JOURNEY AROUND AND WITH KONGI – GERD MEUR
Sep 13th, 2008 by admin
Gerd Meur is a German journalist, translator and cultural activist whose sojourn in Nigeria began nearly five decades ago, where his friendship with Noble Laureate Wole Soyinka took root. This journey resulted in the writing of a book, journey Around and with Kongi: Half a century on the road with Wole Soyinka. In the book he documents his interaction with the Noble laureate for nearly five decades including his experiences both at home and abroad. At the book presentation in Nigeria, he spoke about his sojourn across Africa dating back to the last 42 years traversing forty-three African countries.
From his time at the University of Ibadan (which he called beautiful and one of the best universities in the world at the time) where as students they would take those six pence Morris Minor and board those taxis from the bell-tower at the University of Ibadan (UI) down to Mokola and then trekked to the Mbari- Mbayo Club. He spoke about the joy of quaffing the Star Beer (a treat he also looked forward to that evening). He relishes fond memories of his younger days with icons like Kongi, Demas Nwoko, John Pepper, and Christopher Okigbo and the legend from Osogbo of Oba Koso fame, Duro Ladi
- Excerpt from the book, Journeys Around and with Kongi: Half a Century on the Road with Wole Soyinka
Laughing Hard In The Visa Queue At Nigerian Embassy In Berlin
“Mr. Meuer, you must help us!” so said Mr. Ahmed from the Visa section of the Nigerian embassy in Berlin, and then he added: “You must come to Berlin in person to get your visa.”
Said and done: and so I travelled some 880 kilometres to Berlin and back again, and I did help Mr. Ahmed by carefully writing down (I am a journalist after all!) what I saw, heard and witnessed during those four hours and 15 minutes that I spent in the waiting room of the Nigerian embassy in Berlin on August 27, 2008 between 10am and 2.15 pm.
Here goes…
I did go to the embassy in Neue Jakobstrasse 4 one hour late, and I did so on purpose: so as not to be over-punctual.
But when I did arrive at 10am, instead of 9am Mr. Ahmed was “not on seat”. I am directed to the waiting room, which is already full of Nigerians. The room has two internet accesses and a group of Nigerians is hovering around the monitor and busy googling: Facebook, Youtube, etc. One or two people also write their private mail. It is only much later that one of the “customers” tries his luck in trying to fill the on-line form for a new Nigerian passport, although the computer tells him that “henceforth no Nigerian passport will be issued.”
At 10.20am, a first white customer arrives, talks to the man in the glass cubicle and leaves a bit frustrated. I shall meet him again later… I find “This Day”, but the issue is from March!
A piece of paper on the wall tells customers that cellular phone “must be off”, but the Nigerian customers are happily phoning left and right.
When I enquire about Mr. Ahmed’s whereabouts at the reception centre, I am told to, “please, wait here;” that is, in the VIP section just opposite, which has plastic leather furniture instead of hard chairs. Here, I make a strange discovery: there are three information boards from some earlier conference. They depict Nigeria’s three major tribes (or peoples?). The Igbos are said to be “50 million”, whereas the number for the Yoruba is given as “10 million”, which I consider as wide off the mark! No figure is given for the Hausa. The important thing, however, is that the plants have been watered and the place is clean – as is the toilet: thanks.
Normally, customers have to walk through a metal detector like at airports, and your luggage is being sent through that moving belt, but all Nigerian women with their heavy baby carriages and lots of luggage – because of the babies that have to be fed – are allowed to walk through un-checked! Have they never heard of female suicide bombers? Also, a Rastaman with a rather big hand-bag is allowed through un-checked.
On the wall behind the reception there are two pictures, one of President Yar Ardua and one of German Chancellor, Angela Merkel; both tipped to the left, and the lamp above Mrs. Merkel is dead. Underneath the lamp in the middle there is no picture: is this where the portrait of H.E. Rimdap should be? Or is he too modest?
Now, one of the highlights, which, however, needs an explanation. In my phone calls with the embassy I was told that my payment into the Embassy account was wrong: it should have been made from my credit card. I very much hesitated, knowing full well what crooks (also Nigerian ones) tend to do with this information. But now I have to give everything away. One gentleman from the reception desk fills the form and then I have to type my password, and that with two customers sitting almost on my lapel and in a state to fully follow the entire operation! Not much privacy here.
