This is what is called an IDC (Immigration Detention Centre). It is common all over the world,” the cracked voice rang into my ears, waking me up so very early in the morning. A couple more comments followed before I got up from my bunk; then a few more minutes before I peeped into the hallway to see who was giving the lecture. He went by the name Murhi. Murhi is the quintessential traveler, the product of an interlocking of cultures. Ghanaian by birth and with roots in northern Nigeria, he speaks Arabic, Chinese, Russian and English with equal ease, and lives in the United States. Square-shouldered and standing at about 5ft7, he wore a light grey T-shirt over a light-blue pair of jeans. He is one of the few travellers who had been brought in overnight. As I would later learn, Murhi had flown to the Moscow international airport with his “sister” who was hoping to settle down in Russia. But both of them had been put on the flight back to Accra (with a stopover at Cairo), when the Russian airport personnel pointed out to him that his female companion couldn't be allowed entry because the person inviting her over had not paid his taxes for some years. “We have sorted that out now,” he said at some point, with a confidence and assurance that can come from someone who knew the lay of the land. “We'll go back to Ghana and make the trip again. By then there won't be a hitch.” You were taken to the IDC if the Egyptian authorities had the slightest suspicion, occasioned by your travel documents or conduct. There were exceptions, though. From later discussions, I got to learn that they were considering relocating to Cairo but their apartment, fully paid for, had been embroiled in some irregularity. They got bundled here some nine days before I came. They would remain here till all was sorted out. At the time, the war in Iraq was raging. They must have fled from there, hoping to start a new life in the historic land of the Pharaohs. But there they were in the middle of nowhere and treated like the typical errant traveller. The authorities had enough religious sense to separate their male guests from the females. But when nature called, we all headed to the same restroom, a place unhygienic by every standard. And the water was too cold to take a shower in (atmospheric temperature was 15°C). In other words, not many had their baths for days. At best, all most could do was brush their teeth and, maybe, rinse their face. Thank goodness, we didn't stink! Every now and then, I walked over to the only window through which anyone saw the world out there. There was nothing to see, really-just still, lifeless walls. Through the window, I got the impression that we actually existed underground somewhere like a basement of a huge structure. Once in my high moments, I went about measuring the length of the passage, using my paces (I did this somewhat often back on campus). Discretely, I counted 31 steps from end to end; and at 0.75m a pace, that came to roughly 25 meters. At another time, I wanted to ascertain how many we were. We numbered 60. Under ideal situations, this facility should hold no more than 15 at the maximum. We endured the smokers, who numbered like five. There was a couple (The husband was Egyptian and his wife Iranian) who never seemed to stop lighting a cigarette. And this in the full glare of their three rather playful children! One particular incident comes to mind: it was past 10 p.m. on December 17. Pandemonium broke in the ladies' room. The Iranian woman, encouraged by her hubby, puffed in the room. The door was closed. In days past, the ladies, all of them muttering their displeasure, would come sit in the passage while the woman lighted up. “Why not go, all of you, and complain to the policemen?” one of us had advised. No, they'd rather not. That night, the war or words reverberated in the apartment and jerked us awake. It was a lengthy while before the officers around could get the situation under control. It was the first (and only) major inter-racial fracas of our stay. The next morning, I was woken by the yell of an elderly woman: “Allau Akbar, Allau Akbar,” she yelled repeatedly, apparently protesting her unjust “arrest”. I stepped into the passage to see her directing her attacks on one of the men in uniform. She had two lovely teenagers more like her grand-daughters with her. “Big problem here,” The mustached Bangladeshi guy whispered as he strolled back to bed. On December 17, I woke up at 7.57 a.m. local time. I brushed my teeth, rinsed my face and head and mopped up the trickles with my singlet. I applied some jelly to both my face and hair and sprayed some perfume. While I did this, my eyes locked with those of a white-faced, well-bearded guy sitting across from the door. I nodded in greeting; he smiled back. I marked him down for a chat. Moments after the beauty ritual, I sat beside him. “Where are you from?” I asked “France,” he answered with a boyish grin. Someone had remarked earlier that you would never find an American or a European in this hole. Ameen said years back his spoken English was 'excellent' but he had been learning Arabic for two years now and that had taken its toll. “I want to speak English but Arabic comes out,” he said as we discussed religion. His journey to Islam began five years ago when he read the French translation of the Quaran. After so many reads, he fell in love. “Do you know the difference between Islam and Christianity?” he asked. “Uhm, No.” He broke it down. In Islam, he began, Jesus is one of the prophets just like Moses and Mohammed. To the Christians, Jesus was born of Mary via Holy Spirit. He is the son of God. In Islam, you prayed direct to God, never through any of the prophets. Christians pray through Jesus or Mary. In Islam, you confessed to God (the creator) your sins, not through another creature. Christianity allows you to confess to the priests. In a matter of hours, Ameen was gone.
