The climate of fear

A climate of fear – pervasive, dull and inexorable – has descended on much of Nigeria. It is like the harmattan season of the northern part of the country – cloudy, chilly and, for most categories of people, oppressive. This fear is palpable, clear and unpretentious. You can see it everywhere – in homes, markets, hospitals, on the roads, etc. – showing on people’s faces even if not expressed by words of mouth.

In years gone by, we used to hear stories of things that caused fear in far-flung countries like Somalia, Iraq, Afghanistan, Colombia, Northern Ireland, Palestine, etc. We used to hear, in the mass media, about bombs going off in public places, including worship centres, causing numerous deaths. They were like fairy tales, those stories, told by media that appeared as alien to us as the stories they told. Suicide bombings were the most outlandish occurence in those tales. A man (or woman!) strapping himself to a bomb and tweaking the control button, killing himself instantly in a blast? No, it could only happen in those lands. Here, we could not have anyone desperate enough as to take their own lives. Men with Kalashnikovs exchanging fire with policemen or even soldiers? Only members of the Cosa Nostra could do that – mostly in the movies or James Hadley Chase thrillers. Or, at worst, armed robbers somewhere in Lagos or the old Bendel.

Things have since changed. We have joined the global village. We are not neighbours to the village, but its occupants. Bombs started to go off in Maiduguri which, to many Nigerians, was another far-flung place somewhere on Planet Earth. A place tucked away near the border with Chad. Indeed, to many Nigerians, when you said Maiduguri they would wonder whether it was a city in Adamawa state, or even Katsina state. You had to tell them it was in Borno state. Yes, they have read the word Kanem-Bornu in their history books. And they could imagine that Borno was one of the states in Nigeria.

Now Nigeria is one big village itself. Reason: the killings we used to hear about are happening in our own neighbourhood, bringing Maiduguri closer home. Someone bombed the police’s national headquarters in Abuja. Another bombed the UN house in the nation’s capital. Bombs have gone off in Suleja and Madalla, killing Christian worshippers. Bombs went off in Kaduna, Damaturu, Bauchi, and Kano. And gun duels have taken place between angry militants and security forces in many towns in the north. In fact, as I wrote only two paragraphs of this piece, a friend who is fond of updating me on the ongoing violence in Kano phoned me from that city and said gunfire was being exchanged “as I’m talking to you” in the Na’ibawa area of the city.

The people of Kano live more in fear than others because a war is going on in their streets. The harmattan of fear in the region’s most populous city is like a heavy cloak that has descended on the people’s reluctant shoulders, forcing a belly-numbing chill that has refused to go away. Muslims go to mosques in fear. Yesterday, according to reports, most Christians stayed at home, fearing that they could be attacked in their churches. Igbo traders, who arguably constitute the majority of non-indigenes in the city, live virtually with their hearts in their mouths. Their ancestral leaders back home, recalling the pogroms of the late 60s, have asked the trading adventurers to start returning home. Even the President has said that these terrible times are akin to the Civil War years. No wonder the under-reported exodus of Nigerians from various parts of the country is continuing unabated in spite of assurances by community leaders.

The Kano killings of a fortnight ago have shown that the bombings and shootings can be indiscriminate. At least over half of the over 200 persons reported to have died in the mayhem were civilians who were caught in the deadly crossfires of the militants and the security forces. They were not carefully selected, but found themselves in the thick of the violence.

A terrible aspect of this saga is that this numbing and perpetual fear is multidimensional: soldiers and policemen now fear civilians and vice versa, the former because they cannot distinguish between an innocent passerby and a bomb-wielding militant. You can see the fear in their eyes at police stations or the check-points. They are not sure of who you are as they scrutinise you, their fingers hovering restlessly over the trigger as you open your car boot. In Kaduna last week, I learnt that many policemen have stopped wearing their uniforms. At police stations, the usual petty ‘cases’ are no longer being entertained. “Go and sort yourselves out,” was the usual refrain by cops to complainants. “We have bigger issues on our hands.”

Civilians fear security men because they know that if a soldier or a cop decides to shoot, no one would accuse him of anything, much less charge him for murder. It seems our security men have acquired emergency powers that they can use at will. They can detain a suspect for longer than is allowed by the laws of the land – or even kill him under one excuse or the other. They can invade a house or an office and ransack everywhere and take whatever they like. Many people live in fear of being accused of knowing a militant or of being one. In this climate, mutual suspicion is legion.

The cost of this fear is unquantifiable. To businesses, to development projects, and to politics and governance, the cost is gargantuan. Our roads and streets have become war zones, with blockades and check-points everywhere. Traffic snarls are a familiar eyesore, as well as their attendant waste of time, energy and resources. The biggest cost, however, is the loss of lives, innocent lives, lives that could contribute to the progress of the nation. People are dying without anyone accounting for their death. In government, no one is resigning for their failure in forcing the present circumstance on the nation. They have to be pushed out. The only fall guy (so far) is Hafiz Ringim, who smilingly handed over the reins of his office to the new inspector-general of police on Thursday. He will not account for anything, including the strange escape of the now mythical Kabir Sokoto.

