THE TANGLED WEB

Wed--Kwei 

My two months in West Africa--Nigeria, Niger, and Ghana--were spent researching for my next Emma Djan novel, LAST SEEN IN LAPAZ (LSIL). The first draft had already been written and was with my editor during those two months. With perfect timing, she was ready with the first edit not long after my return. The following partial quote is ascribed to Ernest Hemingway:

"Don’t get discouraged because there’s a lot of mechanical work to writing … I rewrote the first part of A Farewell to Arms at least fifty times….The first draft of anything is shit."

Museum and former home of Ernest Hemingway, where presumably he wrote some of his shit first drafts (Shutterstock/Joseph Sohm)

The italics in the above quote are mine, because it's true. Even this blog is not in its original form. I would echo Hemingway to say, "The first drafts of my novels are a mess." The time sequences are all jacked up, some of the characters are dull or shallow, the ending doesn't make any sense, and so on. Sometimes I look at the editor's markup on my pages (e.g. "this makes no sense," "cut this," "what does this mean?") and gloomily think, "I can't even write," and go to bed depressed.

That being said (cut this--overused expression). Sorry, I'll try that again. Despite the initial stab to the heart on receiving the first edit, a writer plods on, determined to get it right.

In LSIL, human and sex trafficking form the backdrop against which a mysterious murder takes place. The novel has an international flavor involving Nigeria, Niger, Ghana, and Europe, but there is another stream of trafficking within a relatively restricted area between Nigeria and Ghana that I call "local."

Sex work in international migration

Sex work in this setting is invariably coerced and often begins by exploiting the desperation of poverty-stricken girls and young women who see no future for themselves in their home countries. Someone tells them that if they can get to Europe, e.g. Italy, they can own successful businesses that will make more than enough money for them and the family back home. The reality is far different from the fable.

Sub-Saharan routes of migration (Shutterstock map modified by Kwei Quartey)

Nigeria contributes more migrants to Europe and Ghana than most other countries in sub-Saharan Africa, regardless of the route. Benin City supplies a disproportionate number of these migrants.

For most West African migrants seeking to escape to Europe, the initial destination is Agadez, although that has begun to change because EU has worked with the Nigerien government to implement a 2015 anti-smuggling law designed to limit irregular migration through Niger, and that has forced previously open migration underground and increased migrants’ vulnerability to forced labor or sex trafficking by criminal networks. There is no longer open loading up of trucks with migrants in Agadez heading for Libya. Because of the 2015 law, it is all highly secret now, with some migrants remaining in Agadez in ghettos for prolonged periods as they try to raise money for the rest of the journey to Libya. For many women, that means sex work (men will find employment meager and hard to gain). The sex workers I met in Agadez were all from Nigeria.

If a migrant survives the journey across the Sahara to Libya, the main danger there becomes capture and detainment in detention centers, where violence and sexual abuse prevail.

Sex work in local migration

Nigerian sex workers who don't try to get to Europe may attempt to go to Ghana instead. Why? The money is better. I'm no social economist, but it may be significant that Ghana's GDP per capita growth rate is greater than Nigeria's by far, despite Nigeria having seemingly inexhaustible amounts of petroleum. Identical to international migration to Libya and beyond, Nigerian women form a significant proportion of sex workers in Ghana. The means of transportation from Nigeria to Ghana may involve speedboats off the coast in order to avoid the tiresome hassle of crossing three borders.

Just as in Europe, the "madam" system works in a similar way in Ghana. The madam, often an ex-sex worker herself, bears the cost of bringing girls from Nigeria on the pretext that they'll be working in custodial jobs. Once the girls arrive, they discover they owe money to the madam, who saddles them with a debt multiple times the cost of smuggling them in from Nigeria. This forces them into indentured servitude. By these means, madams can make a staggering amount of money--enough to buy at least a mansion and a couple of expensive vehicles. Although violence toward the sex workers under her command is often the purview of men, madams have been known to stab or beat their workers for misbehavior or failure to pay their monthly dues.

Multiple "hotels" in Accra are simply in the sex business. While a number of euphemistic names like, "guesthouse" or "movie-house" are used to name these places, the result is the same. The sex workers use the hotel as their base and don't venture out very far. They, too, use phones, but mostly for setting up sessions at the guesthouse and not so much for online apps. Below is a picture of one such rather grubby guesthouse in Accra, which I won't name at the moment, although I do reference it in LSIL. The madam just happened to pull up in an expensive vehicle just as I was videoing Ninja-style.

