The òmò-onile phenomenon

Illegal revenue collectors compound the problems of businesses across Nigeria, but government policy can make things better for them, writes OLOWA PETER.

“When a big politician came to commission a market here last week,” says Chinedu Obiator, a trader in Yaba area of Lagos, “he gave these boys money.”

These boys, Obiator refers to, are natives of several states within Nigeria, who resided basically in Lagos, and parade themselves as revenue collectors. They extort money from business men and women who are engaged in legitimate businesses in the area.

Commonly referred to as “òmònile or area boys,” they are fierce and go the extra mile in making sure their demands are met.

Though they operate in different parts of the country, their operations are based on the same ideology: to them, the territories in which they operate are their ancestral heritage, and for businesses to operate in these territories, they have to pay.

Even though what they do is illegal, they go about it with brazen impunity.

In the Yaba area of Lagos, small businesses like Obiator’s have to pay as much as N15,000 ($92) to these illegal fund collectors so as to be allowed to carry out legitimate activities, like offloading of goods meant for sale, or renovation of premises.

In the long run, the most visible impact of this extortion is the higher prices customers have to pay for commodities, as businesses push part of the unlawful costs to them.

But a bigger problem is the impact these activities have on the ease of doing business across the states of Nigeria. The harassment and aggression of the collectors have negative impact on business owners.

Also, these activities have dampened the confidence business owners have on the government.

Many businessmen believe that in one way or the other, the government benefits from these activities. But, however, the government has directly or indirectly denied this. That is why Obiator was particular about a government official giving money to the illegal collectors.

“… we must correct the impression,” says an official at the office of the Special Adviser to the Governor of Lagos State on Taxation and Revenue, “what they (illegal fund collectors) collect is not classified as taxes by the state government. It is totally illegal, we are not part of it.”

When the official was asked about what the state government is doing to stop the ‘area boys,’ she says “it is sad that before this dispensation, even government contractors were not free from these miscreants. Government contractors had to factor in monies given to miscreants when giving project estimates to government. But the present governor stopped that practice.”

But this menace does not only affect traders, it affects even property developers across the country. Builders in Nigeria are forced to pay development fees to unemployed youth when laying foundations for their new houses.

When existing buildings are being renovated or expanded, unscropulus youth are sure to stop the process unless they are appeased. In the case of businesses, while the big and highly connected businessmen suffer less of this menace, smaller ones face the full brunt of the illegal collectors. Transporters also face this situation. Just in front of Obiator’s shop, a group of Toyota Coaster buses are parked, one at a time, they meander through the streets from Lawanson to Ijeshatedo with passengers.

Operators of these buses also face the fury of these collectors, as young men draped in all manner of uniforms (white, green, yellow, blue and plain clothes) jostle over one another for a slice of the amount the transporters make.

Though some say they are authorised by local governments, it is a herculean task to distinguish between those backed by law and those that are not.

On this route, each transporter pays N6,500 ($40) to different groups in the morning; in the afternoon, they pay N850 ($6), while they pay N2,300 ($15) in the evening. On Sundays, the amount paid is doubled.

The enormity of what is collected can be better imagined if one considers the fact that there are over 50 Coastal buses on this route, most of which operate daily.

Lamenting the level of extortion, Segun Obey, a bus conductor, who has worked on several routes in Lagos, says “we would have been richer if these collectors do not exist. If government wants funds from us, why not make the process more formal,” he says.

“What makes it worse is that they fight with us when we don’t have the money to pay,” he says, as he touches a cluster of scars on his left hand, indicating injuries he sustained in a fight with the illegal fund collectors.

For transporters who do not comply with the demands of the collectors, the consequence could be very severe: either the transporter or his conductor is beaten mercilessly or their vehicle is damaged.

It is therefore common to see hoards of fiendish collectors harassing a transporter who has defaulted.

Smaller transporters are not left out of the collection dragnet. “It is all a bunch of confusion,” says Ayo Olatunde, a young tricycle rider, who conveys passengers from Ijesha to Pako in the Surulere area of the state.

“I took up this job because I couldn’t get anything else. However, I am left with almost nothing after settling different revenue collectors, fuelling the tricycle and giving the agreed sum to the owner of the tricycle,” he says.

In the case of tricycles operating on the route, the police are also involved in the collection process.

Though the police do not collect funds directly, they designate civilians – some of these area boys – to do the collection while they stand afar off observing the process.

When asked about measures the Force is taking to stop this practice, the Lagos State Police Public Relations officer, Ngozi Braide, says “we run a very transparent organisation. I do not believe that this is really happening because no one in the area has come to complain to me.”

Just two months ago, two officers caught on camera extorting motorists were sacked.

Indeed, there is no question as to the illegality of police extortion in Lagos, but what has remained certain is that only those that are caught red-handed are disciplined. “The police also constitute a huge leak to our fund flows,” says Olatunde, “as tricycle riders on this road pay N400 ($3) daily to them.”

According to a source at the Lagos State Revenue Office, “the major fear in permanently stopping the civilian fund collectors is the perceived effect such a policy could have on crime rate in the state. There are fears that if the collectors are stopped, crime rate could escalate.”

Last year, a sweeping state legislation outlawed those that collect illegal levies from transporters, but less than three months after, they reappeared.

What is the origin of the hoard of fund collectors in Lagos? Investigation shows that most of them are either students who dropped out of school or those that missed out on the privilege of being raised in decent homes. They do this “job” just to survive.

Akin, one of them that collects funds at Mobil Bus Stop, off Ikorodu Road, says “I was completely jobless when Fashola’s government ordered us off the road last year. I spent most of my time sleeping or watching football matches in the evenings. After sometime, I returned to my spot and started collecting again, I have nothing else to do.”

Asked about who gets the money he collects on a daily basis? He replies in pidgin English, “Oga, I dey work for our big man. I get target, when I meet that target, the extra is left for me. Whatever happens to what I give to our big man is none of my business.”

It was impossible to get to any of the ‘big men’ for a comment. But it is clear that collected funds change hands along a complex chain until everyone involved in the business, directly or indirectly, gets a cut.

But can these young collectors be put off the street, to be trained and employed in better vocations? Most of the collectors interviewed were hostile and suspicious, but some of them welcomed that idea.

Akin says, “I dropped out of secondary school in JSS3 after my mother died, and I have to struggle on these streets to survive.”

With a broadened smile, the 27-year old says “if I am given another opportunity to be trained, I will take it. I don’t mind becoming a motor mechanic.”

OLOWA PETER