I have to open a Google account, with a password. I put in one, and it is the wrong one, so I am being told. Then I try YORUBA, which again does not work. And finally I try another one but I won’t tell you which one. And it works, though only by half.
In any case: I am now poorer by $48 – the fee for my visum, after having transferred ?70 earlier.
Then it is waiting time again, which I can, however, laze away by watching a Nollywood film on the TV screen just in front of the glass cubicle.
Looking around I can read from the faces of the two dozen Nigerians present that their fate is not better than mine, that of the Oyinbo Pepper; they also look rather desperate.
At long last I hear that all-important Nigerian phrase: “Come back tomorrow!”
And I can see how the Nigerian children learn – already at a very young age – what being victimised by bureaucrats really means. In fact, I suppose some even learn it while still in their mother’s womb: pre-natal learning thus.
A lady with lots of skin-lightener applied and tons of gold around the neck and on her arms and fingers and on extremely high heels and tight leggings arrives; her daughter is pitch-black and the six-year-old son wears a pin-striped suit, but he hugs a teddy-bear. He is also eating a “surprise egg” and freely spills gluey chocolate over his suit.
I very much prefer the “common” waiting room to the VIP one, because it is here where the action is. But also the stress, since the faces of the waiting Nigerians – most of them around 30 years of age – really show the wear and tear of going to that embassy and waiting for its “services”. I have now been waiting for a solid two hours, and nothing has happened, also not for my Nigerian co-sufferers.
At exactly 12.05, the man from the reception asks me to follow him. We are, however, not climbing the stairs into one of the four floors of the embassy, but leave the building; cross a street and walk into an internet caf?, where the man from the embassy books an internet access, to access the Nigerian Immigration Service web-page, to try and find out whether the payment from my credit card has arrived there. He gets no answer and we walk back to the embassy. The white guy who had earlier looked so desperate asks me whether “you too find the situation utterly hopeless?” I nod a yes.
At 12.13, two German ladies in black trouser suits arrive at the reception desk and ask to see one Mr. X. The answer to the question “What is your mission?” is a curt: “We are from the Berlin police.” Few seconds later, the two police ladies in civilian dress are being guided into the secrets of the embassy, where they stay for almost an hour: delicate affairs those. I continue waiting, and I get the feeling that, may be, Ambassador Rimdap, should perhaps dress up in some disguise and spend a day or two in the waiting room of HIS embassy… just to get a feeling of what is really happening there.
At 12.20 the Igbo mother of a toddler starts changing the messy diapers of her child in the VIP waiting place, the toilet for females just being too cramped. Just opposite here four small boys, who had arrived earlier, are starting to have lots of fun with the four receptionists. At 12.40, three of the receptionists are leaving for chop. One of them tells me: “Please, try Mr. Ahmed for him”, that is, my contact-man somewhere hidden upstairs. The man tries, but Mr. “is not on seat” – again.
At 12.42, a man from DHL delivers an envelope – I suppose that of one of the “damned of this earth”. Some Nigerians from the passport queue come back from outside; where they must have taken their own chop, and they smile at me: it is the smile of my comrades in desperation. And I am at once reminded of the script by Nigerian writer and friend, Niyi Osundare “Dying in the Visa Queue” on Walter Carrington on Victoria Island, and I have the idea that together with his script and that of Jahman Anikulapo, on his own experience at the German Consulate there, this would make a nice and entertaining book.
From 12.45, God and Allah are being uttered ever more often by the hangers-on at the reception desk. But no lunch is being served here, whereas my good friend, Jahman, was wined and dined at German taxpayer’s expense in the German consul’s place in Carrington; he must be important whereas I am not! In my 46 years of having lived in Nigeria or having travelled there, I must have done something wrong – or?
At 12.58, my internet checker is still away for lunch and absolutely nothing is happening. At 13.05, a group of Nigerian passport seekers is coming back from lunch. At 13.07, a visitor, who has come for a chat with the receptionists, is revealing his belt embroidered with a MERCEDES star in gold. And at 13.10, a liquid in a bottle is being checked for the first time since I arrived three hours earlier; the man thus checked cannot possibly have friends in the embassy!
At 13.11, one of the receptionists asks a poor soul at the other end of the line: “Have you applied on-line?” The conversation is very short, since the person at the other end seems to give up all hope. At 13.22, the reception crowd that had gone for lunch is back from the next-door Currywurst stand. I hope they did not realise they were eating pig.
