Read the mindblowing true life account
below:
Miss Peju Akins (pseudonym) was offered a
poisoned chalice in a Lagos church in
January, 2015; she embraced it hook, line
and sinker!
A lady she met during Sunday service
painted the rosy picture of Libya, with the
streets of Tripoli “flowing with milk and
honey’’, and the promise that after making
money in the North African country, she
would easily migrate to Europe.
“I’m lucky to be back in Nigeria alive; many
died during the one-month trip through the
desert, especially between Agadez in Niger
Republic and the Libyan capital, Tripoli. My
‘burger’ (trafficker) succeeded in convincing
another lady to make the trip with us from
Lagos. We were seeking better life, but it was
a regrettable trip and a waste of almost two
years of my life.’’
Peju, 26, holds a National Diploma in
business administration from a polytechnic in
Nigeria’s South-West. She says the first leg
of the ill-fated trip, from Lagos to Kano, was
fun. Then the next call between Kano and
Agadez in Niger Republic, a distance of 715
kilometres, was stressful as they had no
travelling documents.
“Border officials exploited us; checkpoints
mounted by Nigerien gendarmes did the same.
But, the horror started in Agadez. Any
semblance of a road network ended at
Agadez; all I could see was endless sand
dunes like I have seen water at the ocean
shore in Lagos. The heat and the dust were
horrible. “In addition, we were considered as mere
merchandise over which people haggled for
prices that could favour them. We spent five
days in Agadez because the trip through the
desert starts from there only on Mondays. In
Agadez, our group met hundreds of black
people from across the ECOWAS sub-region,
assembled for the suicidal desert trip to
Libya.’’
According to Peju, only four-wheel-drive,
double-cabin pick-up vans are being used for
the desert trip, with each taking between 20
and 30 migrants. She says they were loaded
in the cargo cabin of each pick-up van, with
most of their bodies hanging out of the van,
each hapless traveller holding on to a stick
tied to a rope in the cabin, to stop them
from falling off during the bumpy ride.
“Between Agadez and Qatroun, (in Niger
Republic) and Sabha in the middle of Libya, we
were kidnapped many times by militia groups
that raped some of the ladies. There was so
much shooting, though nobody in my vehicle
was hit. We were told of rotting corpses
littering some areas of the desert, but our
driver must have avoided such spots so as not
to further scare us. Each kidnapping meant
being locked up in ‘prison’ until ransom was
paid. My human trafficker saw to the
negotiations.’’
Peju finally got to Tripoli, after covering
about 3,500 kilometres of road, mostly
uncharted desert.
“I thought my nightmare was over when we
got to Tripoli; little did I know it had just
begun. I and my fellow church member were
allowed to scrub off the smell and dirt of the
desert in a bathroom, and a change of dress,
before being driven to a large compound they
call ‘connection house’. The ‘connection
house’ is the alias for a brothel. Without much
hesitation, two elderly ladies, a Yoruba and an
Ibo from Nigeria, casually asked if we would
like to start with ‘one-round’, ‘short time’ or
‘all-night’ patrons’’.
She says she later understood that ‘one-
round’ means having sex with a man once
for the equivalent of N1,000 in Libya dinar,
‘short-time’ means three hours of sex for
N3,000 equivalent, while ‘all-night’ means
copulation from dusk to dawn for N6,000.
“We both protested that we would not do
‘asewo’ (commercial sex work) and that our
‘burger’ (trafficker) only promised to get us
housemaid jobs. The next five days was hell
as the two of us were locked up in a room,
without food and water, and constantly beaten
up.
“Close to death on the fifth day, they called in
a nurse to clean us up, feed us and allow us
to change clothes. Then they told us we had
to contact our families in Nigeria to wire
N500,000 each to them or we would be
drugged and forced into prostitution.’’
Peju says they were then allowed to have a
mobile phone and alerted families back
home in Nigeria of their predicament.
“The Yoruba woman spoke with my father in
Lagos and in tears, he promised to send the
money within a week. My father begged them
not to harm or force me into prostitution. My
co-traveller was the first to control (wire)
money from Nigeria. My daddy finally sent my
ransom — which he borrowed here and there.
