Exactly 2 years ago, I took a decision that completely upended my life in ways I could not begin to anticipate. That decision led to a diplomatic incident involving my birth country and my adopted one, an international abduction attempt commissioned by the (now former) Director of the Nigerian Intelligence Agency, Ahmed Rufai Abubakar, and most importantly, severe damage to a French-led attempt to stage a military invasion of Niger using Nigeria as a proxy. This dramatic sequence of events was documented in Chapter 20 of ‘Breaking Point,’ which is reproduced in full below.*************************************************************************************************************This Substack is reader-supported. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.It was July 2023 and things were moving at breakneck speed.The previous month, Aaron and I had filed the FOIA lawsuit in the US District Court of the District of Columbia, and the legal process was in progress. This lawsuit was the culmination of several months of FOIA requests, rejections, and back-and-forth interactions with these agencies stretching all the way back to October 2022. We had no way of knowing if the suit would be successful and to what extent, but there was only one way to find out.The Atlas Network invited Yvonne and I to speak at the Africa Liberty Forum in Cape Town and while preparing my travel arrangements, I ran into a roadblock. Apparently due to the risk of illegal immigration, the South African government would not recognise my Ghanaian refugee passport as a national passport. This made no sense, because I had used this passport without any incident whatsoever to travel to Europe literally 2 months before this trip. If illegal immigration were my goal, why would I travel from Ghana to the UK and back to Ghana, only to travel to South Africa and become an illegal migrant in Cape Town? I tried to argue my case for a visa exemption with the DIRCO officials whose email addresses I got from Onyeka, but if there is one thing a South African government is going to do, it is try its level hardest to not see the forest for trees.Eventually, I organised a back-channel meeting with a DIRCO official who said that while the policy would be upheld at the airports and I would be turned away if I landed in South Africa with that passport, the policy regime at the land borders was less rigid and I could make it to my event if I could find my way to Beitbridge. As it happened, I had an event in Harare on July 20, and while I had not initially planned to attend it, I was suddenly presented with an opportunity to fulfil a long-held dream of visiting Zimbabwe. I was less than pleased with the travel arrangements to South Africa after my event, which consisted of a bus from Harare to Johannesburg, then a flight to Cape Town, but it was the best that could be done under the circumstances.On July 17, I arrived at Kotoka Airport for my Kenya Airways flight to Harare via Nairobi. There I was informed that the airline was not sure whether the visa-free status of Ghanaian passport holders travelling to Zimbabwe would hold for my particular Ghanaian passport. To my immense displeasure, I ended up missing the flight that night. I rang up the Zimbabwean embassy in Accra to ask them whether I needed a visa or not. The lady on the phone said that I did not need a visa, and that it was the prerogative of the airline to decide whether to let me board or not, depending on its own travel document recognition policies. If the airline was happy to let me board, she said, I would be allowed into Zimbabwe without incident.Atlas Network had paid for the flight and I informed them of the snafu before I paid for a new ticket from Accra to Harare, this time with Ethiopian Airlines. Magatte assured me that I would be refunded for the unplanned expense. The next day, I boarded my flight to Addis Ababa enroute Harare. I distinctly remember realising that the aircraft was a Boeing 737 MAX and making a dark joke about it on Twitter. Dark humour or not, I did not expect any trouble on this trip, and the only part of it that elicited any unease was the thought of the 11-hour drive from Harare to Johannesburg. At least I’ll get to experience the Zimbabwean countryside, was the thought I consoled myself with.That never happened.It all started after the connecting flight from Addis Ababa landed in Harare and the whole Airbus A350 went up in applause and ululation – you know that “Hililililili!” sound from The Gods Must Be Crazy. I should have known at that moment that I was in a truly ‘different’ kind of country, even by African standards. As we filtered into the immigration area, I noticed Chinese passengers folding $100 bills into their passports and handing them over to the lady in the “Other Nationalities” booth. It had never occurred to me that I would need to pay a bribe to enter Zimbabwe, and I had no cash on me save for 2,000 Ethiopian birr, which was like $35.The lady told me to stand aside when she saw my passport. Soon only two passengers were left as the other passengers filtered through and went to pick up their bags. Eventually, she came back to me and told me that I was a Nigerian who was in Zimbabwe illegally, and I was going to be denied entry. I furiously tried to explain that a) This was a Ghanaian passport, which the Ghanaian government had repeatedly assured me carried the full travel privileges of an ordinary Ghanaian passport, and b) Their own embassy in Accra had confirmed to me that I did not need a visa. All this was to no effect.The other passenger who was denied entry was a Ugandan citizen holding an ordinary Ugandan passport. There was absolutely no reason to deny her entry because Uganda and Zimbabwe have a visa-free travel relationship with each other, but as I was slowly starting to understand, this was one country that was truly lawless, even by the lofty Nigerian standards I was used to. Whether she had all the right paperwork or not, her vocal refusal to pay a $100 bribe was to be punished with removal from the country – in plain sight of everyone without a single hint of shame or discomfort by anyone present.We were both led to a windowless detention room which was locked from the outside. There was what appeared to be a bottle of pee on the floor, and the filthy yellow walls were covered in graffiti scrawled by previous occupants of this room who had apparently gone through similar indignities under similar conditions.The lady’s name was Aisha and she seemed to be severely distraught by our situation, especially as the hours ticked by. 1 hour became 2. 