Six out of 10 people who are trafficked to the West are Nigerians. Premium Times investigative reporter, Tobore Ovuorie, was motivated by years of research into the plight of traffickedwomen in the country, as well as the loss of a friend, to go undercover in a multi-billion dollar criminal enterprise.
She emerged, bruised and beaten but thankfully alive, after witnessing orgies, big money deals in jute bags, police- supervised pickpocketing, beatings and even murder. This is her story.
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We are 10 at the boot camp: Adesuwa,
Isoken, Lizzy, Mairo, Adamu, Ini, Tessy, Omai,
Sammy and I. We have travelled together in a
14 seater bus from Lagos, hoping to arrive in
Italy soon. We are eager to get to the ‘next
level’ as it is called: from local prostitution to
hopefully earning big bucks abroad. But first,
it turns out, we have to pass through
‘training’ in this massive secluded compound
guarded by armed military men, far from any
other human being, somewhere in the thick
bushes outside Ikorodu, a suburb of Lagos.
Our trafficker, Mama Caro, welcomes us in
flawless English, telling us how lucky and
special we are; then she ushers us to a room
where we are to sleep on the floor without
any dinner.
I had not expected this. We had exercised,
through a risk analysis role play, in advance:
my paper PREMIUM TIMES , and our partners
on the project, a colleague–Reece
Adanwenon– in the Republic of Benin, and
ZAM Chronicle in Amsterdam. We had put in
place contacts, emergency phone numbers,
safe houses, emergency money accounts. We
had made transport and extraction
arrangements. Ms. Reece is waiting in
Cotonou, 100 kilometers to the West in
neighbouring Benin, to pick me up from an
agreed meeting place. But we hadn’t foreseen
that there was to be another stop first: this
isolated, guarded camp in the middle of
nowhere. It dawns on me that we could be in
big trouble.
“Our trafficker, Mama Caro, welcomes
us in flawless English, telling us how
lucky and special we are; then she
ushers us to a room where we are to
sleep on the floor without any dinner.”
Risk analysis and preparation
It had all started in Abuja, with me deciding
to expose the human traffic syndicates that
caused the death, through Aids, of my friend
Ifuoke and countless others. As a health
journalist, I had interviewed several returnees
from sex traffic who had not only been
encouraged to have unprotected sex, but who
had also been denied health care or even to
return home when they fell ill. They were now
suffering from Aids, anal gonorrhea, bowel
ruptures and incontinence. In the case of
some of them, who hailed from conservative
religious backgrounds, doctors in their home
towns had denied them any treatment
because they had been ‘bad’. I was also aware
that powerful politicians and government and
army officials, who outwardly professed
religious purity, were servicing and protecting
the traffickers.I wanted to break through the
hypocrisy and official propaganda and show
how, every day, criminals in Nigeria are
helped by the powerful to enslave my fellow
young citizens. My PREMIUM TIMES
colleagues had done undercover work before;
they had warned me of the risks, but had
agreed to support me in my decision to go
through with it. With my colleagues, and with
the help of ZAM Chronicle, we then started in
earnest.
“I wanted to break through the
hypocrisy and official propaganda and
show how, every day, criminals in
Nigeria are helped by the powerful to
enslave my fellow young citizens.”
Oghogho
I had advertised my wish to get to know a
‘madam’ whilst walking the streets of Lagos,
dressed as a call girl.It worked. I had met
Oghogho Irhiogbe, an accomplished, well-
groomed graduate in her thirties (though she
claimed to be only 26), and a wealthy human
trafficker of note. My lucky hunch to tell her
that my name was ‘Oghogho’ too had
immediately warmed her to me. She told me I
looked like her kid sister and from then on
treated me like a favourite.
“Don’t worry about crossing borders and
getting caught,” she had told me.
“Immigration, customs, police, army and even
foreign embassies are part of our network.