Unknown to the Egyptians in the IDC, she had a phone. She had some good change too but dared not make it apparent. It was all part of a conceived and continuing plot. Her friends out in Cairo urged her to keep up the deceit and pretence; the idea was to appear weak, helpless and sickly so she could plead refugee status and get sent to her desired destination. It would be that or nothing else. She certainly was not returning to Addis Ababa. One afternoon, she sat with me in the passage for a few minutes. There, she told me her siblings and mom were already in the West she needed to join them. I remember she told me in no unclear terms that there was a general displeasure of the Ethiopian populace with the sitting president. “Meat is cheaper here in Cairo than in our country,” she said. “And we export it to this place, can you believe that?” Eventually, Monday came. Consciously, I counted down the hours. And when it came time to go, we were led in a file through the same hallways we had come in through. Some fourteen Nigerians would be put on the plane back home. Two of them had South African passports; another two the Ghanaian. Back in the detention centre, they literally swore they weren't Nigerians. “Look my passport very well. It is authentic,” the one claiming to be Samuel said one evening. The Egyptians, typically, couldn't be bothered. Ifeanyi was the most distraught. “I will tell my people, 'don't ever go on transit. Just take direct flight,'” he said in one of his angry moments. On the evening before departure, he let it slip that he had sunk roughly a million Naira ($7900) into this gamble of a journey, which would terminate in Switzerland. Most of that money came from relatives. “What am I going back to do? Where will I start from?” he cried. As a last minute attempt to free himself and against every sound judgement, he had given $400 to an unidentified 'insider' who promised safe passage out of the detention centre. It never happened. One other Nigerian will forever be etched in my memory. Surprisingly, he didn't join us on the flight back to Lagos. He was a lively and likable chap who shared stories of his days in Syria and particularly in an underground holding centre. He survived the physical and psychological torture due to sheer grit, he said. He looked generally scattered, pained, and pale. His hair was unevenly scrapped. But he had an inner strength. I could feel it. “If I pull my trousers for you,” he said at a point, “you will see the marks. They caned my legs well.” Why would these young guys go through all of these in the first place? What really was the drive? Why would any sane person escape from freedom and plunge headlong into the unknown, the unfamiliar? We left our friends from Cameroon, Togo and the others behind. Nobody could afford to get too emotional. We were done with one another there and then. We didn't take it for granted that our paths may never, ever cross again. Whoever felt the need collected emails and phone numbers. Eight months later, I emailed Alex, the Cameroonian who lipped Marlboro. Was he still there? What was he now doing? “Could he help me with the Congolese's contacts? His reply was scant and still shockingly friendly. Of course, he still remembered the journalist in their midst. “Hi man, now I'm in Finland. I live this place since 20 December 2006. I'm sorry but I don't have address to the others man. I think it's enough. So take care of you and have a great time too.” Back in Nigeria, of the dozen that flew back with me, I have kept in touch with three individuals in particular. Interestingly, they have all settled into new lives and seem to be content for now to be back in Nigeria. |
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Back of Beyond
You have money?
These were the first words that came off the pudgy, Immigration officer in dark beret and navy blue cardigan, as I stepped down from the doorway to face him. His look was stern. No, I answered, shaking my head for emphasis. He looked down at my passport for another second or two, as if trying to decide whether to let me go my way or keep me back. The much younger, better-looking officer who escorted me here simply handed him my passport and turned back immediately. Not a word of explanation.
Of course, I had money some Naira and a couple hundred dollars, all tucked away somewhere in my luggage. I also had some Jordanian Dinars, the change I got back from a pleasant breakfast at the Amman airport early that morning meant to be keepsakes, and not doled out to an undeserving gatekeeper. Even if I had any need to, then the reason had to be strong enough?
While I waited for what he would say next, I turned to my left and beheld a passageway packed with people; some of them were seated. Others either stood against the wall or paced back and forth. I noticed a young Asian couple standing at an extreme corner, a baby in the man's cuddle. They looked rather tense. What could their worry be?
“Go inside,” the officer cut into my thoughts, pointing to his left my right. He need not say more: I was to join the company of strangers. Is there any problem, I asked, hoping to get an explanation for why I was walked down from the exquisite departure lounge to this bizarre, crowded area. The conversation between us was anything but smooth. (Except for a few vocabularies in English, this man spoke only Arabic. I was no better.)
“No problem,” he assured me in the same frosty tone. “Sit down.” I dithered for a while, but finally obeyed, pulling my box behind me. I settled into an empty chair. I looked round, wondering what this little place might be. The air was thick with uncertainty and apprehension. The doors, all ajar, were painted cream, the walls off-white. The floors were a mix of black and pink terrazzo. Two still fans hung from the ceiling. I counted three rooms in all, each with four bare and severely untidy double-decker beds. There were people in there too, the look on their faces not any more uplifting.