“The matron then converted me to her
salesgirl. I was in charge of selling brandy and
whisky, condoms, diapers, creams and other
materials the ‘asewos’ needed for their carnal
jobs. Yes, there are no babies in need of
diapers, but the absorbent in them were being
removed, creamed and forced down the private
parts of the commercial sex workers to protect
their womb (cervix) from being ruptured by
their clients.’’
Peju says the absorbents were usually
‘popped’ out by the girls after sex, washed
and creamed for reuse. She says this is
because the men coming to sleep with them
usually take sex enhancers that prolong the
act and often bruise the girls to the extent
that they bleed from their private parts.
“The men who come to the brothel use
cocaine, ‘tramadol’, hashish (the Arab
equivalent of marijuana), and many other
illicit drugs, so that they can punish the girls
who stay four in a room, separated by mere
curtains. I spent five months in the brothel,
but not into prostitution. I was sleeping on a
bare floor all the while, disturbed by the
groaning and crying of the sex workers.
“One night, a girl was screaming — more than
usual — and the matrons have to burst into
her bed-space. An over-drugged man was
stuck to her like dogs in mating! He had to be
physically ‘removed’ from the girl and his
money refunded! Another girl ran mad and
was defecating everywhere and putting the
mess in her mouth. Her legs and face were
swollen; she was always murmuring. She later
died and was secretly taken to the desert for
burial in an unmarked shallow grave. Her
death was not even relayed to her family in
Nigeria.’’
Peju left her vendor’s job at the brothel to
become a khaddamah (a maid) and she was
paid the equivalent of N60,000 a month by a
kind Arab family.
“But my main problem was the language
barrier. Even though I could then understand
and speak a few Arabic words, I was making
mistakes when sent on errand within the
house. I was with the family for about six
months as maid; I saved most of my salary.
“I then became a seller of African (mostly
Nigerian) foodstuffs, such as beans, gari,
seasoning cubes, etc, being ferried across the
desert by Nigerian businessmen from Kano. I
was sharing an apartment with a Nigerian
family.’’
However, she finally reconsidered her stay in
Libya when her apartment was raided one
night by gun-toting Libyan officials and all
the residents locked up in jail for being
illegal immigrants.
“The raid happened when I had started making
money; I was free and I even had a Yoruba
boyfriend, an engineer, who was always going
to Malta (Europe) by boat to fix doors, POP
ceilings and other building materials. We were
put in jail and after some days, asked to pay
the equivalent of N100,000 each to secure our
freedom. I’ve had enough; so, refused to pay
and told them I wanted to go back to Nigeria.
From then on, they never allowed me to get
back to my apartment and properties.’’
Peju says the Libyan immigration allowed
her to purchase temporary travelling
documents and escorted her to the airport
to board a plane for Niamey in Niger
Republic.
“All the money my friends were able to raise
while I was in jail was spent on travelling
documents and the one-way flight to Niamey. I
spent two days at the motor park in Niamey
before I met a kind Nigerian man who gave me
25,000 francs (CFA) with which I came back to
Lagos. The jogging trouser and blouse I wore
to bed the night I was arrested were all the
possession I came back with in mid-November
2016. Giant mosquitoes feasted on me so
much in Libyan prison that I was pockmarked
as if I had measles.’’
Peju never contemplated being smuggled
across the Mediterranean Ocean to Europe
again because her eyes had opened to the
mass death suffered by those who dared.
“I am appealing to Nigerian youngsters to
dissuade their minds from planning to get to
Europe through Libya, especially taking the
desert routes. Yes, there is more money in
Libya than Nigeria for hustlers, so is death in
the desert or in the Mediterranean Sea.
Besides, the suffering the girls go through in
the brothels is worse than death.’’
Unlike migrants’ drowning in the
Mediterranean that is often documented by
European navies and coastguards, death
through shooting, starvation and dehydration
in the vast desert is largely unaccounted for.
Only a small fraction of those who dare will
make it to Europe.