You only run into trouble with them if you
fail to be obedient to us.” I already knew this
to be true. Two of the trafficked sex workers
I had interviewed had tried to find help at
Nigerian embassies in Madrid and Moscow,
only to realise that the very embassy officials
from whom they had sought deportation had
immediately informed their pimps. They had
eventually made it back to Nigeria only after
they had developed visible diseases, such as
AIDS-related Kaposi sarcoma.
“Precious had already made enough
money to start building her own house
in Enugu, halfway between Abuja and
Port Harcourt.”
Oghogho Irhiogbe had been luckier. She
owned four luxury cars, two houses in Edo
State, and was busy completing the building
of a third house near the Warri airport in
Delta State. Others I had met through my
initial ‘call girl’ exploits were clearly on their
way to riches, too. Priye was set to go back
to the Netherlands, where she worked before,
to become a ‘madam’. Ivie and Precious were
quite happy to go back to Italy. Precious had
already made enough money to start building
her own house in Enugu, halfway between
Abuja and Port Harcourt.
Forza Speciale
It is on the windy Sunday evening of October
6 that I make my first contact with the outer
ring of this mafia. A big party with VIPs is on
the cards; the kind of party an ordinary girl,
or rather ‘product’, as we are called by
traffickers, is not usually invited to. But I am
currently on a fortune ride: Oghogho’s
favourite. Additionally, I have been classified
as ‘Special Forces’, or ‘Forza Speciale’ as my
new contacts say, borrowing the Italian term.
It’s a rule of thumb, I understand, that a
syndicate subjects girls to classification
through a check on their nude bodies and I,
too – in the company of some male and
female judges, headed by a trafficker called
Auntie Precious – had been checked. I had
received the highest classification. “This
means that you don’t have to walk the
streets. You can be an escort for important
clients,” Auntie Precious had told me in a
soft, congratulatory tone. The ones of ‘lesser’
classification were referred to as Forza
Strada, the Road Force.
The party is held at a gorgeous residence
along the Aguiyi Ironsi Way in Maitama,
Abuja. This is designed to be a festive end to
a great day, in which we went to church,
hung out at the choicest places in town,
shopped and got dressed in a suite at the
Abuja power citadel, meeting point of the
elite, the Transcorp Hilton.
“The ‘dividend’ is not from prostitution
and trafficking alone, but Oghogho won’t
tell me what the other source is.”
It is more like an orgy. Male and female
strippers entertain guests, drugs abound,
alcohol is everywhere in unrestrained flow;
there is romping in the open. Also, big bags
of money are changing hands. Barely an hour
after we arrive, Oghogho receives a big jute
bag, which is delivered from another room.
As we walk out and she puts the money in the
boot of her car, she smiles at me. “Don’t
worry; very soon, you’ll get to receive
dividend.” This ‘dividend’ is not from
prostitution and trafficking alone, but
Oghogho won’t tell me what the other source
is. “When you come on board fully, you’ll
know.”
A retired army colonel from the Abacha era
sees to it that we are not disturbed. “He has
top connections and sees to a smooth flow of
the business,” Oghogho tells me.
Pickpocketing training
How ‘top’ these connections are, I find when
I am taken with a group of girls to be trained
in pickpocketing. We, a group of ten
‘products’, are placed at various crowded bus
stops in the suburb of Ikorodu, where we
must ‘practice’ under the guard of two army
officers, a policeman as well as a number of
male ‘trainers’. The policeman doesn’t even
bother to cover his name badge: Babatunde
Ajala, it reads.
The general operation is supervised by Mama
Caro, popularly called Mama C, a 50-
something, light-complexioned, busty woman.
Her deputy is a Madam Eno. Mama C has told
us that pickpocketing is a crucial skill for the
Forza Speciale: we will need to be able to pick
valuables from clients. She adds that the
pickings are added to the girls earnings, so
we will be able to pay off our debts–
commonly called ‘meeting our targets’ – in a
short time.
When I perform dismally, Eno rains abuses on
me. We are all to stay at the bus stop
until I pick an item from somebody. It is
already 11 PM.Tired, hungry and angry with
me, Adesuwa, Isoken and the policeman
guarding my group pick some extra pockets
and hand me the items, so that I can show
them to Eno.