Guesthouse in Lapaz, Accra. The murky conditions are well-suited to the cause. The madam's shiny SUV is on the left. (Photo: Kwei Quartey)

Voluntary sex work

Voluntary sex work is without threat of violence, even though there may be dire circumstances pressuring a woman to go into it. Here, I'm talking about upper-class sex workers catering to well-off clients who can afford to pay up to $1000 a night for sexual services. In Accra, examples include attractive University of Ghana and Wisconsin International University College female students (again, often Nigerians) who use sophisticated phone apps and even social media sites like Instagram and Twitter to enhance their online visibility. Not under any coercion, these voluntary sex workers can stop whenever they wish or for whatever reason. As an aside, one of my sources tells me that up to forty percent of female students at the University of Ghana engage in sex with their professors in return for good grades. That seems like an awfully high percentage, and I can't independently confirm it. Nevertheless, it may still involve coercion as well, i.e. a lecturer's threat to fail a female student in his class unless she has sex with him.

Accra's upscale neighborhood of Cantonments, the location of several embassies including the French and American, is a source of high-paying clients for sex workers who hang around the Cantonments roundabout, which is conveniently dim at night and close to a number of posh hotels or luxury townhouses/apartments within driving or even walking distance. In this case, the hotel is not necessarily taking part in the trade, and claims no responsibility. Nonetheless, they can make money off sex workers indirectly, because hotel occupants may pay for expensive suites where they can hold sex parties.

Want to spend a million bucks? Live here in Cantonments (Photo: Kwei Quartey)

Luxury townhouses and apartments near Cantonments Circle, Accra (Photo: Kwei Quartey)

The tangled web

This is indeed a tangled web of lies, deceit, broken dreams, and violence, but there is little political will to change it. Parliamentarians in the Ghana government, for example, are some of the biggest clients of sex workers, and one member of parliament actually owns a guesthouse. Lust for money and sex in its myriad forms are driving and maintaining the system.

TRAVELS IN NIGER--PART THREE

 Kwei--Wednesday

Making equine friends at the Agadez animal market (Photo: Kwei Quartey)

Getting oriented

On July 13, 2021, I left Nigeria, where the chaos at Lagos Airport had me worried I wouldn't get on the plane, Fortunately, I did, boarding an Asky Airlines flight packed to the rafters to Niamey, the capital of Niger, via Lomé, Compared to Lagos, Lomé's airport felt serene and well run.

During the flight to Niamey, I thought I might practice my rusty high-school French by striking up a conversation with one of my seat mates, who was from Niger. My tongue certainly needed some limbering up.

I landed late afternoon. Designed by Turkish company SUMMA, Niamey's new Diori Hamani Airport is only two years old. I snapped a pic as I emerged from the aircraft, but my ninja technique was imperfect and an official caught me red-handed and wagged her finger at me.

The new, glistening Niamey Intl Airport

Customs and immigration weren't a big deal, and a mysterious Nigerien official helped me whizz through without incident. I was going to give him a tip, but he had vanished as suddenly as he had appeared. I wonder who he was.

Coming out of the airport into the balmy dusk, I spotted my Niamey guide, Abba Djitteye, of Timbuktu Explore Traveler, waiting for me. He had taken care of my Niamey transport and accommodation arrangements. On the way to the hotel, I was looking around for all the danger I had been reading about on the Internet concerning Niger (see my previous blog), and was frankly stunned at what the reality was.

I spent only one night at the Niamey Noom, a lovely 5-star hotel, leaving for Agadez early the following morning. It wasn't a direct flight and made several stops to pick up passengers on the way. My Agadez guide, Ibrahim Alhassane, an enthusiastic young man with a bright smile and easy laugh, was there to meet me at Agadez's tiny airport. Within minutes of my arrival, I realized that cars were few and far between. How was I going to get to my hotel with my luggage? In one of these:

Tricycle taxi cab (Photo I. Alhassane)

Was there actually room for three adults and a suitcase? Yes, in Africa, all things are possible.

The hotel, Auberge Azel, was reportedly the best in Agadez, "where the American ambassador stays when he comes here," I was told. Auberge was no match for Noom, but this is something one must get used to while traveling in Africa: in small towns or cities, hotel accommodations may not rise to the standards of the large metropolises.

Ochre walls surrounding the Auberge Hotel compound (Photo: Kwei Quartey)

The material and color of the ochre is quite classic in Agadez and elsewhere in Niger. They are often starkly beautiful. After some confusion between the kitchen staff and me over the menu (I was trying to figure out which items were vegan), I retired to bed.

