Croc Curry & Texas Tea

By Paul Dickinson

Surviving Nigeria - doing business in the most bizarre fashion - a travelogue with a difference

• Language: English
• Publisher: APS Publications
• Release date: Dec 13, 2016
• ISBN: 9781911310228

Book preview

CROC CURRY & TEXAS TEA

BACKGROUND

––––––––

On 17th November 1993, after less than three months in power, President Ernest Shonekan was ousted in a coup led by General Sani Abacha who forcibly dismantled the remaining democratic institutions and brought the government back under military control. Shonekan himself was deemed harmless and allowed to return to academia.

In May 1994, after a secret meeting with Shell, the Nigerian Head of Internal Security called for ruthless military operations. The result? Dozens of villages destroyed, thousands of people made homeless and hundreds massacred. Shell even admitted that it had supplied guns for the security operations. In an attempt to end growing international protests, nine key campaigners were arrested. Shell offered to help secure their release only if they called off the global campaign. On the 10th November 1995, despite international condemnation, the campaigners were hung. The brutal oppression continued and another nineteen other campaigners were detained in appalling conditions, also facing execution.

Shell also played a leading role in the de-recognition of the oil workers unions. Even after the Piper Alpha oil rig disaster, demands for improved safety rights were refused and non-union labour employed.

Not exactly an obvious place to go to work.

I

––––––––

Why would anyone in their right mind want to take a contract in Nigeria?  I discovered that Shell managers from the first world were forced to. It was seen, at least in 1993, to be an essential rite of passage. No Nigeria meant no senior management role in the company. If you went though in most cases it meant taking the family too. Consultants went because their companies got paid good money and were likely to get Shell contracts worldwide. So why did I go in the autumn of 1993? A year previously I'd left a comfortable role running all the IT systems for RAF Support Command, leaving behind the comfortable but restrictive Civil Service for a role as project director of a new NHS Trust in London. After a fairly lucrative but eye opening year I decided that I couldn't take the malfeasance in the outfit and that I needed another job.

I had a fall at home and was signed off work for a month with three cracked ribs so was available to take my wife to look for a ball-gown for an upcoming RAF event. My required input was to comment appropriately on potential choices and whilst I waited I scanned the information systems roles advertised in one of the broadsheets. One leapt out of the page as a possibility.  Shell and IBM required an expert in security networks in Africa. The pay was competitive and the package fully inclusive.

Two weeks later I was aboard a British Airways flight to Lagos wondering what the hell I was doing; leaving my wife and children behind to join me if all went well. My parents, especially my Dad, had been very encouraging. He and Mum had come close several times to working abroad or totally emigrating but it hadn't worked out. I think he saw my move as something he'd really have liked to have done himself.

I had time on my flight to reflect on the briefing I'd had in the Netherlands on what to expect in Nigeria. To be honest I'd never been to Africa or anywhere in the third world but hearing about the prevailing conditions was a shock and hard to accept; especially about an ex British colony. It couldn't be as bad as described. Surely not?

By the time the plane landed it was dark. The flight had been good and I'd been able to sightsee from 30,000 feet for a lot of the way. The Sahara was impressive. Its desolate beauty stretched out below for seemingly ages. Then the jungle started and seemed to go on for just as long until the light faded.

The landing at Murtala Muhammed International Airport was made in the dark which made it even more mysterious. No parking up at an umbilical. Instead a walk down the steps into the humid heat of a Lagos night. I had strict instructions on what to do. Talk to no-one until I was met at immigration by my minder who had been paid to ensure I didn’t have any problems. The airport was renowned for being a very dangerous place for Westerners. Every official there was supposedly on the make and some months previously an