Musa Jibril
Anyone who arrived at Owode, a town in Badagry West Local Government will feel the solemnity in the air.
The boom time enjoyed by the Lagos border community has suffered a reversal of fortune since the past three months due to the government’s policy of, first, border closure and recently, ban of sales of petroleum products within 20 kilometre radius of the border.
From Gbaji, anyone travelling to Owode will see a picture of desolation – a broken road clogged with over 30 checkpoints mounted by an assortment of security operatives; on both sides of the road, petrol stations numbering over 50 closed – until you arrive at the border in a community that is now a shadow of its old self. Its once bustling market is now scanty, with half the shops closed, while commercial activities are characterised by lethargy. Cars and trucks which used to queue to convey goods for market women are nowhere to be found. In their place is a legion of Okada riders, waiting patiently to find customers who might be heading to town. People moved around in a subdued atmosphere that pulsates with sorrow, anger and resentment.
One of those who spoke with Saturday Sun, Hon Kazeem Sulyman, former Councillor, Ward A, Badagry West, averred that “border closure is not new to those of us who live at the edge of the border, but this one was a bolt from the blue.”
He explained further: “There is usually a period of preparation, that is, we are informed ahead about the reason for the imminent closure, perhaps due to election or to check cross-border crime, and how long it would last; that allows us to adapt to the situation. This present one, going to three months now, was touted to last 28 days.”
Asked how community members are affected, Sulyman used himself as an example: “I buy and sell industrial gas used mostly by panel beaters. On the day the border was declared closed, my wares were still on the way in Kankon. Customs did not allow me to get it to my shop, which is just 10 yards from The Republic of Benin.”
According to him, the situation is made more oppressive by overzealous operatives of Customs and police who impose arbitrary ban and blockade against local products.
“From here to Gbaji to Seme, comprising over 105 villages, we have no industry but trading. Our local production is coconut and oil palm, from which we produce coconut oil and palm oil respectively. We sell these products in Badagry market, and we buy needful things needed here at the border. In the past three months, our people cannot buy commodities from Badagry or Lagos metropolis. At Yeke or Sawa, where we have Export and Anti-Bunkering departments of Customs, traders are stopped from bringing in their purchase,” he said.
Residents who spoke with Saturday Sun alleged officers of Nigeria Police, Immigrations and Customs extort them when bringing their wares to their community.
“By the time the goods arrive in our community, they have to be sold at exorbitant prices,” Sulyman said.
He further claimed that government added to their woes with the recent ban on sales of petrol within 20 kilometres of the border. The policy was operationalized on the axis the very day it was made public.
“To bring in a five-litre of petroleum into this community to power our generator is a problem,” said the former councillor.
For Owode residents, restricting movement into and out of the neighbouring country to 6 am and 6 pm is akin to tightening the noose on their neck. What was worse, at their end of the border, cars are no longer allowed to cross the border into the Republic of Benin; that includes commercial buses conveying passengers travelling across the West Africa region. Their village has been reduced to a point for pedestrian crossing only while all vehicular traffic has been diverted to Seme border. This has dire consequences.
Sulyman avowed: “If those buses passed through here, they’ stop at our garage, they’d buy snacks, recharge cards and other needful things. This commerce boosts our local economy. Now, all these have been taken away. How do people survive? At this juncture, life is difficult.”
The coconut pain
“It is madness,” is how 85-year-old Chief Hon Yisa Agbakitan Zannu summed up the situation. “Did you see the checkpoints on the road? Can you imagine, 32 checkpoints! There is no sense in it, and police are the most shameless elements of the lot. What they do there is a slap on our face.”
Zannu, who was councillor of Badagry in the Second Republic, stated the crux of the matter: “At the national agricultural convention, Owode and Seme are known for coconut. There is an ongoing project to install coconut oil mill here. But recently, people were taking their coconut to town and they were seized. A woman used to come to our village and pay farmers in advance. On the day she came to take her purchase, Customs denied her passage. I was notified at 9 pm and I went to Sawa checkpoint. The officials were adamant and the vehicle returned to the village with its load. In the morning, I went to Seme to meet the Customs Controller where we were able to establish that coconut is never prohibited within the country.”
The saga led to the convening of Coconut Stakeholders Forum on October 22, 2019. A communiqué released at the end of it reads in part: “The forum agreed to cooperate with the DC Owode post or any of his officers and other relevant security agencies in complying with the laid down rules and regulations as it applies to the legitimate transactions of coconut business along [the]Owode-Apa border post.”
Nonetheless, the coconut problem persists and has become the major grouse of the locals. “There is so much nonsense going on on this road,” Zannu grumbled. “If you are going with Garri, they will tell you “let us check it.” You are in a cab, they will tell you, “come down we want to check the car.” Most annoyingly, some of these officers cannot speak Egun or Awori and yet they stopped you by the roadside and insinuate that you, the local, is a “prohibited immigrant.”