Beginning the research

The 2022 Emma Djan novel, LAST SEEN IN LAPAZ, will tackle the difficult and tragic phenomenon of West Africans trying to migrate to Europe as they flee from famine, drought, poverty and persecution. The migrants hail from Mali, Guinea, Sierra Leone, Burkina Faso, Benin, and Ghana, but the majority by far are Nigerians--male and female

West African migratory routes to Libya and Europe (modified Shutterstock map)

Reaching Agadez is the first stage of the migration. Then it's on to Libya by a perilous journey across the Sahara to Libya. The idea is to leave Libyan shores and get to Italy. Other routes include Morocco via the Strait of Gibraltar to Spain, or Algeria to Spain. The real outcome is often far from the goal: sometimes the migrants get stuck in North Africa for a year or more because they don't have enough money to proceed farther.

Ibrahim had arranged for me to talk to some migrants in Agadez. But before we got to that, he had to set me straight on one issue. No way would we be going around town in tricycle taxis--they were so slow, might as well ride a tortoise. I needed to join the majority who used the single most important mode of transportation in Agadez: the motorcycle. "Okay," I said sheepishly.

The charismatic Ibrahim (Photo: Kwei Quartey)

Like other men in Niger, Ibrahim wears a veil and headrest not for any religious reasons, but as protection from the sun, sand, and wind. I tried one of these veils but found it made me feel even hotter than I already was in the 100-degree weather. I was drinking gallons of water as I was sweating buckets. Ibrahim? Not even the faintest veneer of perspiration anywhere.

So, climbing onto the rear seat, off we went on his motorbike, which I must say was pretty nifty. Ibrahim dodged the potholes with ample dexterity as I got used to the sensation of being on a motorbike. The most important requirement is to trust the rider.

Talking to the migrants

Before meeting the contacts, we dropped in on a refugee camp run by the International Organization of Migration (IOM) in Agadez. At the time, the camp was empty, but the guard, who knew Ibrahim, let us look around. There wasn't much to it. The IOM has branches all over the world, and they concern themselves primarily with repatriating migrants.

Later on, Ibrahim took me to another part of town where I spoke to four male returnees from Libya: a Nigerian, Guinean, Beninese, and Gambian. They had all had different experiences, some more harrowing than others, but there were a few takeaways:

• The desert crossing is a desperately dangerous affair with threats of banditry (outlaws attacking and robbing the convoy of trucks); physical and sexual abuse by smugglers; severe dehydration and death.
• The convoluted web of agents, smugglers, "connection men," and madams, and who among these gets paid is confusing and riddled with inconsistencies, lies, and brutality. For example, a migrant soon discovers that the money they started out with is insufficient to make the whole journey. The only way to get that money is either to work as a prostitute, or in some more conventional setting (but finding work in places like Agadez is easier said than done).
• The very worst thing to happen to you is to be accosted or captured by the Libyan forces and then sent to a detention center, which, I can confidently say according to the accounts I heard, is hell on earth. The four young men I spoke to described unspeakable acts of cruelty and murder in their respective detention centers.

Their different accounts also raised questions about the IOM itself, some describing brutal treatment inflicted by IOM custodians as bad as that meted out by the Libyans. The Guinean man said he had no confidence the IOM could help him and because of the fear of being assaulted in the camp, he refused to stay. I've incorporated much of what I learned into my novel.

Ibrahim then took me to an area of the city where prostitutes commonly work. There was a slight misunderstanding when one of the young women thought I was there to avail myself of her services. Instead, we tried to talk to her and her two Nigerian companions about the story of their journey to Europe and how it had stalled, but in spite of the tip I gave them, they were not as forthcoming as I had hoped--certainly not as helpful as the young women I had met in Lagos.

Sheep, goats, cows, donkeys, and camels

I couldn't have claimed to have visited Agadez without going to the livestock market. Nigeriens are meat eaters. In this landlocked country, especially in Agadez and similar desert towns, fish is not popular. It's served primarily in restaurants and hotels that cater to expatriates. Therefore, beef, goat, and mutton are the usual accompaniments to the Nigerien staples of rice and millet. I understand that some Nigeriens also eat camel meat, but camels and donkeys are primarily sold as beasts of burden. (It's almost painful to watch a donkey placidly pulling an overloaded cart while already saddled with piles of merchandise on its back.)

It was at this market where I met my donkey friend above. I approached the camels, but one of them didn't seem to like me, and since I've had little to no experience with camels, I kept my distance.

Keeping a respectful distance from the camels (Photo: Kwei Quartey)

Into the desert

One morning, about halfway through my trip to Agadez, Ibrahim announced exuberantly, "Tomorrow, Inshallah, we go to desert, to Azel, my hometown. You meet my family."