“ We practice pickpocketing under the
guard of two army officers and a
policeman”
The next day, the bumpy journey to the
‘training camp’ appears endless. My fellow
‘products’ are snoozing and I battle to stay
awake, wondering if we are tired or drugged.
I note the bus moving off the main road
somewhere around Odogunyan, into thick
bushes, almost a forest.We stop at a
compound guarded by armed military men.
As my fellow ‘products’ wake up, it is clear
that they think we are still in Lagos.
New names and indenture
The next day starts with strip tease and lap
dance training after breakfast, and thereafter
poise and etiquette. Five other girls have
arrived in the meantime. They are all
graduates, leaving for Italy fully aware of
what they are to do there. “If I get caught by
local police, I will just tell them I was
trafficked against my will,” one of them,
Gbemi, says light-heartedly. “I don’t think
oyinbo (white man) will believe Mama C if she
says that I am there voluntarily.”
I receive a crash course in pedicure and
manicure because I am so bad at
pickpocketing. “You’ll be utilizing these skills
at my wellness centre in Italy,” Mama C says,
after scolding me for being lazy and testing
her patience. “You will be working on only
men whilst wearing sexy dresses. That will
enable you to attract customers.”
“Mama C makes us sign a statement that
we have willingly embarked on the
journey”
Later, Mama C makes everyone sign a
statement that they have willingly embarked
on the journey and that they are to return
certain sums as professional fees to her. No
girl is given a copy of what she has signed
and the amount varies inexplicably: while
Isoken signs up for a debt of US $100,000, I
will have only US $70,000 to pay. We are told
that we will receive new passports with false
names and even false nationalities in
Cotonou. I am to become a Kenyan, Mairo
South African, and so on. “I have boys in the
Benin immigration office,” boasts Mama C.
Horror
A just-arrived traditional ‘doctor’ then puts us
through rites that involve checking the
horoscope of each girl as well as collecting
some of her blood, fingernails, hair and pubic
hair. He then picks out four of us as
‘problematic’ and says we will bring ‘bad
luck’. Either he is really clairvoyant or he is a
professional security operative who has run
background checks on us, because he is right
about at least three of the four. Two of us
have had unfortunate earlier experiences
involving deportation back to Nigeria and are
possibly known to the authorities in Europe. I
am number three.
What happens next is like a horror movie.
As we ‘unlucky’ four, are standing aside,
Mama C talks with five well-dressed, classy,
influential-looking visitors.The issue is a
‘package’ that Mama C has promised them
and that she hasn’t been able to deliver. The
woman points at me, but Mama C refuses and
for unexplained reasons Adesuwa and Omai
are selected. We all witness, screaming and
trying to hide in corners, as they are grabbed
and beheaded with machetes in front of us.
The ‘package’ that the visitors have come for
turns out to be a collection of body parts.
The mafia that holds us is into organ traffic,
too.
“We all witness Adesuwa and Omai being
beheaded in front of us. The ‘package’
that the visitors have come for turns out
to be a collection of body parts. ”
With all of us trembling and crying, I and the
other three ‘unsuitable’ ones are herded into
a separate room. Mama C comes later to take
me to yet another room for questioning.
Angry beyond measure, she whips me all
night, telling me to yield information on the
‘forces’ protecting me. “You are going
nowhere,” she keeps shouting. “I have
invested too much in you!”
Clearing the ‘spirit’
The next morning Mama C eats her breakfast
while I starve: I have last eaten the previous
morning. When she finished, and whilst the
‘approved products’ leave for Cotonou, Benin,
to commence their journey to Italy, Mama C
takes us four ‘unsuitables’ to visit three new,
different ‘doctors’: one in the Agege
neighbourhood of Lagos, the second in rural
Sango Ota village and the third in remote
Abeokuta in Ogun State. She clearly believes
in traditional ‘medicine’ and is desperate to
find a treatment for the ‘demons’ we are said
to carry.