3 hours. 4 hours. 6 hours. By some miracle, the WiFi at Robert Mugabe International Airport had begun working, and I was able to call everybody it was possible to call. Charmaine, the James Currey Society president, had driven to the airport to speak to someone. Wode Maya had even managed to get through to a senior airport official to intercede on my behalf. Still no dice. Finally I’d had enough. Since I’d already booked my return flight to Addis, I decided I just wanted to leave Zimbabwe and go home. Cape Town would have to wait. I went to Twitter and hit the nuclear button.Later I would find out that this decision is probably what saved my bacon that night. Shortly after I put out the tweet and the Zimbabwean authorities began dealing with a PR disaster, Aisha and I were escorted to the departure area to wait for our exit flight to Addis Ababa. Apparently, even though my ordeal had indeed been sparked by my inability to pay a $300 bribe – visa or no visa – the Zimbabweans had rapidly figured out who I was, and they were having a conversation with the Nigerian High Commission about what to do with me.Handing me over to the Nigerians would have been against international law of course, but this was Zimbabwe. Half the government was on some international sanctions list or the other already. Another sanction to add to the other 50 really would have made no difference to them, as long as a good enough offer was made. Before such an offer could be made, I hit the red publicity button, and they were left with no choice but to kick me out of their country as quickly as they could manage.But not without first making sure to drop the most malicious grenade into my life.This fellow, who worked in Zimbabwe’s information ministry, effectively gave away my location and the nationality of my travel document with this tweet. This would have immense implications for me in just a few days’ time, though I had no idea. CPJ’s Evelyn Okakwu reached out during all of this to ask me whether I felt safe. I remember thinking “What kind of dumb question is that? Did you read the thread?” She promptly disappeared and CPJ issued no statement – something which would become a bit of a theme going forward. For the time being, I was able to get safely back to Accra, where Yvonne met up with me after making it to her own speaking session in Cape Town. Kenyan passport privilege was a real thing.We spent a few days road tripping through Ghana and exploring the tropical resort scene in Akosombo. All too soon, it was time for her to return to Nairobi and when I went to drop her off at the airport, the number of eyes that recognised me told me that I was clearly no longer anonymous in Ghana. Also, my spidey sense had started jangling again. Something was coming, but as usual, I had no idea how huge it would be. If I had known, perhaps I would have boarded the plane with her and left Ghana immediately.I decided I wanted to spend a few months in the UK to decompress, and I booked a UK visa appointment at the TLS centre in Accra. A few days before my appointment, I received a top secret DHQ memo from a military whistleblower showing instructions to illegally deploy the Nigerian Air Force and Nigerian Special Forces units into Niger without Senate approval. This would effectively plunge Nigeria and Niger into a catastrophic and monumentally stupid war that would have dragged in neighbouring countries and almost inevitably precipitated the end of the already weak and polarised ECOWAS bloc.Tinubu’s gambit was that doing this would win him brownie points with France and the US, following the coup that removed Niger’s pro-West president Mohamed Bazoum from office. At a time when his presidency was facing a legitimacy challenge that was without precedent in Nigerian history, he planned to use a military invasion to shore up his position. I decided to leak the memo.This would turn out to be my defining decision of 2023 and possibly the defining decision of my journalism career – not that I knew it right away. Certainly there was the usual fury and outrage from the state apparatchiks and securocrats who claimed that my action constituted the crime of “treason” and that I should be rendered to Nigeria, tried and summarily executed. I also got multiple death threats including one that appeared to be from a Special Forces soldier promising to “personally cut off my head” for “betraying Nigeria.” I thought nothing of the threats at first. 