Issue 19: At the border in Togo, the boy asks if we would like to buy AK 47s.
Behind the building, he would bring out the assault rifles and give us a pack of bullets. I’d collect the bullet while my friend takes the two rifles...
At the Hilaconji Border on our way to Togo, the boy in yellow shorts asks in French if we would like to buy AK 47s. I look at my friend in shock and to be sure I heard right, I said, “Tu parle anglais?” The boy nods and says in English, “Yes yes. Buy AK 47.” At this point, I am beginning to question this entire trip because why do I need an AK 47? That’s a rifle, an actual gun. Are we going to Togo or Niger? Which of these countries is currently undergoing a civil war, please? We just left Benin Republic, is it too late to turn back? “Buy AK 47. Is sweet. See see,” the boy says as he reaches for his sack to bring out the AK 47. When this conversation started, I imagined it would go a different way. I imagined that if my friend and I eventually conclude that we might actually need an AK 47, it wouldn’t be such an open exchange. We’ll signal to the boy and say, Oui oui. We’d like two Avtomat Kalashnikova with some bullets for whatever operation we might have to undergo the moment we entered Lomé. And then our boy in yellow shorts will nod, give us a smile and take us to the back of the black building in the corner. Behind the building, he’ll bring out the assault rifles and give us a pack of bullets. I’ll collect the bullets while my friend takes the two rifles because there’s no how I’m carrying two weapons across the street to our Coaster bus in front of multiple immigration officers. We’ll have to pay the arms dealer with all the CFA franc we have and some Naira too. And the boy will say it’s not enough so we’ll remove our footwear and lie that they are original Nikes and cost a fortune so my boy will collect them and bid us safe trip. This was how I imagined the exchange going.
But before we could even figure out why this boy was marketing Ak 47s to us, he reached into his sac and brought out the Ak 47. I looked at it and shook my head. It was a soft drink with the name ‘AK 47’ printed largely on the bottle. “Non, merci.” We said and left. We would not be getting the AK 47 after all, the drink and the weapon, non.
Our journey to Hilaconji started around 7am that same morning. On the WhatsApp group where we all gathered to make sure no one got lost on their way to Ikeja City Mall, you could feel the atmosphere. There was an air of incoming relaxation. The good people at the travel agency we were travelling with had made sure to warn us multiple times to drop all forms of “work, sadness, or anything that could hinder joy on this trip.” We were set to leave Lagos on Wednesday and return on Sunday. The plan was simple, on paper. We all converge at the city mall by 7am. We would make our way to Badagry and cross the Seme border into Benin Republic. We would make a small stop once we enter Benin so we could do some currency exchange. From there, we would make our way straight to Lomé, Togo. We would be in Lomé till Friday. On Friday, we would leave Lomé and return to Benin Republic. We would be in Benin till Sunday. On Sunday morning, we would make our way back to Lagos, Nigeria. Home sweet home, even if there’s nothing sweet about home.
The day before we left Lagos, I went to the ATM to withdraw some cash. My friend who has been to Benin Republic before asked me to withdraw a lot more than I planned to. She mentioned I would have to buy a SIM card since MTN wouldn’t work there. I told her I would not need to communicate and even if I needed to, I would simply do so at night with the hotel Wi-Fi.
I was taking this trip to relax and see new places within Africa. People experience new places in different ways. For some people, they document and share just as they experience. For me, it’s always different. When I experience something new, first, I want to take it all in. I don’t want to tell anyone about it. I want to sit before it and just soak it in and enjoy my own presence. Then I would document it, mostly in pictures. I take pictures a lot. After documenting, then I share. For me, the flow looks like this: experience - document - share. So I wouldn’t need to post anything on Instagram and Twitter in the moment. I would do that much later. So I told my friend I would not need a SIM card. I had already informed my parents that I would not be available for five days. My dad, who still calls me everyday, doesn’t like this. He asks when they will be able to hear from me. I promise I will drop pictures on the family WhatsApp group everynight once I get to the hotel and can use the Wi-Fi.
On Wednesday morning, my friend hugs me goodbye. I say goodbye to the cats and tell her to take care of them. I check my phone as I wait for the Uber and see that Yeni, my traveling companion has called me multiple times. He believes I am a perpetual latecomer. This is not true. This is simply his perspective. Besides, time is a social construct and punctuality is subjective. I arrive at the convergence point, which is minutes from my house, some minutes to 7am. And to my pain, all the window seats have been taken.
I sit beside Yeni and open my laptop. I had taken some time off from work but I had some tasks to close on so I quickly worked on those as the trip started. By the time I closed my laptop, we were at Badagry already.
My earliest memory of Badagry takes me back to secondary school. There was an excursion to visit some slave history sites and I wanted to go but for some reasons which I can’t remember now, I did not. However, the name Badagry stuck with me. During my undergraduate years studying Nigerian and West African History, Badagry resurfaced multiple times. When I moved to Lagos two years ago, I planned to visit Badagry but Lagos has a spirit and the spirit of Lagos is money, not tourism. I’ve been chasing the spirit since I moved.
We soon passed Badagry roundabout, made the long ride on the terrible road infested with uniformed men extorting motorists in broad daylight and before us, the Seme border stood. Somewhere on the other side of that border, was another country, another set of people with their own history, culture, language and currency; another colonial mistake.
I have many memories from my trip to Togo and Benin Republic but I can’t write about all of them in one issue. Earlier today, I was reading ‘the failure of memory’ by Ujàh. She sent this to me on Twitter five months ago but I never got around to reading until today and while reading, I remember how I almost bought an AK 47 in Hilaconji and thought, surely the ER club should know that their writer almost went into an arms deal, surely, no?
I think you should read Ujah’s Medium, read everything on her Medium blog but pay attention to how she writes about memories, how we don’t get to choose what we remember and don’t remember.
Today I’ll be recommending an essay she wrote titled ‘the failure of memory’. To read, check here.
Also, if you enjoy reading the ER club, share it with a friend. Just send them this link [theerclub.substack.com] or use the button below. Also, drop a comment so I know what you think about this. Should I have bought the AK 47?
Actually, for the whole twist, I think you should've bought the AK-47 in the end.
However, if I was you, I'd have moved away from the conversation at the sound of AK, before the boy completes the 47. How do I explain I'm innocent in another man's prison? At least, if it was in my fatherland, before I land in Kirikiri, a second uncle to my late grandmother who is a retired military officer would've come to my rescue. 😂😂😂
I first like how you had a whole imagination in your head about how the deal was supposed to go and the twist just really made it more intriguing. Cheers to more read. Should have at least gotten the AK-47, maybe there'd have been a really nice taste to it.