Flying London to Lagos? 10 reasons why Arik Air isn't such a great customer experience

I love Nigerian entrepreneurs and will proudly fly a Nigerian carrier to Lagos from anywhere in the world if the circumstances are justified. I would rather patronize ‘my own’ country’s fledgling services just to identify with the spirit of entrepreneurship. Arik Air describes themselves on their website as ‘a wholly-owned Nigerian airline with a commitment to the people of Nigeria to deliver new standards in aviation’. However, on a recent trip to Lagos by Arik Air, I had reasons to question the entire customer experience. Here are ten of them:

1. The Arik Air website does not provide a means for you to make on-line payments for flight reservations. You only find out after searching frantically for a 'Payment' button. There is no information on their website informing the customer that on-line payments are not possible. In this age of electronic payments being offered by almost EVERY world class air carrier, this is not only shocking but also NOT in their own best interests. I understand the worries about internet and credit card fraud; but surely there are proven ways to securely collect payments online.

2. Anyway, after you’ve decided your dates, you can make a reservation online. You are given a reference number for your reservation. With the reference number in hand, you have to call up a service centre (on a premium rate 0844 number may I add) to find out how to pay. This adds at least another £5 to your bill (when you factor in the time spent waiting in the call queues listening to elevator music).

3. When you finally get through to a service centre agent, you learn that the only form of payment accepted is cash. Also, payment MUST be made in person, in cash, at any branch of Barclays Bank. I don't expect that many potential travelers have £800 lying idly in their accounts. Imagine if a family of four were planning to travel. They would need at least £3, 200 CASH….CASH! Sadly with Arik, there is NO recourse to your credit cards. This must surely discourage patronage of Arik Air. The service centre agent reads out a bank account number into which you are expected to make your payment. She advises you that you have a limited time to do this otherwise you could lose your reservation.

4. You have to put your schedule on hold and make time to physically go to your bank (assuming you do not bank with Barclays) to withdraw the total cash value of your ticket. Again, this must surely discourage would be travelers who do not have the time to do this. In addition, withdrawing such large amounts of cash arouses and attracts suspicion in some climes. You need to appear composed and at ease or else the cashier may ask you some additional security questions just to be sure you’re not pulling a fast one. It doesn't matter that it is your money in your account. You see, cashiers are trained to make psychological evaluations of people withdrawing uncommonly large sums of cash. Lack of eye contact, sweat on your forehead, fidgeting from one leg to another and general impatience will not help your case.

5. If you're unlucky not to bank with Barclays, you have to travel from your bank branch to a Barclays bank branch carrying the huge sum of money, risking becoming bait for the nifty London pickpockets. The best advice is to find a branch of your bank where you do not have to travel too far to a Barclays branch.

6. If you go at peak times, you will most likely have to queue at the Barclays branch. As it is likely that you can only do this kind of transaction during your lunch break (if you are a 9 to 5 worker), you are likely to be caught in the middle of the rush hour.

7. On the bank pay-in slip, you will need to write your full name and the reference number you received when you made your reservation earlier on-line. This is a necessary step, the Arik agent tells you, to enable them trace your payment. At this point, you should rightfully begin to worry about your money getting lost in some manual and archaic tally number system.

8. While you ponder this, the Barclays cashier begins to eye you with suspicion. You see, he or she is trained to....you guessed right, 'to perform psychological checks on people paying in huge cash sums'. The fact that you're black and speak with a Nigerian accent only makes things worse. Remain calm and make eye contact as you watch the cashier use her magic highlighting pen to test each bank note to determine that you haven't presented counterfeit notes.

9. Cash validation and payment completed, you need to note the name and location of the Barclays branch you've just visited. You will have to call Arik Air again (on the same premium rate number...cue another £5) and tell the agent who you are, the bank branch where you made the payment, WHEN you paid it in and how much you paid in.

10. If you're expecting to receive immediate confirmation that your ticket has been issued, you're wrong! The agent tells you that they'll need to confirm receipt of your payment (likely to take between 24 and 48 hours) before your ticket can be issued. After a nail biting wait, you receive an email saying that your ticket has been issued. Congratulations…you can now fly Arik Air to Lagos!

