These two articles were interesting to read ... Enjoy!!!

http://www.nigeriavillagesquare.com/chika-ezeanya/on-arrival-at-murtala-mohammed-airport.html

http://www.nigeriavillagesquare.com/chika-ezeanya/in-abuja-to-repair-my-passport.html

I didn't even bother to read those article you posted but from my travel experiences, am glad, proud, and very happy to have a second passport other than the naija s#!+ we call passport! I don't even remember I have it except when planning to visit Nigeria.

Not to sound unpatriotic or something, but I cant see the Beauty in holding a Nigerian Passport... Those who have experienced 1st hand Crappy & unfair treatment@ intl' airports because of that same "GREEN" Passport can attest to the established fact, that there is no Beauty at allll in being I.D'd with it, frankly its even risky.
The day that Green Passport gains prestige, its not just some random article by a potential Matyr that will speak about its Beauty, Everybody will.
For now, I'm just not feeling nothing about its so called "Beauty".
My people wey dey travel, Abi I dey lie??

^^^^
Nothing like being unpatriotic, you are saying the truth which is the first approach to any problem or idea.

optimus-prime1:
Not to sound unpatriotic or something, but I cant see the Beauty in holding a Nigerian Passport... Those who have experienced 1st hand Crappy & unfair treatment@ intl' airports because of that same "GREEN" Passport can attest to the established fact, that there is no Beauty at allll in being I.D'd with it, frankly its even risky.
The day that Green Passport gains prestige, its not just some random article by a potential Matyr that will speak about its Beauty, Everybody will.
For now, I'm just not feeling nothing about its so called "Beauty".
My people wey dey travel, Abi I dey lie??

prince_onx: I didn't even bother to read those article you posted but from my travel experiences, am glad, proud, and very happy to have a second passport other than the naija s#!+ we call passport! I don't even remember I have it except when planning to visit Nigeria.

^you fellas should've read the article "the beauty of the Nigerian passport" was actually meant tongue-in-cheek

Here's the article. It starts out a bit slow...but it gets quite hilarious I've bolded some funny bits...nice job by the writer.
:

On Arrival at Murtala Mohammed Airport

The flight was catastrophic. I looked forward to breathing the air of my beloved country. I was besieged by an overpowering smell of garlic, onions, leek, coriander and turmeric marinated in bile to my left. To my right, arrears of untaken bath mingled with stale cigarette, liquor and cheese to savagely assault my lungs; I needed a gas mask. For several minutes after take-off, I seriously considered pulling the oxygen mask from the cabin above, but the announcement that came earlier said it would drop on its own in the case of loss of cabin pressure. Wahala. How about in the event of loss of lung pressure - due to odor from neighbors - by a passenger? I must inquire of the air hostess

“Excuse me.” The air hostess turned and seeing who it was, said “I will be with you in a minute, ma’am.” An hour passed and then two. I tried another, “Excuse me, please”

“Yes ma’am, how may I help you?” His head was held stiffly up, his fingers were intertwined and held up to his chest. His eyes pretended to meet mine but did not. Eyebrows were raised and knotted at the forehead, and neck slanted unconcernedly to one side. This was no posture assumed by one eager to help. His scowl suppressed my inquiries deep down my larynx. It contrasted sharply with the solicitous carriage and graciousness that marked his countenance when he addressed the Asian to my left, and the American to my right. Drawing close to their cavities as if they smelled of mint, he smiled, laughed, joked, offered this and that; in an effort to validate the advertisement of their airline as the most friendly trans-Atlantic voyager in existence.

“May I have a glass of water, please” I said.

“I beg your pardon.” He said, louder than he should have, still maintaining his aloof posture.

“A cup of water, please” I repeated. Slowly, loudly, clearly, even the deaf could have lip synced my words.

“If you could speak up a little louder and clearly, ma’am, I would know what you want and try to get you some help.” Irritation was clearly visible beneath the pretensions of his polite words.

Clearly the airline’s hospitality was created for a select group of flyers. My kind does not fall within their target market. My brown hands waved him off as politely as I could. Never mind. I was not about to loose my voice begging for the second most freely available commodity on earth.

“I think she may be asking for water” The American volunteered. His large, hairy, red hands clutched a copy of the Washington Post, the pull-up desk was littered with a half empty coffee cup, two half eaten wraps of burger, a hot dog, an unopened Mars bar and a book of Sudoku.

