So, this is what it means to be “pat-down.” I first heard the words after the Christmas Day attempt by the 23-year-old Nigerian, Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab, to blow up a Northwest plane over Detroit, Michigan. It was, however, not until nine days and nearly 9,000 miles later before the meaning of the words hit home, with a personal force.
My daughter and I departed Lagos on the night of January 4 and by morning had cleared two international airports—Lagos and Frankfurt—without fuss.
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We had one more stop to make at Dulles International Airport, in Washington, on our way to Austin, Texas. At the Lagos airport, little had changed. It was business as usual. Check-in and airport security officials were happy to do things a bit quicker and to return a smile or two in exchange for a Christmas kola nut.
I also did not notice any remarkable changes in security at Frankfurt from when I last passed through in early summer 2009. The officials looked just as cold and stern as they ushered transit passengers through the metal-detectors. Luggage, as usual, was scanned separately. I didn’t observe any fuss, pat downs, or special lanes. The only hint of a tougher time ahead was the frequent announcement at the airport that travelers to the United States must be prepared to comply with restrictions about items they could bring into the country.
For me, that was nothing to worry about. On this trip, I had prepared myself for the worst—or so I thought.
I had excluded from my suitcases anything I suspected could cause delays and totally ruled out all foodstuffs, including noodles, my daughter’s favorite meal. Before we left Lagos, I took the extra precaution of stripping our suitcases and getting familiar with all their contents before padlocking them, just to be sure.
I also recalled the sad experience of another Nigerian traveler who caused alarm (and made headlines) for an overly long stay in the lavatory of a plane some two days later, and on the same route, of that which Abdulmutallab had attempted to bring down. I decided on this trip that once I was boarded, I would not stir for the duration of the flight. No in-flight exercises, no walking up and down the aisle, no food, little or no water. Nothing, I was determined, would make me take a step from my seat.
And so it was that in the six hour and twenty minute flight from Lagos to Frankfurt, I was a self-made couch potato in seat 14A.
I was flying Business Class, but it would not have made any difference had I been in the luggage hold. Better to be still than sorry. Yet, nothing could have prepared me for the ordeal at we were to face at Dulles.
Even in the best of times, traveling on a Nigerian passport can prove tricky. Nigeria’s reputation as the scammers’ haven has cast suspicion upon this country of nearly 150 million people. Yet this is the same country that has not only given Africa and the world some of its finest intellectuals—from Nobel laureate Wole Soyinka to Chinua Achebe, from Ben Okri to Chimamanda Adichie—but one that has sent thousands of its soldiers to die on peacekeeping missions and opened its wallet to African countries in need.
In the course of my work as a journalist in the past over 20 years, I have seen more than a bit of the continent and the world. I do not know of many places where the streets teem with such boundless energy, where there is such hustle and bustle to eke out a living as in Lagos, Aba, or Kano.
The trouble with Nigeria, regrettably, has been a leadership that is able but perennially unwilling to tackle corruption. The unrelenting roguery of a few politicians has not only cost the nation an estimated $400 billion in stolen wealth over the last 40 years, it has impoverished the vast majority (70 percent of the population live on the equivalent of less than $1 a day), undermined critical institutions, and sowed the seeds of desperation in swathes of the country’s largely young population.
For every Chimamanda, there are scores of determined but frustrated young people who, in a desperate attempt to beat the system, pierce themselves with many sorrows. Sure, Abdulmutallab is not a typical Nigerian youth, but he was no less a product of a system of failed values; a failure that now threatens to make Abdulmutallabistan out of the world’s largest black population.
Our plane landed safely at Dulles, and my daughter and I cleared passport control and collected our suitcases without fuss. Just as we were heading for the exit, we were diverted to Lane B, a special, secondary screening area for travelers to the U.S. from 14 countries now classified “countries of interest.” It had the eerie look and feel of a mortuary. Our suitcases were quarantined and we were instructed to sit on cold, steel chairs. Our passports were retrieved and dropped in a box where U.S. Customs and Border Protection officers wearing latex-gloves fished them out for re-screening. They were courteous but distant, the way it must be with pathologists in an autopsy room. Their gaze moved from passport to computer, computer to passport and back to computer again. Once in a while, they would raise their heads, look into the crowd of forlorn and exhausted travelers and call out a name.
An hour passed, but brought no clue as to what was happening either to my passport or to my daughter’s. Other nationals from “countries of interest” who had waited for much longer than us were huddled in different positions of exhaustion. But we still had a three-hour flight from Washington to Austin and it seemed almost certain that we would miss our departure. At this point, I walked over to the desk: “Officer, we have a flight to catch in about an hour and we might miss it if we’re not attended to. Can you help, please?” He looked at the clock on the wall, and then turned to me: “I’m sorry sir. There’s not much I can do now. You’ll have to sit and wait.” After what seemed like an eternity, we were called, questioned briefly by a more cheerful-looking officer, and cleared.
We barely had enough time to make the United Express flight to Austin. But, before our suitcases could be checked in, a security official asked us to remove the padlocks and move quickly to the boarding gate with only our carry-on luggage. After 14 hours of flying, we mustered what little strength we had and hustled down to the departure gate. But, before boarding, however, we were diverted again. A big, stony-faced officer scribbled something on our boarding passes and asked us to step aside. He summoned assistance over the walkie-talkie—the way the police do in the movies when they smell a rat.
My daughter and I were once again separated from the queue and moved to a special lane. While our carry-on luggage passed through the scanner, we were ushered into a glass cubicle with a pockmarked carpet. We waited there like goldfish in a bowl.
For a fleeting moment, my mind went to the current edition of the Newsweek magazine in my bag, on which Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab’s face was plastered on the cover beneath the title, “The Children of Bin Laden.” On the flight from Frankfurt to Washington, I had been careful to read the magazine with the cover folded backwards. It was an exhibit I wasn’t eager to showcase. Now, I worried that security might fish out the magazine and perhaps begin to ask me questions about my fellow country man.
But just then, the glass door opened....
To be continued...
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