Then, I noticed the other wing. It was off limits to the breed on our side only the men in uniform went in and out of there. It had to be where the other offices were. A life-size portrait of President Hosni Mubarak, doused in purple-red light, hung from the wall at the end of the walkway.
I found myself staring every now and then at the Asian couple, still huddled in the same corner. The man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, still looked very worried. Was the child ill or something? What brought them here in the first place?
It was Friday, 2.30 p.m. Cairo time. And it was 10 days to Christmas. The hours ticked away and nothing significant happened, except that a dozen or so more travellers came in and swelled our numbers, while some lucky ones took their leave. The young couple too left before too long.
It got darker and I became irritated. Twice I approached the officer at the desk to find out when I would be asked to pick up my luggage and leave. His responses, as monosyllabic as the first time, were not very reassuring. I had been made to understand there won't be a connecting flight to Lagos until afternoon on Monday. The thought that I might 'live' here for three more days bothered me.
Sometime later in the evening, another rounded man relieved the unfriendly one at the desk. He looked more receptive, more genial and did what I believed all immigration personnel should be encouraged to do: smile and be civil.
I took notice of a frail chap in our midst. He wore a shirt way too large for his frame, a pair of jeans and trekkers. His brand of English was not too pidgin and not too educated. He struck me as street-smart and one who understood how this place of confinement worked. He must have passed time here many times previously, I thought. He had a phone and some of the guys needed to place calls to wherever. He allowed them for a fee. His name was Ben, and he was isreali. He was a hustler, no doubt.
In no time, he became the shoulder to 'cry' on, a consultant, answering frantic questions from dazed African travelers who, I sensed, couldn't believe their obviously non-legit travel documents could've landed them in this forsaken place. There was the athletic Cameroonian in brown overcoat, who just could not sit down for very long; a Shrek-like Togolese in baseball top, who looked more lost and confused than everyone around; a stocky, bow-legged Congolese guy with an American accent and a beard; one very short and amiable young man from the Comoros Islands, who seemed rather attached to his iPod. But Nigerians, not surprisingly, were in the majority about five of them (later climbed to 12). I was embarrassed. One wanted to know what $20 dollars converted to in Egyptian Pounds (“That would be 114 pounds.”); another wanted to know how much refill cards cost and if he could pay for a mobile SIM Pack (“It all depends on the network. You can get for 20, 40 like that.”); yet another asked if it was likely he would be let go that day (“Today is Friday it's their holiday. Work resumes fully tomorrow. Saturday is the beginning of the work for them.”). So everybody waits till tomorrow. |
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For a long time, I only observed the goings-on around me. I didn't feel great realizing that I had been lumped with undignified, illegal immigrants as most of them turned out to be. How could they have put me here? My passport read “Journalist” and my other documents had nothing untoward in them. My Egypt Air transcript clearly showed exact dates of departure from and arrival in Nigeria. And I had a letter of invitation showing that I had travelled to cover a conference. Were they too Arabic-minded to decipher that? The Cairo International airport happens to be a major transit point for hordes of travelers. Why then would the authorities not have translators and interpreters to at least explain things to whoever was held? If they had any, then I ought not to be here.
At about 7 p.m. dinner was served: a slice of unleavened bread, a little tangerine and a bar of milk-coloured wafer. What a combination! At first, I said I wasn't interested. On a second thought, and out of curiosity, I asked to be given my share. To my uninitiated tongue, the bread was tasteless, the wafer too sweet and the fruit just passable.
The bread, it turned out, didn't go down well with most of the Africans in the house. Having taken nothing perhaps all day, they were, quite naturally, famished. They wanted something more familiar and filling. By this time, most of the 'in-mates' were on chatting terms, they told tales and shared experiences. It didn't take long before the news went round that, yes, there was a fast food place not too far away, which prepared far more decent meals. We could also, if we so desired, have our hard currencies changed into local money; that would be handled somewhere out of sight but in the vicinity of the airport.
One of us, a skinny lady, volunteered to collect all the dollars, pounds and euros for the bureau de change for the necessary swap; in minutes, the equivalents in Egyptian pounds reached us. And we placed our orders: a full plate was a tasty assortment of fried rice, chicken part, French fries, ketchup and a can of soft drink (or bottled water)all for a nice 15 Egyptian Pounds. That wasn't bad for a meal that rich. Subsequently, hamburgers (6EP) and hot dogs (3EP) featured as snacks in between meals. Afterwards, the breads never showed up. Or it did and we simply took scant notice. The Officers looked the other way unsurprisingly.
When it came time to go to bed, I had another shocker: it would be two people on a bed that measured 2.5 feet by six! And it was strictly first come, first served. People slept in a 69 sort of way. If you were unlucky not to find a space on the bed, you either curled on the floor or slept seated on your chair. Others chatted till daybreak.
