A lot of us will be so quick to decode the meaning of the colour green, but sadly people from another zone other than ours know that same colour to depict “ thorough checking and close scrutiny.

The colour green ought to be a delightful and welcoming impression. It represents the chirping of the birds, the flowering of the plants, the birth of spring and the radiance of life; it’s a colour that is very acceptable in the medical institutions, i.e. in the theater and other settings which should leave an impression that life is precious. For Americans, the almighty dollars, the very quintessence of unbridled capitalism, is green. It is the author of life at its sweetest. Nigerians in America adore and work their life out to dryness so as to be able to acquire that thing called green card. Their excitement is that the green card is a passport to the good life; it makes you cross from survival to living as human. How sick!

I become so disappointed when I see Nigerians in America engrossed in the titanic hunt for the card; washing underwear for lifeless faces in the name of working to get a stay; others go in to contract marriage: a typical Nigerian man who gives a lady who is a citizen such attention and care is obviously up to something. The green card is the culprit not marriage. The Nigerian ladies are not left out in this: they are pushed to choose between the harassment of the eagle-eyed American immigration officials, or an unheralded return to Nigeria or a shot-gun marriage contract. And men, when the green card is in your pocket, you’re as good as any Amurrikan; you can go and parry no wahala. Green has become your lucky colour.

But here for many Nigerians, especially travelers, this same colour is an unlucky colour. The Nigerian passport is green. It really doesn’t give a green light for you to go on your journey unmolested. Rather it is a green light for a thorough examination, harassment and apprehension. As for the American and British customs and immigration officials, green is the colour of suspicion, of conspiracy, of criminality and any Nigerian traveling abroad must steel himself against the crude defilement of his person. He must not engage himself in the hazardous enterprise of dressing and generally turning out in a mode that may be interpreted as an incriminating Freudian slip.   

My uncle set out on a trip to England and he tried so much to give a very good impression of his personality. He wrapped himself in an Italian made suit and knotted a French tie. I was one of the persons that took time to give him a careful appearance inspection. The mirror was very helpful at some point so as to convince him that he looked ok. He looked like a respected gentleman, no doubt. A plain low cut, neatly combed, no earrings and chains like that of our Area Father aka Charley boy, no wild-looking long beard like that of Osama bin, no shiny disco boots that could give him away as either a newly recruited cocaine conduit or a certificated terrorist. He told me that he didn’t put up an appearance or habit of a man who lacks familiarity with international travel. But at that instance he presented his – (our Nigerian) international passport at the Gatwick Airport, the immigration man took a long look at him then held the green passport tightly as if he has just had a grip on a long wanted questionable identity. At some point he held on to it as if it belonged to him, opening it leaf after leaf, scrubbing, scratching, squeezing; as seconds passes he gave it more and more scratching and scrutiny. Then a few more questions with a wicked smile in between. He managed to go over that hurdle after so much time wasted. He crossed and was free to enter Her Majesty’s Britain. But little did he know that his trouble had just begun. All because of that colour – green.

After hours of flight, he got there in one piece and while other passengers were being received and taxi attending to them, my uncle was asked to wait for further checking. He waited for close to fifteen minutes after which he was then invited to the scanning room. When he got in, there where six persons there waiting to conduct a search on him. It was quite disgusting and humiliating. After they had ransacked every luggage that had his name and country on it, they descended on him, screwing every where screwable in him with a cold metallic device. It was degrading and dehumanizing in every dimension and definition. The customs officer, much like they where having a rally expecting my uncle to arrive. They welcomed him with every officer rushing to search as if there was going to be a medal given at the end of the madness.

My uncle said after the whole stupidity that he swallowed his pride to ask one of them why they gave him that kind of  preferential humiliation. Was is that they didn’t like his face? “Oh no,” one of the officer said. “We are just doing a random search and we give special preference to all green passports”. Can you imagine?