At 13.22, the two German policewomen emerge from somewhere inside the embassy and engage in some small-talk with an upper-echelon female diplomat just behind me. At 13.33, some Sparkasse or savings bank is being mentioned on the interphone with an Oga lady inside the embassy. At 13.35, the earlier mentioned high-heeled lady is being directed to the next-door Postbank. At 13.47, a tiny Igbo toddler, who enjoys the newness of walking on two feet, is creating havoc all around. He comes towards me and offers me his baby bottle: generous!
At 13.37, a lanky tall Yoruba small-boy loudly declares:
“I want to be traditional ruler for my place!” Upon enquiry, I am being told that “Mr. Ahmed is still not on seat.” I start wondering; what is he doing where?
At 13.45, a first malam is being handed a prayer-mat from behind the reception counter and start doing his prayer behind me; and is soon being joined by two others. At 13.50, the little Igbo boy becomes really nervous, and his mother decides to give up for the day; she leaves the embassy. At 13.51, I go into the “common” waiting room to check whether anything is happening behind that glass partition; it is closed. (I had earlier seen mountains of German passports all over the floor. I started wondering how possibly “Visa will be delivered within 24 hours”, as H.E. Rimdap had earlier told me by e-mail; that would be super-human.
At 13.54, the malams behind me have finished their prayers, roll up their prayer-mats. More Nigerian “customers” start leaving the premises for good. The waiting room is slowly but surely emptying.
It is now exactly 2pm and I have now been inside the Nigerian embassy for a straight FOUR hours, and I can admire how one of the Hausa is doing brisk business on his cellular. And then for about a minute, some good Hausa music is blaring through the reception room.
At 14.08, “my good friend” , Mr. Ahmed appears and expresses “astonishment to still see you here! How now!” He then directs the man in the glass cubicle to at long last issue the visum to me, and he adds in my direction:
“Oga, make you no vex! Don’t you give yourself a head-ache!” Me? Giving myself a headache? I would NEVER do that! Well, in an earlier telephone conversation, that same Mr. Ahmed had told me: “Mr. Meuer, you must help us” and also that he would “use his discretion to give me visa, even if da transfer from your credit card has not yet been registered. We trust you.”
At 14.12, some Igbo ladies are laughingly hanging around the reception counter, laughing because of the “come back tomorrow” word. They look at the desperate Oyinbo Pepper or Onyeocha. I tell them: “Now, if Oyinbo Pepper dey suffer, na why Omo Dudo no go suffer seff ?” The lady next to me gestures and says: “Me, I no hear French. Me Nigeria.”
Whereupon her “sista” tells her: “Sista, di Onyeocha he dey talk broken!” The other lady: “How now?” Me: “Me, I dey go school propa, na fine-fine school seff, na dis same U of I.” Laughter all around.
At exactly 14.15 or 2.15 p.m. Mr. Ahmed reappears with one Mr. Martin – the man in the glass cubicle, when he is there! – and Mr. Martin hands me my passport, his face that of a happy man. He wants to run away, but I stop him: “Mr. Martin, let us check this together.
“Please show me where my VISUM is.” Mr. Martin leafs through my passport full of Nigerian, Benin, Togo and what have you VISA, and here is the most recent Nigerian one: OUFF! But my new friend, Mr. Ahmed, has disappeared: he is a very discreet man, who used his discretion. And I suppose he just felt ashamed, for he is a very nice man.
When I leave the embassy I take a look at all the notes posted outside, and one says that “all payments made to the embassy’s account with DEUTSCHE BANK will henceforth not be refunded.” NA WA OH: I have lost E70 in the Nigerian Immigration Lottery.
I am now flying into Nigeria – “the country where wonders never end”, not even in that country’s embassies abroad. But why do I complain? As a traveller since the middle 50s of the last century, I have been through many “valleys of woes” (John Bunyan), and the reason for my present trip is a very apt one: it is after all on the occasion of my presenting my first book ever: “Journeys Around and with KONGI – Half a Century on the Road with Wole SOYINKA”. Well, well, in reality, those were only 46 years; the other four years I spent in Nigerian embassies…
DIES ANS ENDE !!!
Some of the customers are also writing mail, and I wonder whether some are not also writing 419-ers right here in the Nigerian embassy!