Of the petroleum policy, he fired: “There is no sense in that policy. That is willfully punishing those living at the border. We have 129 villages, with a lot of population; we get electricity by using generators, now we can only get fuel by travelling 20 kilometres to Badagry. I don’t know where we are heading.”
He admitted that people from various communities on the border had met with him to express their anger. “We are farmers and fishermen here. We are fed up with what is going on,” he voiced their frustrations.
“But we will not protest,” Zannu insisted, “If we protest, it might escalate.”
It was Simeon Adande Dansu, 63, secretary of Asheri-Owode Community, a farmer, who clarified why the banning transportation of coconut and coconut product is the sore thumbs of the Owode community.
“After I had my firstborn and his umbilicus dried off, what came off from his abdomen was given to me by my mother with instruction to go and plant a coconut with it. That is what we do with every child born here. Look, that coconut (pointing) is my firstborn’s. Each time I see it, I remember the year and for whom it was planted. This is our tradition, our business here,” he narrated.
He continued: “Look at those coconut trees. We ought to have harvested all these coconuts since the past one month. But we couldn’t because we can’t take it to the market in Badagry; if you try it, Customs will seize them or send you back. Coconut is our primary source of livelihood. Our coconut is different from those brought from Ghana. But Customs officials do not want to hear this explanation.”
Dansu avowed that he had witnessed several border shutdowns in his lifetime, but none as stifling as the present one.
“As we speak here, my worry is, how do I power my generator at home and in church tomorrow? Now we have to travel to Badagry before you can get petrol or diesel. And they said we are Nigerians,” he said.
The development has constituted a headache for the community’s leadership, he said.
“Sometimes, people come to my house and challenged me. They wanted to know what we are doing about their situation,” he affirmed. “It appears the government doesn’t understand the dynamics of the relationship between communities at the border.”
Dansu like many others in the community has a personal agony. Their community is, in fact, one half of a whole split between Nigeria and Benin. The shutdown of the border is driving a wedge between the two halves of a single village. “My wife is a Beninese. There is no way I’d say I have nothing to do with the Benin Republic,” Dansu submitted.
End of community commerce
At the market square, women sat loitering. Among them was Alhaja Assanatu Ashimi, the Iyaloja of Owode. The market leader was having an afternoon nap when she was woken for her opinion.
She did not waste time or words. “Look, those are bags of coconuts. We have harvested for the past three months. They are rotting away because Customs did not allow us to take it to market. Those are kegs of palm oil we produced here locally. We cannot take them to market, worse still, people cannot come into our community to buy. How do we then survive? How do we eat? Our parents raised us on coconut palm and oil palms. That is our mainstay. This is punishment. We are suffering.”
Without mincing words, she counted the cost of the ban on sales of petrol. “Cars don’t come here anymore. To go to Badagry by Okada cost N1000 and on top of that, you cannot buy goods on your way back,” she articulated. “No good road, no light, and now, no petrol. We have to eat and survive. You met us women sitting here because we have nowhere to go. Our commercial activities have been grounded. How do we make a living?”
Collateral damages
The two-pronged police checkpoints hamstrung Owode residents in more ways than one. One of the negative consequences, according to Sulyman, is the restriction of access to health services.
“The Airforce Base’s Mother and Child hospital is the nearest medical facility we have been using, but it was overwhelmed by flood in the past few months and the facility was evacuated. It is inconceivable to think of taking a patient from here to Badagry General Hospital. Where is the road to travel on? In Gbaji, alone you will spend hours in the checkpoint,” he said.
Ashimi corroborated this even more pointedly: “With no road, how do you take a woman in labour to Badagry? We are neglected by Nigeria so much we get most of our basic services from Cotonou in the Republic of Benin.”
In this regard, the 6 to 6 border regime presents a new challenge, she pointed out. “Are we not Nigerians anymore? If our status has been changed, they should let us know,” she railed. “We know from Pillar 4 to Pillar 6 where we fall into along the border is Nigerian territory. Some security operatives claimed they had no idea we are part of Nigeria.”
Generally, some residents said the situation gives them a sense of disconnect, as they were not sure if the government was subtly trying to cut them off from Nigeria. Three weeks ago, a detachment of soldiers and Customs official stormed the community and without provocation beat up an indigene into a coma and thereafter forced the community to write a letter of apology. The development had further created a climate of uncertainty.
Unfortunately for the community and others with a similar predicament, there is no respite on the horizon yet. The border remains closed indefinitely.
The indigenes, however, believed the situation could be ameliorated.
“They could make things easier for us by giving it a human face. And that means checking the excesses of the security operatives in and around the community,” Dansu offered.
Sulyman suggested further: “The government could set up an office that we could approach to clarify issues on exports, imports, contraband or otherwise and save us from these multiple operatives suffocating us and subjecting us to slow death.”