The Ouaga Saga: Of Adamawa Memories, A Leaking Hell, Airport Detention And A One Night Spam

So I got detained at the international airport in Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso. I’ll tell you about it.

I lived in the northern part of Nigeria for a few years. Mubi in Adamawa state precisely. I had some of my life’s best memories there. The friends that have now turned family, the Hausa and Fulfulde that I pretend to speak and understand, and the many nights of travel between Mubi and other neighbouring states (Maiduguri, Bauchi, Gombe). I still get flashbacks of those times. I was only 23 years of age, but I dared the sojourn. I moved from character to character, place to place, story to story, hoping to discover or never discover who I was. It was smooth. It was rough. It was confusing. It was beautiful. The longer I stayed in that part of the world, the more I found beauty in the confusion.

I was a young Java programmer, with no Madici family backing anywhere, looking to sell my self-developed employee management and payroll solution to universities and local government administrators. For its time, it was a top-notch product, as the buzz around electronic payments (ePayment compliant), and adherence to CONTISS and HATISS salary structures were the in-thing. I had competitors. The SocketWorks and the SystemSpecs of this world ruled that era. I learnt very early on in my life that being a programmer wasn’t going to be enough to guarantee the success of a software product. I relied on people with inroads into the spaces of my target clients. It worked, but not as straightforward as I had envisaged before leaving Lagos. I also remember working with the Bursar at the Federal College of Education, Gombe, to develop some financial management solutions for the school.

Employee and Payroll Management System

These experiences have in no small way, shaped my approach to dealing with people, the interpersonal relationships I build and of course, my appreciation for people, places, and their cultures. Allah did prepare me for the life I am living now, with the time I spent up north. My whole three years’ experience in Arewa land cannot be covered in just a few paragraphs.  I hope to revisit it another day.

So, I had an official assignment in Ouagadougou (Ouaga). Before you remind me that Burkina Faso is under sanction by the African Union, yes I am aware. This was a special mission. I took off from Kinshasa via Addis and Niger and arrived in what would unarguably be the country with the harshest climate I have ever visited. The weather was so hot, I thought hell was leaking for a second. Picture a Hollywood movie, set in the Middle East, with dust in the air, that famous guitar string playing in the background with men and women styled in the outfits of the Malian Tuaregs. I checked my phone and I realized 45 degrees – 50 degrees Celsius is what we’ll be working with for the next 7 days. This felt like Maiduguri all over again, although the highest I temperature I ever experienced there was around 40 degrees. I was to be in Ouaga for a week. Like the Germans say, there is nothing like bad weather, but bad clothing. I had packed a few light outfits, which could still pass as formal. In her way, Ouaga is beautiful. I wasn’t expecting to see Sydney opera house-styled buildings or hanging gardens of Babylon in the city, but I still felt beauty.

Even though I intend to avoid discussing the stand the Burkinabe government have taken in international relations and geopolitics, I could not help but notice the large number of Russian passengers on the flight. Even at the airport, there were Russians everywhere waiting to receive the team that had just arrived. I chatted a bit with one of them who seemed very friendly. Some were there as entrepreneurs and others to work with the government in building infrastructure. I always give five years before measuring the impact of a government policy. May Allah preserve our lives till then and beyond. We’ll see if this shift in alliance will be the best for them. I wish the country and the people well.

Oh wait…not all the people.

On arrival at the airport, I was stopped by a national guard, who asked to see my passport, which I handed over without hesitation. The following conversation ensued.

Commandant : Bonjour. Puis-je voir votre passeport s’il vous plaît ?

Me : Bien sûr.

Commandant : Depuis combien d’années êtes-vous policier ?

Me : Je ne suis pas policier. Je suis un agent de politique.

Commandant : (flips through the passport one more time). Quelle est votre mission ici à Ouagadougou ?

Me : Officielle (without giving any details)

Commandant : Il est indiqué ici que vous êtes policier. Je vais avoir besoin que vous me suiviez.

After speaking all of the French I know, this guy told me to follow him to some room. I murmured to myself “iru palapala wo leleyi nitori olohun” (what kind of nonsense is this for God’s sake). I immediately knew I’d spend nothing less than thirty minutes extra on nonsense charges. Emi ke? Olopa? Lati ibo si ibo? (Me? Police officer? From where to where?). We have no police officer in my family please. I followed him to what looked like an interrogation room. At about a minute later, two other officers of the National Guard joined in. I murmured to myself “mo ti wo gau” (I am in trouble). They were cordial in their approach I must confess but I was still pissed. The whole process did not last for more than 15 minutes. I simply reiterated that the job title clearly written on my passport is POLICY OFFICER and not POLICE OFFICER. They asked for my national passport and luckily for me, I had it with me. I watched as they flipped through the pages of both passports, speaking French with bits and pieces of local lingo, as if they were on some CSI-styled investigation. Iyen emi naa? (all these because of me?)  One of them succumbed to reason and I think he used a translator app or something. I was eventually allowed to proceed to immigration, where I got my passport stamped.  I met my assigned driver at the exit, holding a sign, with my name badly written. I didn’t mind. While I wasted about twenty minutes trying to explain that I am a bloody civilian, the whole saga was hilarious.

As if I hadn’t had enough, two days later, while I was happily tucked into my duvet and thanking Allah for surviving the heat of the day, I got a WhatsApp message from one of my uncles in the States. He needed some money to be paid to someone in Nigeria and I didn’t even think twice about it. The message didn’t seem like spam. I mean, he called me by my street name and bantered me a bit. I asked for the account details of the recipient, and he provided it in no time. A few minutes later, I got a call from my sister that our uncle’s phone had been stolen and that she also chatted with someone who asked for the same amount of money the spammer had demanded from me. I nearly slapped myself. Like, how can I, a whole ekun oko oke (street smart) be this gullible.

I didn’t fret. I put a call through to “my uncle” and the mashanfani (unfortunate) person did not pick. He texted that he is unable to receive calls at the moment. I sent him a voice note that I wish I could interpret, but English as a language is very limiting, especially when translating deep Yoruba. I mean how do I translate phrases like “aragbayamuyamu eribu”? Ehen…you get it now? The long and short of it was that I cursed and swore for him. He responded with his own o….called me bastard, foolish etc. My uncle can be mean sha

I conclude this post by saying Alhamdulillah for the experiences of yesteryears. The life, the friends and the family I built in the north, I wish I could have it back even for a day. I miss it. I miss them. I miss me too. The very daring me. There was very little fibre of fear in me at the time. Stupidly so, sometimes. In retrospect, I think about the very dangerous decisions I took, which perhaps could have ended my life in a place far away from home.

Alhamdulilah I am still here. Still writing. Stay with me.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *