Hello, sucker, and welcome to the Lagos airport, a gigantic system organized to pry into your pockets. Even the prospect of illicit sex enters the exchange.
There are at least five government agencies working Murtala Muhammed International Airport, 14 miles from downtown Lagos. Immigration, state security, airport police, local police and customs-all are equally and unreservedly venal.
“You don’t have an official invitation from a Nigerian government agency? Perhaps you are involved in espionage,” says the immigration officer, who then lowers his voice to a silky whisper: “But I will take you into my confidence. You have dollars, perhaps $200? This problem will go away, believe me, sir.”
No way, you say, pointing to the signs that say, “Give no bribe.”
Another immigration officer with a face as hard as agate, smiles-the smile of the devil incarnate. She asks for your business card and whispers, “I come to your hotel room tonight, only $200, yes, OK, mister? Now I fix everything for you.”
After nearly two hours, with your passport taken and returned nine times and nothing “fixed,” you shriek: “All you want is my money!” This only generates vast giggling.
A man in a gray suit appears, obviously senior. “They are all thieves, sir. I hope nobody collected anything from you. Come with me. It will all be OK.”
Finally you spot your suitcase, mournfully alone on the baggage carousel. Its lock has been wrenched off, but the baggage smashers skipped the shortwave radio and took only the plastic sack with the shampoo, shaving cream and mosquito spray.
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By now the guy in the gray suit, the security guys, the immigration guys and the airport police are arguing loudly over who gets to fleece you.
You say the hell with it, grab your broken bag and move on to customs. Ohhhh, the final barrier-a young woman with the last, crucial stamp.
With a smile like the Mona Lisa (if Mona Lisa had been a cobra), she says, “Now, sir, you have to pay.”
Ah, a laptop computer. Worth how much? You shamelessly understate its value and are charged $100. You offer $60. It vanishes into her pocket, and you get your last stamp. Free at last!
Not quite.
A mile out of the airport, you are stopped by a van marked “Airport Area Control.”
A uniformed man hops into the taxi and demands your passport.
He smiles broadly. “Do you have something for me?” You tell him wearily that the first 15 Nigerians you’ve encountered have all asked for money and you’re JUST . . . NOT . . . GOING TO GIVE ANY!
He seems hurt, returns the passport and hops out. On to the hotel, sweating and exhausted.
That evening, your sleep is interrupted by hotel security downstairs: “There is a lady here who has your business card and says you invited her tonight.”
Please hang her by the thumbs, you say, and go back to sleep.