I had to be spoken for in order to get what I paid dearly for. Prior to my traveling outside Naija, I had never stammered or stuttered a word; I could not comprehend the psychological effects of struggling to be understood until the first time I uttered a word in the western hemisphere. It robs you of something deep within your soul. Almost as if you are struggling to be accepted as sane and fully human. It takes a lot of respect for the human spirit to not dismiss someone who does not look like you or talk exactly like with a wave of the hand. While in Africa we have that value in abundance, civilizational arrogance has robbed many Westerners of this precious grace.

The waiter returned after 20 minutes with about eight to ten tablespoonfuls of water in a tiny plastic cup. Placing it roughly on my desk, he hurried off. I clenched the cup and thought of home. In less than an hour, I will be in Naija, land of my fathers; the land where I am never judged by the color of my skin or stereotyped according to my nationality. Where my speech is understood and I am seen as the human being I am. A peaceful, anticipatory sleep overtook me as dreams of hugs, warmth, acceptance and lots of clean drinking water filled my vision.

The announcement came just as I looked through the window to behold the haze and maze called Lagos.

“You country butiful” The Asian besides me lied, drinking the last drop of his 10th cup of green tea. He was smiling into my eyes and pretending – or so I thought - to be admiring the pandemonium that is the bird eye view of Lagos.

“Thank you so much” I gave back a faux smile of appreciation. Why risk purgatory, hellfire, bad karma or whatever he believes to please a total stranger, I was thinking, as I nodded my head severally in ‘agreement’ with him.

But perhaps, he meant his words. I suspect that the beauty he sees is beyond the physical. Fine boy na fine pocket. For the greater part of the flight, he had discussed with the American on the Oil Prospecting License (OPL) his company had secured approval for. The visit was to prepare for the commencement of seismic studies on the fields. His excitement was palpable all through the conversation.

My lungs took in the hot oxygen of Lagos. It felt good to be home. We filed across to the immigration counter where we were separated into citizens and foreigners.

It got to my turn and the customs officer took my passport. She seemed angry about something very deep and personal, and it reflected in her mannerism. An unusually long period of time was spent on examining my passport.

“Wait by the side.” She said as she flung my passport on the desk beside her computer, and beckoned on the next in line.

“Excuse me, madam. Is there something wrong with my passport?” I asked. My question was ignored.

After about 15 minutes, a tall officer with well ironed uniform, who had emerged from somewhere was handed my passport

“Madam come here ” he demanded, motioning for me to follow. I found myself inside a cell-like office containing an unusually large desk, several old box files and about five chairs. All the chairs were occupied and two men stood facing the officer who now sat at the desk. All the occupants were male, and most wore pensive looks, as if waiting to undergo a CAT scan to determine the number of cocaine wraps in their stomach.

There was no more standing space inside the room so I stood by the door and waited.

“Oga mi, sir. Na student I be.” The man in his late fifties explained in a rough manner. He spoke very fast and looked everywhere apart from the eyes of the officer he was addressing. His long limbs covered the length and breadth of the room as he gesticulated widely.

“What date do you want?” The officer asked as he lowered his voice and his head and hunched his shoulders, pulling at the cabinet as if searching for something.

“October 15th, sir” the ‘student’ responded with a smile.

“You mean September 15th” The officer said as he began to adjust the stamp. I remembered that day to be the 3rd of September.

“No sir, I means 15th of October. Next month sir.”

“What? No! You want to sack me from my job? No way.”

“My brother let me explain. I am a student and there is a way it works over there with us students.” Both hands were spread in supplication and head was thrown to one side in a show of helplessness and sincerity of motives.

“There is nothing to explain, please. I cannot do that.” The officer reached his right hand inside his breast pocket and retrieved 100EUR bill. “Take your money and go please, I don’t want trouble.” He said.

“Oga please, understand my predicament.” The ‘student’ was insistent.

“I said no, my friend. Take your money and go, abeg.” He was supposed to stretch the whole length of his arms to give back the money, but he only lifted his arm a little. His elbows were still placed on the desk. Clearly, he was not eager to let go of the bill.

“No problem. If it is not convenient for you now I can come back.” The student said. He refused to accept the money and stomped out of the office in annoyance.

“Madam, go back outside, this office is too crowded. When I finish attending to these people seated here, I will call you.” He said in my direction.