The first two ‘doctors’ agree with the first one
that I am bad news, but the third, after
roughly cutting off most of my hair, declares
me free from the ‘spirit’. The ‘evil spirits’ in
the other three girls, meanwhile, have been
‘beaten out of them’ with dry whips. Back at
the camp the first ‘doctor’ rages at Mama C
for approving me, insisting that the ‘doctor’
who ‘freed me from the spirit’ is a fraud.
“This girl will bring about your downfall! You
will end up in jail!” I am all the more
convinced that he possesses not supernatural
powers, but certain information.The
syndicates are well-connected and someone
may have told him that I am not who I say I
am. The ‘doctor’ keeps repeating that ‘forces’
are protecting me. But Mama C insists that
she is not to lose her investment.
“The ‘doctor’ keeps repeating that
‘forces’ are protecting me. But Mama C
insists that she is not to lose her
investment.”
Meanwhile, new ‘products’ have arrived to
pass through the rites that night. The whole
camp is again in the grip of fear as chilling
screams indicate that some of the new
arrivals – two girls and a young man, I
learned later – are also murdered.
“Oghogho, I wonder what actually brought
you here. I never expected a girl like you to
venture into this,” says one of Mama C’s
errand boys, as he enters the room I had
again been locked in later that night with a
plate of food.He seems well disposed to me.
“You found and returned my Blackberry that I
lost during one of the pickpocketing training
sessions,” he explains. I had not realised the
escort whose phone I found had been this
boy; then, he had worn a cap pressed deep
into his eyes. “Other girls would just have
kept my phone,” he says. “You don’t belong
here.I keep wondering what level of poverty
has made you endanger yourself. You don’t
deserve this.”
The plate of food is all I need to get my
strength back. We are to travel the following
morning.
Escape
As we are about to leave, I lose my phone to
the army officer. Searching all of us, he has
taken Isoken’s phone already and she has
pointed at me to divert attention from
herself, saying I had a phone too. He takes
mine at gunpoint.I can only thank the
heavens that it is dead. I had been upset
because it didn’t charge the previous night,
but the fact that it won’t switch on is my
second lucky break: it has a lot of pictures
and conversations I have recorded in the
camp. The disadvantage of losing my phone is
that I can’t contact our colleague Reece, who
is to help me once I get to Cotonou. I also
can’t communicate with my editors back in
Nigeria.
All along the road leading up to the border,
police and customs officers wave and greet
Madam Eno and our head of operations, Mr
James. Nigerian Immigrations and Customs
officers also greet us warmly at the border
post itself, whilst enquiring if there is
anything in it for them today.
“Welcome, Madam! How have sales been?”
Eno: “Not much.”
“But your batch was allowed entry yesterday,
so why claim you haven’t been making sales?
“
Eno: “We are not the owner of yesterday’s
batch of girls. We own these ones in this bus.”
“Haaa!You want to play a smart one? Not to
worry, your boss will sort all this out with
us.”
The officers then wave the minibus through
without any form of documentation.
The original plan was for me to go with the
transport as far as Cotonou, the capital of
our neighbouring country Benin. But I don’t
want to stretch it any longer. The border is
usually very crowded and I plan to escape as
soon as we are there. It works. Just after the
Seme border post, in front of a crowded,
muddy market, I run. Merging with the
crowd, I take my top off – I have another top
under it – and cover my head with a scarf.
The army officer is following me, looking for
me. I dive into a store and lose him.
“Just after the Seme border post, in
front of a crowded, muddy market, I
ran.”
I travel the twenty kilometres from the
border motor park to Cotonou by minibus
taxi.Colleague Reece – alerted by a phone call
the driver helps make to her to ensure that
she will be there to pay him – will wait for me
there. Upon arrival, I see a woman I
recognise from her Facebook photo.
“Reece?”“Tobore!” She cries and holds out her
arms to catch me. “I am safe
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