Bloodlines: Voices of Lagosians trapped in London

By Taju Tijani

Lagos 1974. Broad Street was teeming with happy looking shoppers. Bankers, brokers, government ministries and post office staffers, department stores and hawkers comingled merrily as the breeze from Lagos lagoon fan out from its Marina home. In this axis was the famous Daily Times, Kingsway, Bhosons, Kewalrams, and Leventis. On the Marina itself were smattering of ships as they sat lazily on the brownish water. Facing Marina were rows of cars parked by commuters who had travelled to the Island for daily bread. Street food vendors and second-hand book sellers dotted the spaces around the car park.

Enterprising Igbo traders displayed their wares. They held out starched designer shirts, trousers, folded belts, trainers and shoes – majority of them second hand. Idumota was a beehive of noisy market bedlam. Balogun was notorious for gele, cute ladies’ bags, lace, adire and Ankara. Cassette sellers blared trending reggae, soul and rock music along Martins Street. Towards Apongbon were the provisions sellers, photo copy offices, earthenware sellers and food joints. There was a joint where office workers played snookers, smoked to extinction, drank to stupor and flirted with careless abandon. There was no clash of ego. You threw your dice and I threw mine. Lagos was unobtrusively calm, fun and peaceful.

Yinka Thorpe was a witness to the scene painted above. He was born in Lagos Street around Adekunle area of Ebute-Metta. After his secondary school, he worked with a government ministry in Kakawa Street where he was able to immerse himself in the sedate and calm bustle of the 70’s Lagos. He worked for four years and left for the University of Ibadan where he read Language Arts. With the dearth of gainful employment, Yinka returned to his old turf of Lagos Island. Straight into the hands of hardened and street smart “Oluwole” underworld forgers where you could forge anything. Anything!!!

There, he met a woman who would change his life. Forever. Yetunde Adeyemi had come to remove a picture from a passport with UK visa and replaced it someone’s picture to facilitate travel. She had gotten glowing report of Yinka’s expertise of picture swapping. Oriolori passport was the craze of the 80’s. Many Nigerians abroad today travelled with Oriolori. Many benefitted immensely from the expertise of forgers stationed at “Oluwole”.

Yetunde joked that if Yinka was able to do a perfect job, she would guarantee that he would meet her in the UK soon.  It was a self-fulfilling prophecy. The weather was exceptionally cold in October of 1985. The British Airways flight from Lagos was full. Yinka was bored to death even though he had a window seat. He slept, woke up, read and paced about the aisles. Could this be true? He kept on thinking. Could it be true that Yetunde would be waiting at Heathrow Airport to receive him? Yinka was restless. Was it a scamming pay back judgement?

Late 80’s London was messy for Yinka Thorpe. He scavenged for jobs with Oriolori. When his six-month visiting visa expired. He lived a life of worry, fear and restlessness. He kept no friends because of his illegal status.  Both Yinka and Yetunde lived a life of open rebellion. They were illegal aliens working the streets of London and reaping its fruits. Both worked at McDonalds, Taco Bell and Burgher King using aliases. Woolwich in the 80’s was a Nigerian haven. It teemed with illegal Nigerian immigrants. Many lived in single rooms with Samaritan Nigerian landlords who had British citizenship.

READ ALSO: Bloodlines: Voices of Lagosians trapped in London – (1)

Bloodlines: Voices of Lagosians trapped in London – (2)

Bloodlines: Lagosians trapped in London – Part 3

In the late 80’s, the South London geographical entities of New Cross, Woolwich, Plumstead and later Thamesmead were places of fun and owambe parties. There was no weekend without Londoners shipping down from other places to these hideouts of jollity and merriment. It was also a gold mine of “arrange” marriage where someone with a legal status would agree to a fake marriage with an illegal migrant for money and sometimes sex. Yetunde travelled from Nigeria with her real names and later got a willing Irish man as a fake husband to get her papers.

Yinka Thorpe could not be bothered. He had procured a legit name from St Catherine’s House. Yetunde got her papers. Level slowly changed. She moved from dirty jobs to better ones. Yetunde enrolled in a Housing Management School in Leighton, East London, and within six months she abandoned her kitchen assistant job serving elderly residents in a residential home. She became assistant Scheme Manager in a care home. Yinka was living under the cover of a legit name that was not his. Until…..

The Metropolitan Police Patrol car flashed its blue light. Yinka stepped out. It was a routine check but it was a close shave with catastrophe. “Someone bearing the name on this car was convicted last week for drink driving,” the officer said. “How can someone be bearing my name,” Yinka responded.

“We are concerned that this is identity theft. Could you please park properly and follow us to the station for your fingerprints,” the officer demanded. Fear gripped Yinka. He knew he was guilty of identity fraud. The thought of deportation and missing his four kids made him nervous. He felt like running away. He remembered Yetunde advising him to return to Nigeria so that she could come home to marry him and bring him over under spouse visa. Yinka was handcuffed and put into the service car. His silent prayers, calmness, neat appearance and confidence fooled the Police. The bank cards on him showed no disparity. The Police let him off the hook and advised him to investigate who was using his identity. Now it was a race against a ticking time bomb.

He returned to Nigeria. Home alone in Nigeria was tough for Yinka. He had become used to all the modern comfort of London – the regular light, good roads, clean neighbourhoods, beautiful restaurants, pulsating night life and the opportunity to make money. Bored to death, he sought an escape through Facebook. Weekly, Yetunde sent upkeep money while making preparations to return home to wed Yinka and return him to London as a hero in shining armour. Flooded with easy money, he became a magnet for women.

Yinka fell in love online with Detilewa Johnson. It grew from online to off line and to… Now a British citizen, the liberty and freedom to roam saw him making three sorties a year to Nigeria to see Deti. Yinka was bewitched by a younger woman who had no love for him but his money. In 2016, Yetunde and Yinka separated amicably. Toughened by adversity and looking sad, he took off his glasses, wiped his face, and gave me a long look.

“Yetunde is my jewel but my lack of self-control got me. I was bewitched by Deti’s huge breasts, big bum, long hair and her great stamina on the bed,” Yinka started.

“O dear. You should know that Nigeria is full of seducers and fleshy temptations. You were alone. The side chics see you as Londoner with money to throw around. Many young ladies back home see Londoners as their cash cows. Their ATM machines. So, the young girls flocked to you. Deti’s beauty got you mesmerised. She got stuck in your throat. You could not swallow her.  Once Deti realised that you lived abroad, the race to tie you down started. That could mean a trip to Babalawo for love potion, fake pastors for soul tie prayers and Alhaji for charms,” I reasoned.

He looked at me shocked. He went into a long silence. My reasoning threw him into a fog of confusion. He detected some truth in my statement.

“Omo yen jazz mi ni. Deti bewitched me through dark powers. Yes, she did. O jazz mi ni. I can’t stop thinking about her. There is soul tie between us. You got it right, she used juju on me big time with the collusion of her mum.”

“Really? How? Do you believe in fetishes, potions, hexes, vexes, spells, charms, jinxes, crystals, chanting, hoodoo, voodoo, root works, sorcery and magic?” I pursued. His phone rang. He had been ignoring that particular ringtone since we started our conversation. The persistent caller had been ringing tirelessly. It was Deti. Yinka Thorpe could face most things, but not the bewitching voice of Detilewa Johnson.