I had been standing for almost ten minutes watching the drama in front of me. Add to this, the tiredness of a long haul flight; I was almost dizzy. I wobbled out and sat just outside the office to await my turn.

The tiny water I was served aboard the flight had trickled its way to my bladder. The hallowed air of my beloved country seems determined to purge the water, together with the unpleasantness associated with its entry, from my system

I searched for the rest room. An overpowering smell of antiseptic - of the cheapest, and one suspects, toxic kind – led my to the right place. I opened the door and almost knocked down a dirty looking bucket filled with brown water. A dirtier looking rag soaked inside. There was no one else in the restroom.

[b]Entering the first open stall, I found no tissue paper. The noise behind indicated that someone was moving the bucket. He turned out to be a diminutive youth with acne and acne marks covering 3/4 of his face. A man? I thought I was in a female restroom. Looking at the doorpost, I realized that the sex indicator sign was broken and only the head remained. There was no Shuku, Bob Marley braids, Shalamar or punk hair cut on the head to guide me in making an informed guess. I let that pass.

“Excuse me please, do you know if I can get tissue paper anywhere?” I asked the man.

“Bring money make I go buy for you.”

My bladder was bursting and I was not sure how long it would take him.

He seemed to be a mind reader for he added quickly, “If you add transport, I fit take Okada go come in 10 minutes.”

“Don’t worry, thank you.” I said as I searched my bag thoroughly. Thankfully, I had not completely exhausted my tissue paper pack.

Inside the stall the lock was broken and I had to hold the door with one hand. I noticed a large hole gaping at me where the lock of the door should have been. The cleaner was bent cleaning the area directly outside my stall and had unobstructed view of the inside. I shared my tissue paper into two equal halves and used one part to block his view.[/b]

Back at the waiting place, it was now my turn to be “served.”

“Madam, you have been ‘uselessing’ your passport, ehn?”

“I am sorry sir, I don’t understand.” I replied, confused.

“What do you mean you don’t understand. You have broken the electronic chip inserted in your passport by careless usage. The computer could not read your passport.”

Wonders shall never cease. Where on earth does a citizen get this type of verdict on a legally acquired passport?

“Sorry sir, I still do not understand.” I replied in a weak voice.

“You don’t understand what? Am I speaking Latin? Or you think I am lying? Oya, come and see for yourself.”

He led me back to the immigration checkpoint. It was now clear of passengers. Holding up another passport to the sensor, the image and details appear on the computer. He held up my own passport but nothing showed.

“You see for yourself? Only you know what you have been doing with this passport. You do not know that a passport should be treated with care and respect.”

Anger simmered within me. Nigeria should not have bothered with an electronic passport system if this is the unfortunate outcome. No right thinking frequent international traveler treats his/her passport carelessly. It is about the only assurance one has of belonging somewhere, and being able to get where s/he is going.

“Sir, this is strange. I treat my passport with utmost care. I do not believe it is my fault that the sensor is not able to pick my passport details,” I insist in a firm but polite manner.

He got angry at my comments.

“OK. So it is my fault, Ehn? It is my fault that you are driving, sleeping and playing with your passport?”

“Should we try another computer, please?” I could not think of anything else to say.

“Try what? You think I have time or that I do not know my job?” He was walking back to the office with me following behind.

“So instead of begging and asking how we can arrive at a solution, you are proving to me that you know what to do. We shall see who is right here.” He pulled a worn out box file from an open shelf across his desk.

“Madam, how we do with your case is that we have to send your passport to Abuja, which is the place of issue.” He proceeded to fill an internal memo form with my passport profile page open in front of him.

“It usually takes about two weeks to process. I will give you a duplicate copy of this to go to Abuja and follow up there.”

I was now shaking with anxiety.

“Sir, my return date is in less than one week and I do not have any business in Abuja this time.”

“That one is your business.” He said without sympathy. “There is no way you will be allowed to leave this country without rectifying this problem.”

I felt tired, defeated, worn out.

He handed a duplicate copy of the memo to me and left the office to join his other colleagues gathered and chatting outside.

With a heavy heart, I went to retrieve my luggage. I proceeded to the first immigration officer at the exit gate.

“Welcome back. Madam. What do you have in your bag?”

“Books and clothes” I responded warily, waiting to be told of a new law against bringing in one’s books or clothes into the country.”

“Please open your bags for verification.”

I opened my bags and he absent mindedly felt it here and there, casually asking if I brought anything for him, without looking at me.

