This Writer’s Diary entry is dedicated to the NDLEA officer and lover of Naira Life stories identified herein as “Dumbo 2.”
I talk to Nigerians a lot about international travel for our flagship series Abroad Life, which I write every week.
But a recent personal trip reminded me of the one aspect of travel we often overlook: the awkward, expensive ritual in Nigeria of actually getting from the airport entrance to the plane.
“So, what do you have for me?”
When the balding immigration officer asked, “So, what do you have for me?” I didn’t refuse him out of some grand principle. Since I’d stepped into Terminal 2 of Murtala Muhammed International Airport, I had already parted with almost ₦3,000.
Pretty much everyone in uniform was extraordinarily chatty, their sheepish grins confessing exactly what they really wanted. And I gave—five hundred Naira here, a thousand there.
They were mostly nice about it when they asked.
“Drop something for me.”
“Do well for me na.”
I obliged. I was already behind on time and it kept things moving smoothly.
But after checking my luggage and getting my boarding pass, I swapped my remaining Naira for dollars. The smallest bill I had now was $10. There was no world in which I was giving Baldy $10 just to stamp my passport—or as I like to call it, doing his job.
“Go and meet him”
Hearing I had no more cash to give, he set down his stamp and pointed to a row of desks to the right. “You see that my oga with the glasses?” He pointed to a stocky man in a blue-and-white horizontal striped polo shirt. He was the only one not in uniform.
“Go and meet him.” I could sense I was in for some drama.
As I strolled over, I heard the boarding announcement for my flight echo over the airport public address system.
Horizontal Stripes gave me the regular grilling: Where are you going? What for? How long? The only new question was “Where’s your hotel reservation?”
I was travelling for a fully-funded writing workshop; the organisers had sorted everything. When I told him, he wouldn’t budge, and insisted on seeing the reservation.
I had to call my contact person, wait for her to send the reservation as a PDF, and show it to him. He studied it, then asked a more ridiculous question: “How much cash do you have on you?”
When I told him, he shook his head. “That’s not enough. You need at least $500 in cash to travel to any African country.”
I knew he was making stuff up. No such blanket requirement exists, especially not when you already have your visa.
If you’re getting a visa on arrival, some countries do ask for proof of funds, but that’s done by their own immigration services when you arrive. It’s certainly not the job of the Nigerian Immigration Service to stop you from travelling because you don’t have enough pocket money.
None of my explanations got through to him, though. Still holding onto my passport, he walked away to speak with other officers, acting like I wasn’t even there.
I stood there, doing the mental math of how long it would take to go back to the money changers. I actually set off to do it too, but on my way, two ticketing staff recognised me and offered to intervene. They walked me back to his desk and spoke to Horizontal Stripes while more minutes ticked away.
After they left, he waved me over, but kept me standing there while he chatted with other officers. I heard another boarding call.
“Oya, tell me the real reason for your trip,” he finally said, waving my passport like a hand fan. I repeated the same things I had said earlier.
He stared at me for several moments, then finally asked another officer to hand him a stamp.
But it wasn’t over. My next obstacle was the National Drug Law Enforcement Agency (NDLEA) desk.
#NairaLife
There I met Dumbo 1 and Dumbo 2. From their desk, I could see my gate, where the short queue was getting shorter by the minute. The final boarding call echoed over the PA system.
First, Dumbo 1 took my passport, passed it to Dumbo 2, and then repeated the usual questions: Destination? Purpose? Duration?
Dumbo 1 was direct: “So, what do you have for us?” I breathed a tired sigh as I thought through my options. Was I going to risk more silliness like what happened at immigration, or was I finally parting with that $10 bill?
Dumbo 2, more suave than his partner, stepped in during my moment of hesitation with one of the oddest conversations I’ve had recently.
“So, what do you do?”
“I’m a writer.”
“Ah. Writers make a lot of money na. I bet you write about all this crypto stuff?”
Do people actually make that much writing about crypto? Am I in the wrong niche? If you don’t see any more Zikoko stories from me, just know I’ve gone to look for money in crypto writing.
I told Dumbo 2 I didn’t write about crypto. “Ehn? I like reading sha,” he said. Who would have guessed? He certainly had me fooled up to that point.
“Do you know Zikoko?” he asked.
I was almost sure he was pulling my leg. Maybe he’d googled my name from my passport while I was talking to Dumbo 1. But then he started telling me about his favourite Naira Life stories.
Shoutout to the amazing Tife Oni; there’s an NDLEA officer who really loves your work.
“I always find it so interesting,” he said. “Reading stories about how people can just 10x their income.” He was grinning from ear to ear just talking about it.
I was honestly fascinated, but I had one eye on the queue at my boarding gate. Only a couple of people left.
No wahala
“I don’t have any more cash,” I interrupted Dumbo 2’s narration of Naira Life stories.
Dumbo 1, ever the direct one, did not miss a beat. “No wahala,” he said, as he slid a piece of paper to me. It had an Opay account number written on it. I looked over; just one person was left at the gate. I pulled out my phone.
As I opened my bank app, I said to Dumbo 2, “You know, I actually write for Zikoko. I write Abroad Life.”
“Really?”
“Yup.”
With ₦2,000 less in my account, I rushed towards my gate. As I went, Dumbo 2 said that he’d look out for my name next time he was on the Zikoko website.
Well, this one’s for you, Dumbo 2. I know your dream is probably to be featured in a Naira Life story about how you 10x’d your income. This is likely the closest you’ll get. But hey, you’re on Zikoko. Enjoy it.
Beggars who don’t give you a choice
In January 2026, when the streamer IShowSpeed came to Lagos, the constant begging he encountered shocked the internet and led to Nigeria being labelled “Abegistan.” In a country where over 60% of people live below the poverty line, begging has become ingrained in our culture.
But what happens at the airport is different. A beggar on the street appeals to your mercy. But when the person asking wears a uniform and can hold your passport until you miss a flight, that isn’t just begging anymore.
It’s a shakedown. It’s extortion. I don’t have a clever name to capture it like Abegistan. I’ll let you all come up with that. But funny labels hide a sinister reality beneath the humour: a culture of entitlement that turns every person in uniform into a personal toll collector. I don’t have a name for it yet, but maybe it shouldn’t have one at all. Because it shouldn’t exist in the first place. It’s a culture that needs to end.
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