In fairness to Arik Air, their aircraft is modern, spacious, and clean and appears to be well maintained. The cabin crew conduct themselves professionally and in a courteous manner (you somehow expect the worst with Nigerian air carriers). The best part is that they seem to ‘get’ Nigerian air travelers (unlike some other airlines I have travelled with) and our unique flying behaviors and seem to handle it quite well. Arik Air offers relatively affordable prices for flights to Lagos. It is a shame that the customer experience they offer is not much more of a bargain as well.

PS: I have one more poor customer experience to note. The flight to and from Lagos (six hours each way), for me, was rather forgettable as the in-flight entertainment system was broken and didn’t work both ways!

Part 2: The mystery of the ‘One Handed-Double Impact Slap''

Continued from Part 1 below...

11:00am – The automated announcement system reads out #60. I begin to hope. Ten minutes later, ticket #61 is called up. My heart starts to beat faster. After what seems like an eternity, #62 is called. I mentally punch my fist in the air and suppress a shout of Hallelujah! I squeeze my way through the crowds to the counter where a bored looking official points my attention to a poster on the glass partition. He asks, “Do you have this paper”? The paper he asks for is my appointment letter and evidence of payment. I present the paper and he scans and signs it. Still wearing his bored expression, he nods his head in the direction of the next cubicle and barks, “Next window”! At the next window, there’s an argument in progress with the lady official there. The man ahead of me appears to have some type of problem with his application. The lady official screams at him to clear away from her desk so she can attend to other people. The man, half kneeling, half begging, asks for her to have mercy on him. I recognize him as one of the hapless people who came last week and only to be locked out of the embassy. The poor guy came with his wife and baby. God only knows where from and how much it cost them to come here twice. I decide to be patient and let him finish. Lady official eventually reaches me, collects my passport and postal order of £20. She gives me a receipt. Obviously on edge from having screamed so much, she gives me a curt, “Go and wait until your name is called”. I presume she is referring to the Northern Nigerian embassy official who was calling names earlier. I wade back into the sea of sweaty humans and await the ‘salvation call’ from my ‘Northern Nigerian rescuer’. This time, I have to stand as there is no longer a seat.

11:30am – I’m still waiting for my ‘Rescuer’. The environment is becoming stuffy and hot. Body odour and soiled baby nappy smells permeate the room. I spot an embassy official meandering his way across the room. As he reaches the middle of the room, a bald, thickly set Ibo guy (whom I shall call Mr Advocate) in my vicinity shouts at him, “Excuse me, is that television not working?” I didn’t even notice the television until our advocate asks the question. The room goes very quiet for a few seconds as all eyes turn to the embassy official who by now must be wishing he was a fly on the wall. He meekly replies, “I don’t know where the remote control is.” ‘Mr. Advocate’ shouts back at him, “Can you not operate it manually?” All eyes are still on the embassy official, who by now, realising that he has become the object of the collective frustrations in the basement and perhaps fearing for what is left of his pride, stammers something unintelligible to Mr. Advocate and slinks away in a hurry. The room erupts in incredulous laughter. The non-functioning television suddenly becomes a metaphor for spin off jokes about Nigeria and how the entire country is non-functioning with our leaders appearing to be clueless to the solutions. The non-functioning television has now been added to Nigeria’s multiple problems.

11:50am – The ‘Rescuer’ returns and reads out a few more names. Again my hopes are dashed as there is still no salvation. I grit my teeth and return to the waiting position; shifting uncomfortably from one leg to another.

12:30pm – It is one and a half hours since I submitted my documents. Two young kids are being unruly near me. They’ve been going at it for some time, putting more strain on their mother, who has become increasingly cranky. I’ve never seen this done before but this woman manages to pull it off. She does what I call the ‘One Handed-Double Impact Slap’. With one hand (this must take some skill), she slaps BOTH unruly kids at the same time! Imagine that! As my eyes widen with wonder at the prowess of this Nigerian mother, a loud round of wailing from the two kids begins. Some elderly women start to berate ‘Cranky Mother’ for slapping her kids so hard. They say she’s lucky that she’s in Nigeria High Commission as that is the only place in London where she can get away with such high handed discipline. Having seen the unruliness that Cranky Mother has had to put up with for the past half hour, I mentally disagree with the old women’s view, still wondering how the slap was perfectly executed!