“Next time, my brother. E get as e be today.”

“No problem, Madam. Welcome home and enjoy your stay.”

The next officer politely asked for my passport and ticket.

“Oga no passport, o! Your brothers collected it saying that it is damaged. I have to go to Abuja and retrieve it,” I said as I handed my ticket to him.

“I am so sorry to hear that, madam.” He sounded genuinely sympathetic.

“Please do not let that spoil your stay. Be rest assured that if you go to Abuja and act accordingly, it will be treated with dispatch and you can have your passport back. Just be careful how you use your passport in the future. Do not worry, it is well.” He gave me an understanding pat on the back as he helped to adjust the boxes on my trolley.

I was moved by his empathy and for the first time since my soles touched the sands of Murtala Mohamed Airport, I felt at home. Saying a big thank you to him from my heart, I exited to the warm and loving hugs of family and friends. Na wah o!

PS: The Nigerian Government should kindly look into the issue of “damaged” passports. There are several complaints from citizens about the frustrations of getting their passports “repaired” (whatever that means). Thank you. This is a work of creative non-fiction

ROTFLOL....

part 2. This girl is freaking hilarious...

After nearly being declared persona-non-grata on arrival at the Murtala Mohammed International Airport - for the crime of being in possession of a ‘damaged’ passport - it became mandatory to visit Abuja and have my passport ‘repaired.’ (On Arrival at Murtala Muhammed Airport. http://www.nigeriavillagesquare.com/chika-ezeanya/on-arrival-at-murtala-mohammed-airport.html)

During the trip to the capital city, I comforted myself with the thought that it will be a quick-fix. As the alleged fault was with broken electronic chips, I imagined that my dealings will be with a passport electrician or rewire. He would take one expert look at my passport, place it under some sort of microscope for a more intense scrutiny, slide it open with some sophisticated gadget and fix it within an hour, all at a minimal cost. Perhaps, we will even haggle over the cost as is the habit with all repairmen.

My travails began at the entrance gate of the Immigration Office. With a deep-etched frown and a violent wave of the metal detector, my taxi was ordered to turn back at the gate by one of the numerous security men in Immigration uniform. I alighted, and walked towards the officer. Looking the other way, and with a dismissive wave of hand, as if shooing a dog away, he directed me to a bungalow by the perimeter fence. Following, I found myself inside a large, almost bare room, but for a desk, two chairs and a noisy ceiling fan. Two ladies sat chatting away. One rose absent mindedly and reached for my bag. The other proceeded to run a metal detector across the length of my frame and afterwards felt all over my body with her hands.

‘Is it new passport or renewal?’ She asked as she felt here and there for an AK47, strapped bomb, charms and amulets.

‘No, it’s nothing serious,’ I reassured her. ‘Just a case of a damaged passport.’

‘That one na new issuance.’ It was her turn to assure me.

‘No,’ I insisted. ‘My passport will expire in 2016. It’s just the electronic chips that need fixing.’

She laughed as if I was insisting that she was European and not African. ‘Aunty, I am telling you. It is treated as new issuance.’

‘Are you serious?’ I gave out my involuntary exclamation phrase. ‘How long will that take?’

‘It’s up to you.’ She answered with a shrug, looking away. ‘As you are early today, if you want it tomorrow morning, we can arrange. But if you go inside it will take about five days.’ She had finished frisking my torso and stood staring at me.

Images of papers, workshops and classes I needed to deliver, filled my mind. ‘Madam, I have to leave this country day after tomorrow, no matter what.’

‘It’s possible,’ she nodded with a smile and looked away. The other officer had gone outside to take a call. I waited for her to complete her sentence, but she looked on straight ahead, an indication that the continuation of the conversation was up to me.

‘How do I go about it?’ I asked.

‘Its N35,000. We do it for people all the time.’ She answered nonchalantly, going back to her seat and humming to the tune of Dbanj’s Oliver Twist. My heart skipped a beat or two. I could barely feed after giving out all the money, clothing and just about everything I came home with. Where did she expect me to get N35,000 from?

‘N35,000?’ I repeated in a voice that came out sounding as if she had asked for my life in exchange for a new passport. ‘For what?’

“Emergency.” She threw out casually.

A lady entered and the officer stood up to hug her warmly calling her ‘my sister.’ Must be family, I thought, stepping aside to allow for familial exchanges, and to make enough room for the lady’s richly embroidered, flowing Arabian gown. The officer reached for her skirt, and grabbing a heavy bunch of keys, opened a drawer and retrieved four passport documents that she handed to the lady.

