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.
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