entirely surround me; someone from a wall to my right shouted at them, one grabbed a hat they had been handing out at the show from me, then ran off. I ran to a wall, beside a major hotel, and someone helped me up and away from the muggers. "Did they get anything from you?"
My associate was not as lucky: they had lifted 500 Naira from him, and someone had hit him with a golf club. In spite of my constant pressing as to whether he was hurt, he looked okay, though complained of a nosebleed. We met several other people who had been robbed there, by the same dozen people – a group of white kids, a Nigerian woman who was baffled by the experience. I guess when you’re white and in Africa, you’re somewhat used to being robbed.
Minutes later a police car rolled up, police got out and readied their weapons. Some people were lying on the opposite end of the street, sitting on stools on the sidewalk as so many Africans always do in these big cities. One pointed his machine gun at the row of possible thieves and started yelling.
"Perhaps you should leave," a hotel security guard behind us offered.
Indeed we did, and forgot all about dinner that night. A whirlwind five days of clubs and restaurants and traffic jams and simply bearing witness to the sprawling mess that is Lagos and southwestern Nigeria had worn on us. While being thronged and pickpocketed was a little dangerous, and crushing ourselves into this concert was a little dangerous, stripping either of those experiences was hiring motorbikes to take us between cars along the freeway in the middle of a traffic jam. While these guys were adept at manoeuvring through the endless clogged streets and dodging people and cars alike at very high speeds, you had better watch your knees.
Though I have to say the food was truly exceptional – all expatriates stuck in Africa should be so lucky. Lagos boasts a wonderful patisserie, a great Mexican restaurant, several first-world class bars and clubs and enough expats to keep these places successful. And yet, the city has its own sizeable population of affluent types who are willing to pay for quality as well.
-April 2004
Berlin
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