Heavy gold bracelets jingled as she thumbed through the passports. Her generous smile showed a gold tooth. Money changed hands, and it was the officer’s turn to smile.

‘I will send my sister tomorrow. She needs the same service.’ The officer’s ‘sister’ said as she turned to go. ‘She will call you before she comes.’

‘No problem.’ The officer rose to see her ‘sister’ off a few meters outside the door.

Back inside the room, she extended the Naira notes to me, ‘It’s good as you are here now, count and see that I did not charge you.’

I refused to take the money from her hand. She would go on to insist ‘Count it, Aunty. I charged this woman 35,000 per one and I did four passports for her. Why should I cheat you? ‘

I snapped out of my shock and told her that I would rather go inside to see what I could do for myself.

‘Oya come,’ Her tone was a bit lower. ‘How much do you have?’

I didn’t have anything, I told her that. I thought I was coming to repair a passport, not procure a new one – I had made absolutely no budget for a new passport.

She asked that I wait, pulled out her phone and put a call through. She interspaced every word with ‘sir,’ as she tried to explain ‘my situation.’

Turning to me after her call, she declared, ‘Aunty, we are all human beings. As you have explained your predicament to me, and you know say am not the one that will do it, I will give it you for N28,000, last.’ Her face was sober, as if she just lost a dear friend to a road accident. To my God who made me and you,’ she swore, touching her tongue with the tip of her forefinger and lifting it to the ceiling, ‘I will not even gain anything myself.’

I thanked her for her kindness and proceeded on the long trek from the gate to the main administrative building.

Inside, I was informed that the Nigeria Immigration Service does not hire passport mechanics, electricians or rewires. ‘You need a new passport, madam,’ came the curt reply. My explanations about how I had never heard of a damaged passport in any part of planet earth, and how I did not budget for a new passport and how the expiry date was 2016, were met with disinterested looks and blank stares. I was directed to an office, which ended up becoming my home for four harrowing days.

After parting with less than half the amount charged at the gate, I was issued a new passport. Now, each time I handle the passport, a prayer pours forth from my lips; I supplicate for the longevity of the electronic chips. Please join me in prayers.

Chai! naija! lol. Gosh I have laughed well today

JeSoul:
^you fellas should've read the article "the beauty of the Nigerian passport" was actually meant tongue-in-cheek

Here's the article. It starts out a bit slow...but it gets quite hilarious I've bolded some funny bits...nice job by the writer.
:

Like I said before, thanks but no thanks! Am not reading all that even if you pay me plus overtime. I have traveled enough and experienced a lot with naija passport and nothing anyone say, good, bad, or ugly will change how I hate naija kpali period.

prince_onx:
Like I said before, thanks but no thanks! Am not reading all that even if you pay me plus overtime. I have traveled enough and experienced a lot with naija passport and nothing anyone say, good, bad, or ugly will change how I hate naija kpali period.

Oga you are on the same page you still no get am? the writer was telling about her negative experience with the passport. The title of "beauty" is merely a play on words . Gerrit now?

JeSoul: Oga you are on the same page you still no get am? the writer was telling about her negative experience with the passport. The title of "beauty" is merely a play on words . Gerrit now?

Yes I do and am saying I don't need his/her sad/bad experience to know cux I've been there myself.

LMAOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!



This is freaking hilarious!