"Oh, um, yah," I stammered. "Well, if you say so," while thinking, hold up--how far into the desert? Were we talking sand dunes and mirages?

So the next day, round about three o'clock in the afternoon when the sun was perishingly hot, Ibrahim came to the hotel to pick me up, having hired an SUV plus driver. As I approached said SUV, I realized this wasn't some vehicle out of a slick SUV commercial, this SUV looked more like the kind of ancient, battered but indestructible Land Rovers the British brought to the African bush. At the wheel was a young guy (everyone is young in Niger) whom Ibrahim introduced as Mohammed.

I got in, noting with some alarm that the four windows were down. "Uh, is there air-conditioning?"

"Air conditioner?" Mohammed said. "No air conditioner."

You've got to be kidding, I thought.

Now, we pause the video for reflection. At that point, I could go one of two ways: (1) positively assert myself and refuse to ride to the desert without a/c when the temperature was around a 100 degrees. Don't I deserve better than this?

(2) go with the flow and not be an obnoxious, entitled American.

I went with the flow. Mohammed had probably already been paid and getting the SUV may not have been that easy in a poor town with very few cars, and lastly, well, this was Agadez; I couldn't expect it to be Pasadena, California.

My hope that the air coming in through the SUV windows would help cool me down turned out to be the height of wishful thinking. The air was hot, dry, and stinging. Neither Ibrahim nor Mohammed had a drop of sweat on them as I was slowly suffocating in the back. Ibrahim looked back at me. "Oh," he said with concern, "you don't look happy at all."

"Maybe because it's about a thousand degrees in here. Celsius."

The terrain was rocky sand with hardy scrub. There wasn't actually a road. Mohamed just knew where we were going. Whenever a truck came in the opposite direction, everyone waved at each other.

The trip was about one hour. Ibrahim selected our campsite and then took me around the area, which I now realized was what we would call an oasis.

A dried (but not dead) river bed (Photo: Kwei Quartey)

During the rainy season, this becomes a mighty river.

A deep well for crop irrigation (Photo: Kwei Quartey)

Fine-looking squash (Photo: Kwei Quartey)

Ibrahim introduced me to his uncle, a farmer growing several crops, including dates.

When we got back to camp, Ibrahim lit a fire magically without matches, and began cooking dinner. Since he knew I was vegan, he had specially prepared a bean stew for me. I was famished, and it was excellent. Before eating though, we had mint tea.

Ibrahim then busied himself getting the campsite ready for the night. He had brought along a folding cot exclusively for me.

Splash of color in the tawny landscape (Photo: Kwei Quartey)

"Very nice," I said. "What about the tent?"

"Tent? No tent."

A night under the stars

Ibrahim had claimed that the desert turned very cold at night. I said, "I don't believe you."

    "You'll see," he said.

    I bet him 2000 CFA (about four USD) that I would not find the weather even remotely cold. On my deluxe cot, I lay awake and gazed at the legendary stars in the dark sky. There was zero ambient light. Complete darkness. I saw the Milky Way and my favorite constellation, Orion. Now, if only I could get some sleep.

Every so often, a breeze would stir, but it was hot and dry. It wasn't until about 2 AM that it cooled some. "So much for the cold night," I muttered. I managed to sleep for some four hours, waking before six. Ibrahim had shrouded himself in a sleeping cloth to shelter from the "cold" while I was shirtless and sweaty. He still owes me 2000 CFA.

We packed up and just as I thought we were about to leave, Ibrahim and Mohammed sat down on a picnic blanket.

"Aren't we leaving?" I asked.

"We're gong to have some tea," Ibrahim said, "and then we go."

"Tea?" I said. "No tea, no tea! There's no time for tea. Come on, chop-chop, we gotta leave right now before the weather gets too hot. And plus, I have work to do back at the hotel. Let's go!"

Ibrahim jumped up. "Yes, boss."

But Mohammed shot me a look that said in the Hausa equivalent, "Chill out, bro. Life isn't that serious."

The final night

Ibrahim made a big deal of taking me to a restaurant the last night I was in Agadez. Because Ibrahim knew the restaurant owner, he was going to personally shop for vegetables and then take them to the restaurant to be prepared as a fresh salad. I found the gesture very touching.

It was a marvelous salad. Besides mint, there was another flavor I could detect but not identify.

Early the next morning, Ibrahim took me to the airport and waited around with me for the flight to be called. I was glad he was there to smooth out any misunderstandings between the officers and me. It always helps to have a local with you. It's like a shield. I got on the flight, but later on, the plane developed engine trouble and never made it to Niamey. The answer to what actually happened comes in the next blog.

Ibrahim and me at the Auberge Hotel