Once, when I was invited onto a rather pleasant television programme about the use of words, I complained that the newspapers used to describe me as ‘veteran’, but were now starting to call me ‘venerable’. Whatever next, I asked? My panellist neighbour wrote something and handed it to me. ‘Vegetable’, it said.
Now that I’m well on my way to vegetable status, I am wheeled out quite often to talk about the BBC, my life and hard times, the inspiring characters I’ve met (not many of those, alas), my favourite places, and so on. That all goes well enough, especially if I don’t keep strictly to the truth. My favourite place on earth is actually Paris, but since that seems a bit of a limp answer I usually improvise. Herat in Afghanistan, I answer, or Shiraz in Iran, or Cali in Colombia. All rather nice cities, as it happens, but definitely selected for effect.
Not even I would name Lagos. Yet I do have a very definite affection for the place, and I always jump at the chance to come here. It’s crazy and difficult, certainly, but it’s alive – no one walking down its crowded, muddy streets, listening to the deafening yells of the street vendors, smelling the equally loud smells, and keeping one eye out for the crazy traffic and the other for pickpockets, could doubt that. It’s like the slogan on the old masthead of News of the World: all human life is there. You would indeed have to be something of a vegetable to want to exchange Victoria Island in Lagos for – where shall we say? – Bleicherweg in Zurich. No matter how much cleaner and nicer and better-tended it is.
But I’ve noticed one thing about talking to British audiences. They like all the stuff about my being punched by world statesmen (one prime minister and one president so far). They enjoy hearing about the dreadful bad taste of great dictators. They laugh out loud at stories of famous leaders breaking wind or allowing key bits of their anatomy to slip out of their bathing trunks beside the swimming pool. They certainly don’t object to my describing how my camera crews and I have been beaten up over the years, or bombed or shot at. But when I start talking about being arrested, they go quiet. Maybe they think that even in Ceausescu’s Romania or Mugabe’s Zimbabwe you must be doing something bad for the police to want to arrest you.
The fact is, television crews always seem to know the inside of police stations and prisons better than most other law-abiding citizens. Just getting a camera out and starting to film is usually crime enough. You can be arrested for merely being in possession of a television camera. They don’t always beat you up – that depends on where you are. Sometimes they can be quite polite and insist they had to protect you from the righteous anger of ordinary citizens – though there is rarely much sign of that. They can even smile and give you a cup of tea. But having your collar felt is as much a part of the job as needing to carry endless bits of plastic card with your name and photo on, issued usually by the unsuitably named Ministry of Information. (In Iran they talk of the ‘Guidance Ministry’, which is even more Orwellian.)
Sensible television journalists do not bear the slightest grudge for any of this. It is simply part of the job. And to prove it, I can honestly say that Lagos, where I have been arrested and jailed more times than I have in any other city on earth, is one of my favourite places. And anyway it always happened at times of military dictatorship, and nowadays the country is firmly governed by civilians. It may not even happen any more. It certainly hasn’t happened to me here recently.
But it used to. Once, during the days of the largely unmourned President Sani Abacha, a ferocious general who was inclined to murder his critics and who died in 1998, a freelance cameraman and I tried, mildly enough, to film in a market place to show what ordinary life was like. We lasted about four minutes before the Land Rovers arrived and the soldiers jumped out and surrounded us. A sergeant asked us, politely enough, if we minded going along with him. He didn’t mention any alternative. This could turn out to be difficult, the cameraman said as he surreptitiously took the cassette with our pictures on it out of his camera and replaced it with a blank one. I looked out of the window at the staring crowds and let my mind wander. No point in anticipating trouble.
Trouble came soon enough in the form of a young, neatly suited civilian. He knew all about the trick with the cassette and took the right one off the cameraman. He didn’t say much. We did, though. It’s bad for business to look scared on these occasions, so we laughed and joked as best we could. Then we were escorted upstairs to see a large man in a rumpled colonel’s uniform with dark patches under the armpits. He had a swagger stick in his hand and kept whacking the palm of his other hand with it. He didn’t say anything at all.
The phone rang. The colonel looked at me, picked it up and listened. Then he put the phone down again. Silence for 30 seconds, then he smashed his stick onto the table, grinned widely and said, ‘I always like your programmes on the BBC. Why don’t you make one about Nigeria?’ Then he laughed very loudly for a long, long time. We were still smiling as we left, but it was with relief.
But I’ve learnt not to tell this story to British audiences. It seems to disturb them. Very law-abiding people, the Brits.
John Simpson is the BBC’s world affairs editor and can be seen around the globe on BBC World News, which is available in more than 200 countries and territories worldwide, and on selected British Airways flights.
British Airways flies to Lagos from London Heathrow. Book a flight on ba.com now.