12:35pm – I notice that there is a sudden buzz in the room. People start to talk in hushed tones as if heralding the arrival of some celestial being. There are no trumpets or clashing cymbals to announce him …but there he is, my ‘Rescuer’! He shuffles the passports and documents in his hand and soon shouts my name. From the back of the room, I raise both hands and shout, “I am here!” and make my way towards him. As I try to find a gap in the crowd, a woman makes a remark to her daughter in Yoruba about my surname. I laugh to myself at how she wrongly assumes that because of my surname (non Yoruba) that I do not understand what she said. To be honest, I am too ecstatic to care anyway. My name has been called, my time in this basement prison is over and I am cleared to make my way upstairs to the ‘Holy Grail’ of the Nigerian High Commission—the fingerprinting and photographing room.

12:35pm to 1:30pm – I spend some time waiting in the fingerprinting room which is pleasantly air-conditioned and not crowded. Things are much more organised up here with embassy officials walking with business-like urgency from one room to another. The fingerprinting and photographing process takes a few more minutes than I hoped but I don’t mind; my ordeal is nearly over. At 1:30pm, I walk towards the exit of the embassy proudly clutching a stamped piece of paper bearing my passport collection date (generally 10 days from when you submit your application). As I emerge into the sunlight, I am greeted by a crowd of angry Nigerians all shouting one thing or another. A group of mothers who have been told that they cannot take their prams and push chairs into the building (i.e. the basement) due to lack of space remonstrate very loudly with the poor embassy official who I fear might soon be the victim of a stampede as the women angrily insist that they must be allowed to take their baby transporters in. I squeeze my way through the crowd and as I walk up the street, I sight two officers of the Metropolitan Police Mounted Branch making their way on horseback towards the scene of the commotion. You can take the Nigerian out of Nigeria, but you cannot take Nigeria out of the Nigerian.

Note: It would be a great idea to gather a group of London Based change/transformation/process improvement consultants together with a view to offering pro-bono services to the Nigerian High Commission. If anyone knows the management at the High Commission and if they would be receptive to or interested in such an intervention, please contact the author of this blog.

Part 1: The mystery of the ‘One Handed-Double Impact Slap' and other observations from the Nigerian High Commission in London

Prologue: This is a collection of random observations from my day at the Nigerian High Commission in London where I went to apply for a new passport. I must commend the officials at the High Commission for their mostly professional and approachable attitude in spite of the frustrating conditions they appear to work in. It was refreshing to observe the manner in which they dealt with simple enquiries and highly agitated applicants. Sadly, such praise cannot also be given to the appalling level of organisation at the High Commission. For those considering applying from the UK, the process takes about five hours in total. To start the process, please go to: https://portal.immigration.gov.ng

8:15am – I arrive at the Nigerian High Commission in time for my ‘appointment’ (please note that this word doesn’t really mean anything at the High Commission). I am mistaken into thinking that I am early enough until I sight the queue (over 500 meters long by then) that has already wrapped itself around the building on Northumberland Avenue. There must be at least 100 people ahead of me. I imagine that some people must have arrived here for 6am with hopes of getting in early. The chatty guy in front of me, with the South Eastern Nigerian accent, makes a joke to a Caucasian man ahead of him advising him to go round the corner to Selfridges and buy some patience. The Caucasian man chuckles in response. He’ll need patience. Little do I realise that we’ll all need lots of it before the day runs out.

9:00am – Friendly banter with other applicants on the queue keeps me occupied. It turns out that most of us on the queue had been given appointments on Thursday and Friday of the previous week; only for us to arrive and find the embassy locked up. What was the reason? The Federal Government declared those two days a public holiday and the embassy officials decided to shut down operations without and warnings or contingency plans being communicated to the hapless Nigerians who had come from all over the UK to honor their appointments. As we exchange stories in the queue, we jointly wag our collective finger at the poor organisation of our High Commission.

