For nine straight working days in December, ‘Fisayo Soyombo, editor of TheCable, disguised his appearance – first as a hungry, hapless job seeker; later as a trainee clearing agent; and finally as an intending importer of cars, computers and Italian suits and shoes – to penetrate into the importing and clearing ring at the Nigeria Customs Service (NCS). Presented in this comprehensive reporter’s diary, his findings reveal series of sharp practices involving men of the service, other border and security agencies, the clearing agents, and banks – leading to massive short-changing of government revenue. They also underline the scale of work required to purify an agency that is arguably the armpit of corruption in the most populous black nation. It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than it is for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of God. Sourced from two different chapters and verses (Mark 10:25 and Matthew 19:24) in the Christians’ holy book, the Bible, this quotation is one of the most popular pastoral tools for summarizing the vanity of wealth – and life. But nothing better captures the secrecy shrouding business activities at the NCS than a parody of this saying: it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than it is for anyone to enter into the Apapa premises of the Nigerian Ports Authority (NPA). Before setting out for Apapa, which houses the largest and busiest seaport in Nigeria, and is one of the most horrendous traffic-gridlock zones in the densely-populated city of Lagos, I had been warned by everyone who knew something about the ports that I would be unable to enter. Still, on Monday, December 14, 2015, I arrived Apapa in the company of my one-day guide who knew the area so well, and graciously offered to help with navigating opening-day impediments. Much of the first day’s work was to revolve round securing temporary accommodation in Apapa pending the conclusion of the assignment – this didn’t happen, by the way – and general surveying operations around the port.

After the failed attempt to secure accommodation, my guide and I proceeded to the Apapa ports, where we were to study the inflow and outflow of articulated vehicles, the conduct of uniformed men, the transactional conversations of clearing agents and the touting drive of document forgers. In three hours, we were done with the last three, and it was time to move closer to the port entrance to get a closer picture of business. Although we had been informed that this was a period of low business, we counted the entry of at least five articulated vehicles in a minute, translating to an estimated average of 300 vehicles in an hour! We were standing some 50metres off the gate and had barely been there for five minutes when a policeman walked westward towards our direction. “Yes, what are you doing here?” he says in a brusque, brisk tone. “What exactly do you want”? “We’re waiting for a phone call, sir,” I reply. “Move over there,” he barks. “This is a restricted zone.” Our work was over for the day, apparently; but as we retreated, I looked out for the badge on his uniform. Odion Ohiro, it read.

I returned the following day – Tuesday, December 15, 2015 – as a jobless, poverty-stricken undergraduate seeking apprenticeship with a clearing agent. Clad in a scruffy shirt, faded jeans and a run-down pair of sandals to match, I arrived Nnewi Building (dominated by agents) at exactly 6:17am, settled into an irregular pavement just in front of First City Monumental Bank, and brought out the December edition of Azubuike Ishiekwene’s magazine, The Interview, which I not only read but also used to shield my face as I tracked agents, who soon began to arrive. For more than five hours, I observed the influx of people – some entering empty-handed and exiting with sheets of printed paper, others coming in with a few sheets and leaving with stashes of documents. This is the ‘Oluwole’ of Apapa – Oluwole being the notorious Lagos Island location where there is hardly a document that cannot be forged, from the University of Ibadan’s transcript to the University of Toronto’s certificate. A little after midday, I climbed the first floor of the main building, also housing a FirstBank branch, and entered into a shack-size office. I was welcomed by the inquisitive, how-may-we-help-you-look of a middle-aged man and a young lady, whose demeanour immediately gave out as boss and apprentice, respectively. “Please sah, I need your help,” I start, stooping by the man, a dark, well-built frame who spoke in measured tones. “I am jobless years after graduating from university; and rather than wait for a job that seems not to be coming, I have come here to learn how to become a clearing agent. I will learn very fast if you would take me on as an apprentice, sah.” It was difficult for anyone to disbelieve me. I had deliberately left my hair overgrown and uncombed, and my beards unshaved; it was past noon and I had neither had a bath nor a meal. Jude ran a quick, furtive glance over me and must have concluded that I looked markedly hungry and shabby, and I truly needed a job. “What is your name?” he asks softly, his voice rich in sympathy. “Tunde,” I reply. “Babatunde.” “See, nobody will take you in to learn this job,” he begins slowly, his compassionate gaze momentarily settling on my shattered pair of slippers. “You are Tunde – not Ibrahim or Obinna. You are Yoruba; meanwhile, this job is controlled by Igbos. Igbo men will rather trust a fellow Igbo man, or an Hausa; they will think you will run away with their money. So, being a stranger, the only way for you to become a clearing agent is to first take a lowly job, like that of a photocopier operator, then you can build trust over some months.” Jude explained that even the option of operating a photocopying machine would not be available until the turn of the year. He then motioned his subordinate to fetch a piece of paper, on which he scribbled: 08068199143. “No need to call me at all; just flash me and I will save your number, then I will activate my search antennae,” he says. “I’ll see if I can get you an opportunity with which you can make like N500 daily, so you can at least feed yourself from your work. But for now, no clearing agent can take you in.” Those harmless words pierced my heart like a dagger. Although everything about me up to that point was fabricated, it was the first time I radiated a genuine emotion. I was truly sad. As I exited Jude’s office and descended the stairs of the first structure in Nnewi Building, I knew that my first strategy for experiencing, firsthand, corruption at Customs had just been scuppered. It was a sad, lonely, dreary trip home.


Read more at: https://www.thecable.ng/undercover-investigation-nigerias-customs-of-corruption-bribery-and-forgery