Inside Nigeria’s Ruthless Human Trafficking Mafia – Report

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 trafficked women 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.
Continue…
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.
Sent From David Aniemeka