Shall we ever see the end of this climate of fear? Your guess is as good as mine. But whatever your guess is, it should accommodate the notion that we are not on the road out of this dark and chilly tunnel. So, what do you do when you are caught in a tunnel wherein clouds of fear are thick and menacing? Just one thing: pray.

Published in my column in BLUEPRINT today

Above pix: MD Abubakar, Acting Inspector General of Police

Almajirai with guns

Almost on a daily basis, one reads at least one beautiful idea in the newspapers about what to do with with traditional Islamic school pupils known as almajirai. Many commentators, so much schooled in their biases and stereotypes, ignorantly blame the almajirai for a rash of crimes, including the murderous sectarian crises that have become the hallmark of life in the north. They argue that those ragged kids, who are usually armed with nothing but their begging bowls, are used by their teachers to kill and destroy.

Such ignorant postulations tend to ignore other professional beggers who have been visiting more pain and destruction than the almajirai – the gun-toting security men at the countless ‘check-points’ all over Nigeria. In the past, these fellows were stationed on the roads in order to fish out armed robbers, but with the worsening insecurity situation in the country, they were given the additional responsibility of finding potential bombers. Check-points on the approach to the nation’s capital have increased, so also the ferocity of the checks. And at night, in most cities, police men and sometimes soldiers are seen stopping drivers and asking them questions. “Wetin you carry” used to be the favourite joke of newspaper cartoonists; another was, “May I see your particulars.” These jokes portrayed our policemen not only as corrupt but also as foolish beggers for ‘something' to eat.

Today’s check-point beggers are not armed with bowls but with AK-47s. They tell you, in a mellifluous voice that belies their capacity for savagery: “Oga, your boys are here o! Na your work wey we dey do.” You have a choice to ‘dash’ them something or not. I have observed that most drivers do hand over some cash to these armed professional beggers, even if reluctantly. Which also persuaded me to think that they scarcely have a real choice, considering the fact that there have been incidents of ‘stray bullets’ hitting unsuspecting commuters in many parts of the country. I also observed that givers of such alms show more alacrity when they are stopped at night.

The question is: why should our security men be asking for money from drivers at check points? Even though some policemen think receiving from a willing giver is not really corruption, I think it is. They erroneously figure that corruption is when you steal from the public till; my more bookish friends have a word for this: extortion. Whatever you call it, it contributes to the myriad of actions that gave our police force a bad image not only in Nigeria but also internationally.

In 2006, the Centre for Law Enforcement Education (CLEEN), a non-governmental organisation, published the result of a survey which described the Nigeria police force as one of the country's most corrupt institutions in the country. That was a year after a former Inspector-General of Police, Tafa Balogun, was found guilty of corruption and sentenced to six months in prison. Only last year, the Human Rights Watch conclusively declared that widespread corruption in the Police Force was fueling abuses against ordinary citizens and severely undermining the rule of law in Nigeria. It wrote: “On a daily basis, countless ordinary Nigerians are accosted by armed police officers who demand bribes and commit human rights abuses against them as a means of extorting money. These abuses range from arbitrary arrest and unlawful detention to threats and acts of violence, including sexual assault, torture, and even extrajudicial killings. Police also routinely extort money from victims of crimes to initiate investigations and demand bribes from suspects to drop investigations.”

The international organisation’s damning 102-page report, titled “Everyone's in on the Game': Corruption and Human Rights Abuses by the Nigeria Police Force," documents the myriad forms of police corruption in Nigeria. It also shows how institutionalised extortion, a profound lack of political will to reform the force, and impunity combine to make police corruption a deeply embedded problem.

It is correct to say that not all policemen or ‘check-point soldiers’ are corrupt or begging commuters for ‘something to buy a loaf of bread.’ I know many who are pained to know that some people regard them “just like the others.” However, a Hausa proverb says that it is a single bad bean which spoils the soup. I also know that several reform programmes have been introduced in order to rid the police force of bad eggs. But it looks like none has succeeded yet. A level of success can be measured when ordinary policemen stop asking for pocket allowance from commuters or even reject it if offered.

This would, indeed, require a highly disciplined and motivated police force. To get such a force, money voted for security should be made to reach those for whom it was budgeted. A cop who knows that his Oga has commandeered his allowance and given him crumbs would not be willing to honour any espirit d’corps. A cop who knows that his take-home pay cannot take him even to the bus stop would find asking a driver for ‘something for the boys’ irresistible. It is the duty of the police high command to cater for the needs of their rank and file, with justice and fair play, before discipline can be imposed from the police station to the police check-point.

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Published in my COLUMN in BLUEPRINT, on Monday. Cartoon courtesy of Human Rights Watch