Lover of carrots

If the carrot had a will of its own, It would have done anything to have ended up in a rabbit’s mouth, rather than that of this chewing human. Then he asked me to enter a room carrying my bag, murmuring the odd words ‘drop bag’ as I entered. As soon as we got inside, […]

If the carrot had a will of its own, It would have done anything to have ended up in a rabbit’s mouth, rather than that of this chewing human. Then he asked me to enter a room carrying my bag, murmuring the odd words ‘drop bag’ as I entered. As soon as we got inside, he said I should empty the bag of all its contents. I began to do so without raising a question. In Nigeria, I have learnt not to quarrel with uniformed personnel.
Once in Maiduguri, a rather short  soldier with an equally short temper, had threatened to shoot me for ‘blowing grammar’ in answer to his question which I had found quite ridiculous. It was a hot afternoon, and I was returning to Maiduguri from Sukur in Adamawa state. The drama took place at one of the many check points along the road to Maiduguri. Now, here I was two Mondays ago, trying to enter Niger Republic. I had travelled up to Kongolam in Katsina state, had done the immigration procedure on our side of the border, and had now crossed into Niger to get to that country’s immigration office. Numerous money changers, speaking a variety of languages, instantly approach you as you draw close to the office. They pester and almost intimidate you into parting with whatever currency you have. I fenced them off with silence, and this is a  powerful weapon any day. This was no proper welcome to Niger Republic, a country I have grown to like a lot, and which fascinates me with every visit. The splendor of the Sahara, the Tuareg who always look like royals at any time of night or day, the amazing Gerewol, and  the festival at  Iferouanne, the magnificent  camels, are some of the cultural elements of Niger that always speak to my soul and make me happy. But this border post was the opposite of all I had seen and heard of the country. The whole place looked rather dull, and the horde of money changers who freely entered the premises, took a lot from the significance of the office. Inside, the carrot eater put his hand in the bag and began to ask questions about the items his gaze fell upon. At a point he held up a book and asked ‘what is this?’ To which I quickly replied ‘A book’. I wondered what other answer he expected from me. Then followed a series of questions which were really unnecessary. He did not seem to find what he had been looking for.
Before we entered the room he had collected my passport. Now, having finished examining the bag, he asked me to wait, while he went out. In the interim one of the exasperating money changers drew close to me asking if I had CFA,pointing in the direction of the official who had just left the room. He kept chanting ‘CFA..CFA’ with some urgency in his voice. I couldn’t understand his question, and wondered why my possession of CFA or otherwise should be his business. It was a few minutes later that I understood the full weight of his question. After a while the official  returned to the room, holding my passport which he swiftly put in his pocket after executing something like a cynical mocking dance which was aimed at me. I began to murmur to myself ‘what silly, foppish joke is this?’ Then he said I should pay him three thousand Naira before he would release my passport, saying that he has reduced the cost because he ‘respects’ me, whatever  that means. So, the immigration official who attends to you collects a fee for his work, and doesn’t issue a receipt for same. I quickly paid because I was disgusted, and not because I approved of it. I wanted to get to Zinder before dusk, and it was already close to 3.00 pm. I carried my bag and left the carrot lover, to step onto the sand, to be encircled by an army of money changers, their raised voices and ridiculous rates which I instantly rejected.