Like Prince onx, I did not want to bother myself reading the epistle, until I saw JeSoul's comment..
I had a similar experience too, which I will try and summarize.
On my arrival to MMA, the man at the immigration counter took my passport, checked it and said "yeeeeeeeeee there is problem" and am like what is the matter please? He said the chip in my passport has been destroyed and i have to go to Abuja, and told me to make sure I do it or else i would not be able to leave the country with the same passport, I just said thank you and left, was not bothered one bit, but mentioned it to my mum who was worried and said I should go to the passport office and check..
2 days to my leaving Nig, went to the passport office in Ibadan, cuz that was were the passport was issued and I asked for Madam X, cuz she was the one i was told to meet by my bro inlaw, and I was told she had gone to Abuja or something similar but the dude I meet asked me what I wanted, I explained to him and he said go and meet Mr. so and so, now am in Mr. so and so's office o explaining my case, come and see shouting like someone died. I quote "YE!!! MO GBE! HA MADAM THIS IS SERIOUS O, YOU HAVE TO GO TO ABUJA O'(Trust Ibadan people to always be DRAMATIC!!!), by now i was sweating, then one said MAKE I CHECK AM FOR OGA'S OFFICE, I handed her the passport, I then heard NA GOD SAVE YOU! By then she has removed the staple pins that was binding my passports and said " MADAM SE YOU DO NOT KNOW THAT STAPLER GO SPOIL AM?" I did not even noticed my passport was stapled, until i realized it must have been from the travel agent i have been using and I have traveled to at least 4 different countries with the "STAPLED PASSPORT O, She said THIS IS A MIRACLE, NOW YOU CAN GO, NA GOD SAVE YOU!' it was like I won a lottery was so happy and left...
Fast forward to few months after, I arrive again that the same MMA and another guy on duty tells me the same story, HA MADAM YOUR PASSPORT HAS BEEN DESTROYED YOU CANNOT LEAVE THE CUNTRY OO, AND ALL THAT CRAP!, I said "ok bring am I go take am to Abuja" and just left.
3-4months after am at MMA again and I still hearing the same CRAP!!! And only God knows how long I will have to hear it.

Theres a reason why I said its even "Risky" holding the Nigerian passport in my initial post...

@JeSoul ... I'm so glad that the irony wasn't wasted on you ... Had a good laugh myself when I read it and decided to share.

@thebaft
I am trying to reach you for some info. Could you please contact me at ayinba@ yahoo.com?

Thanks a lot.

ManchyBabe:
Like Prince onx, I did not want to bother myself reading the epistle, until I saw JeSoul's comment..
I had a similar experience too, which I will try and summarize.
On my arrival to MMA, the man at the immigration counter took my passport, checked it and said "yeeeeeeeeee there is problem" and am like what is the matter please? He said the chip in my passport has been destroyed and i have to go to Abuja, and told me to make sure I do it or else i would not be able to leave the country with the same passport, I just said thank you and left, was not bothered one bit, but mentioned it to my mum who was worried and said I should go to the passport office and check..
2 days to my leaving Nig, went to the passport office in Ibadan, cuz that was were the passport was issued and I asked for Madam X, cuz she was the one i was told to meet by my bro inlaw, and I was told she had gone to Abuja or something similar but the dude I meet asked me what I wanted, I explained to him and he said go and meet Mr. so and so, now am in Mr. so and so's office o explaining my case, come and see shouting like someone died. I quote "YE!!! MO GBE! HA MADAM THIS IS SERIOUS O, YOU HAVE TO GO TO ABUJA O'(Trust Ibadan people to always be DRAMATIC!!!), by now i was sweating, then one said MAKE I CHECK AM FOR OGA'S OFFICE, I handed her the passport, I then heard NA GOD SAVE YOU! By then she has removed the staple pins that was binding my passports and said " MADAM SE YOU DO NOT KNOW THAT STAPLER GO SPOIL AM?" I did not even noticed my passport was stapled, until i realized it must have been from the travel agent i have been using and I have traveled to at least 4 different countries with the "STAPLED PASSPORT O, She said THIS IS A MIRACLE, NOW YOU CAN GO, NA GOD SAVE YOU!' it was like I won a lottery was so happy and left...
Fast forward to few months after, I arrive again that the same MMA and another guy on duty tells me the same story, HA MADAM YOUR PASSPORT HAS BEEN DESTROYED YOU CANNOT LEAVE THE CUNTRY OO, AND ALL THAT CRAP!, I said "ok bring am I go take am to Abuja" and just left.
3-4months after am at MMA again and I still hearing the same CRAP!!! And only God knows how long I will have to hear it.

Well...i experience the same thing yesterday after arriving at dubai airport via Egypt Air yesterday....i did when went through the whole process completely until am coming out of the air port when a custom guy approach me and said, Sir where you from? And i replied Nigerian so he speak arab to junior officer to search me completely including the pocket of my jeans that i packed inside my traveling bag.

After he searched them all...then he said thanks for your cooperation and want to leave my cloth and bags on the table...So i called him back,And says to him Mr officer why don't you packed my cloths and return them as you met them ...He told me that his busy and i went straight to there boss to file my complain so he came with squeeze face and packed them...And i said to myself.....I DON'T CARE..SO WHAT IS THE BEAUTY OF HOLDING NIGERIAN PASSPORT NOW?