From Frying Pan to Fire Excerpts

For years, he has told me his story in fragments but I began to pay more attention when one day, in August 2016, my brother, Agboola sent me the following mail:

When some Nigerians were executed in Indonesia yesterday, and I started reading about their ordeal, I stumbled on the picture of one of those killed, I was shocked to discover I had met him before in Mali during one of my efforts to cross into Europe in 1994. His name is Sylvester Obiekwe Nwolise although we knew him back then by his nickname, "SON". He was a footballer, working in an Indian shop and playing for an unregistered football club at Mopti. I am not saying he was innocent because I do not know the fact of his case, but I am just very sad to see him among those who were executed. My fear is that, going by what I witnessed in those places, some of the boys killed might actually be innocent of the offence for which they were charged, especially knowing those people hardly provide interpreters in the course of interrogation. Once you are arrested, you are deemed guilty and only God can help you…

Following that letter and my subsequent interactions with him, I decided Agboola had to document his story, especially in the light of recent tragedies on the Mediterranean Sea which he crossed twice.

Within a period of six years between 1992 and 1998, my brother travelled practically all the African routes which took him through several countries, including the Republic of Benin, Ghana, Mali, Niger Republic, Algeria and Tunisia, and also entered several countries in Europe, including Italy, Spain and Malta as well as Brazil in South America.

Yet the harrowing experience of my brother as an irregular migrant to several European countries in the nineties—having travelled by road through Sahara Desert to Libya before crossing the Mediterranean Sea—has revealed the dangers inherent in the adventure. What his story reveals is the futility of believing that the grass is greener on the other side, especially for the irregular migrants who are mostly uneducated and without any skills.

The accounts are rendered from my brother's perspective and in his own words.

The Journey Begins

We moved from Iddo Park in Lagos to Kano in four different buses. When we got to Kano the following day, we were ushered into a compound, where we met several other co-travelers. I was both happy and sad—happy, because the journey to a good life in Europe, where I would get a good job and finally be free from being a liability to my family and friends, had begun; sad, because I didn't tell anyone at home about my whereabouts, except a small note I left for my brother, saying that I had traveled and would call immediately when I got to my destination.

While I knew from the experience of my first journey that my calling home might not be that soon, breaking our journey at Kano inside Nigeria was not what I envisaged. In Kano, we were accommodated in a compound which housed other groups headed by three traffickers. One of the traffickers was a woman who, we later learnt, specialised in bringing cheap housemaids to Nigeria from the Republic of Benin and Togo. She was trying to take some of those girls to Libya for prostitution.

We were about 100 in number. Because of this, they found it difficult to arrange our journey on time. Eventually they had to divide us into many groups before moving us to Maradi. Moving along the Katsina route, we were stopped at the border post between Nigeria and Niger Republic for the verification of our papers. The Nigerian Custom officers and their Nigerien counterparts took turns checking the International Passports of those among us who had theirs, after collecting money from our traffickers. Those who didn't have passports were separated because they, as we were told, would attract additional charges beyond the initial money already collected from our traffickers.

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The three friends who left Lagos...