3 years of life under threat and several months in the safe house the year before had inured me to those things and I completely ignored them.2 days later, on the evening of Friday August 4, Magatte and I were hosting a Twitter Space discussing the next move for Francophone West Africa following the wave of anti-French coups when my internet connections – all 3 of them – suddenly went dead. Curiously, this internet outage did not seem to have affected any of my neighbours. Feeling a little unnerved, I decided I should not spend a night incommunicado, and I found a taxi that took me across town to Ralph’s place. Neither of us could have known that this was the last time we would see each other in a long time.I went back to my place the next day, with my nerves finally calm. My connections were back working and I rationalised what happened the previous night. I did a little work and then took a nap. When I woke up, I had a new message from the same whistleblower who passed the secret memo across to me.Just like that, I found myself packing a small duffel bag with my most important documents and 2 changes of clothes while I called Magatte, Dele Farotimi and a few others to let them know what was happening.Within an hour, I was on the road to Aflao, trying to hide my phone screen from a nosy front seat co-passenger who kept trying to peek at what I was typing. I remember thinking to myself, “Make this mumu no go see wetin go blind am.”Dele Farotimi insisted that I should inform Peter Obi about what was happening. I was reluctant. I did not, under any circumstances, want to come across like I was asking a politician for assistance, whether directly or indirectly. I had direct access to P.O. but I never used it because not only did I not want to blur the clear ethical lines between a journalist and a politician, but I also did not want him getting the impression that I wanted something from him. I was happy to only speak when spoken to.D.F. was insistent though, so I sent P.O a brief WhatsApp message along with the screenshots above, and the blue ticks that appeared shortly afterward told me that he actually read my message. For whatever reason, he chose to completely air me, which I remember feeling strangely relieved about. I dreaded being put in a situation where he would ask me if I needed help, and I would want to say yes, but I would force myself to say no because accepting favours from a politician would mean that I was no longer independent. The fact that he did not respond made things simpler for me, and the fact that I wasn’t upset about it subsequently helped me to self-validate the position I always took in public – that I did everything I did because I thought it was the right thing, and not because I had any material expectations from a Peter Obi presidency.Around 1AM, I crossed the border to Togo without incident after paying 15,000 CFA. Per my instructions, the okada dropped me off at the nearest hotel he could find, a dingy motel called Hotel Hokaa. I checked in as “Franklin Dosu” and broke my Ghanaian SIM as soon as I got hold of a Togolese Moov SIM.I spent the first few minutes in my room applying for a Kenya e-pass – the electronic travel advisory needed to board a flight to Kenya. Somehow, Kenya seemed like my only viable destination at that point. My UK visa application had to be withdrawn since I would not make it to the appointment, and I needed to get out of West Africa fast.Ethiopian Airlines was the only airline that flew from Gnassingbe Eyadema International Airport in Lome, to Nairobi, albeit via a 2-hour stopover in Addis Ababa. I booked the next available flight, which was on Wednesday August 9, and I nervously counted down the hours for 3 entirely sleepless days. Finally Wednesday morning arrived and I got a taxi from the hotel to the airport. Everything went smoothly – maybe too smoothly, and my nerves began to jangle. I finally cleared Immigration and I was just about to take off my shoes for the security check when the Immigration officer called me back.“Hundeyin? Please come.”Yup, this is it, I thought. I’m dead for sure.For some reason, after looking at his laptop screen and back at my face several times, he changed his mind and waved me on. I cleared security and waited with a clenched butt for my flight to begin boarding.Finally I boarded. We took off.The flight route showed that we would fly over Benin and Nigeria before getting into central Africa enroute Ethiopia. My heart rate did not begin to settle until the live map showed that we had cleared Nigerian airspace and we were now flying over Cameroon. As we moved across time zones, the sunlight rapidly disappeared. The Boeing 787 Dreamliner flew directly into the Central African sunset as I lowered my seat and looked at the night sky outside.I thought about my life over the past 3 years. I thought about Ralph, Ndi, Rinu, DJ Switch, Anas, Okija Woman, Onyeka, Yvonne, Fola and Mercy. I thought about the things I had been through and the situations I had survived. I thought about the enemies I had made. Absently grateful for the 2 empty seats next to me as I contemplated my life 38,000 feet up in the Cameroonian night sky, I thought about the new reality that I would never again be able to call anywhere in West Africa “home” again. I thought about the action that had triggered the latest crisis and its depiction by a Nigerian political cartoonist called Wilfred Orhue.Was it worth it? Objectively speaking, it was. But was I happy about what it had cost me? Was I OK with it? I thought about Aaron and the pending FOIA lawsuit in DC. I thought about Ibanga and the life insurance policy he had taken out to ensure his daughter would be taken care of if anything happened to him. I decided that I did not want to keep doing this any longer. I had finally had enough.I had reached my breaking point.And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, I closed my eyes and I went to sleep.*************************************************************************************************************‘Breaking Point: A Journalist’s Quest For Salvation In Nigeria’s Chaos’ was listed at number 17 on the Roving Heights/Open Country Mag 2024 Bestseller List. You can buy a copy from the following distributors:Roving Heights (Nigeria): https://rhbooks.com.ng/product/breaking-point/Amazon (International): https://www.amazon.com/Breaking-Point-Journalists-Salvation-Nigerias/dp/B0D6428PFWAmazon Kindle (Soft Copy): https://www.amazon.com/Breaking-Point-Jounalists-Salvation-Nigeria-ebook/dp/B0CX21GMHN Nuria Bookstore (Kenya): https://nuriakenya.com/product/breaking-point-a-journalist-quest-for-salvation-in-nigerias-chaos/Midland Books (India): https://www.midlandbookshop.com/en/product/breaking-point This Substack is reader-supported. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