9:05am – About fifty minutes later, I finally arrive at the entrance. An official standing just inside the door is remonstrating in a loud voice with someone. I hear raised voices. Fortunately, no fists are involved. The official stretches out his hand and asks me for my current passport and payment/interview confirmation. He gives it a quick look over and lets me in. I’m directed to a basement room where I quickly scan the room (about 20ft by 40ft in size) and notice that it is nearly full already. Another official hands out ticket numbers depending on the purpose of your visit. I quickly find a place to sit. I’m lucky to find one.

9.30am – I slowly take in my surroundings and in the process, I notice that the air conditioning appears to be struggling to cope. The basement soon fills up. People are starting to stand in every available space. I wonder if there isn’t a health and safety law being brazenly flouted here by allowing this many people into such limited space. I quickly scan the room and make a mental note of the fire exits…just in case we need to evacuate! Surely they can’t possibly fit more people in here. I am wrong. More people continue to arrive. If we all have ‘appointments’, then why are we all here at the same time?

9:35am - The embassy has an automated announcement system which appears to be calling out the pre-assigned numbers every 10 to 12 minutes. They are at number #28 when I get in. Deep sigh. My number is #62. An embassy official appears and begins to call out names in a high pitched Northern Nigerian accent (Hausa). I smile to myself. It is always refreshing to hear a northern accent in London. I have a theory that Yoruba speakers (from South Western Nigeria) constitute the bulk of Nigerians living in the UK. As said official reads out the names of people who have obviously completed the first hurdle of the application process, I notice that one in every five names appears to be South Eastern, South-South or Northern Nigerian. The rest are Yoruba. In the microcosm of the Nigerian High Commission, my demographic theory is proven! Take that Lord Malthus!

9:45am – I am stirred from my musings when I hear a woman at the counter yelling at an embassy official. The embassy official appears unfazed and stands his/her ground. He or she is probably immune to this kind of attitude. It’s probably a routine job hazard I guess. The loud woman backs down. I guess she realises that she will get nowhere with ‘gra-gra’ (Yoruba slang for unruly behavior). She calms down and adopts a more conciliatory tone and interjects her sentences to the official with ‘please’. Nice. At least someone is finally crossing the social evolution barrier.

10:00am – “Oloyun O p’omo O!” This is a familiar shout in Lagos meaning that people should make way for a heavily pregnant woman trying to board some form of public transport whilst carrying another child on her back (truth be told, Lagos bus conductors also use this as a veiled insult to overweight women or those blessed with generous backsides). As some pregnant women squeeze their way around the embassy basement, I wish someone would shout this on their behalf. Everywhere I look, there are infants and toddlers screaming to the heavens and mothers losing the battle to calm and control them. For some kids, I imagine this might be their first ‘taste’ of Nigeria. One kid manages to sneak his way into the ticketing office unattended. An embassy official grabs the hyper active kid, raises him in the air by the arm and shouts, “Who get this pickin (child) oh?” I love my country!

10:30am – I slip back into my musing. There are a few Caucasians and mixed race people around. There are lots of reasons to travel to Nigeria. However, tourism isn’t usually one of them. I guess they’re mostly going to Nigeria for work. The Caucasians stand around the embassy basement in different states of despair. “Welcome to Nigeria”, I say to them in my mind. There are some who appear to be of mixed parentage/dual nationality who I assume may be planning to visit family. If there is one country that has contributed significantly to the propagation of mixed race peoples on this earth, it must be Nigeria. With our citizens living (legally or illegally) in almost every country on this planet, this should not be surprising. I go back to observing the Caucasians. Suddenly, an interesting distraction walks in. She is a stunningly beautiful woman who appears to be of Ethiopian/Sudanese extraction. I immediately sense a collective holding of breath by all the men folk in the room. She flashes a smile at the ticketing official who seems to be transfixed by her flawless looks. She picks up her ticket from his frozen hand and meanders to find standing space at the back of the room. I watch as the men folk innocuously follow her graceful movement with their eyes and then let out their collective breath when she reaches the back of the room and buries her head in a book. The interesting diversion is over. However, the rest of the day holds far more interesting diversions such as the 'One Handed-Double Impact slap'.

Concluded in Part 2