Past the Guards: Inside Nigeria’s Most Unexpected Fortress

The security had always been tight—not just on that day but every day. The first line of defence began at the gate, where two guards sat stoically on their worn-out plastic chairs, examining each vehicle as if evaluating a crime scene. Armed with a pencil, a thick notebook, and a strong sense of purpose, they noted down the license plate numbers of every car that entered the compound. The pages of their book seemed weighed down by the ink of countless entries.

If something about a car - a bold colour, a flashy light, or perhaps just the wrong expression on the driver’s face - caught their eye, they sprang into action. With a sense of urgency, one of them would abandon his chair and grab his loyal mirror-on-a-stick. With ceremony, he slid the mirror under the car, scanning for... something. What exactly, I could never be sure. But each car entering that compound underwent a thorough inspection, some a bit more than others.

Once past the gate, I navigated the parking lot, usually aiming for a spot close to the building entrance. There, two more guards awaited, their faces set in a surprisingly friendly mood. “Good afternoon, ma. Good afternoon, sir,” they greeted. They were only there to open the narrow doors, smile politely, and ease you into the process.

"Behind this door lies something precious." But it was no embassy or high-security government office.

But that was where the warmth ended. As I approached the sliding glass doors of my destination, another set of security personnel stood tight, eyeing me like hawks. Their focus? My belongings. Attempting to carry anything larger than a wallet past the doors had proved impossible, as they were serious about their jobs. They called me back with the authority of a traffic officer in rush hour. With stern expressions, they guided me to a small counter on the left, where a friendly young woman awaited, ready to securely store my handbag for the duration of my stay. No bags were allowed beyond that point, not even the smallest clutch. She handed me a numbered tag in exchange, and I sensed an unspoken message: “Behind this door lies something precious.”

But this was no embassy or high-security government office. This was just a grocery store somewhere in Nigeria - a ritual everyone has to endure when buying as simple a thing as toilet paper in one of the shopping centres.

Each item was lablelled with a price that reflected more than its mere value.

Once I had left my handbag in safekeeping, I stepped through the doorway into an air-conditioned area. Seemingly endless rows of neatly arranged aisles spread out before me, stocked with everything from fresh produce to luxurious imports. The chill of the air hit me, providing immediate relief from the heat outside. It felt as though I had entered another world—a carefully curated, climate-controlled space where each item was meticulously placed, and the cleanliness was unmatched. You could buy bread, tomatoes, and even imported biscuits you last saw in Europe, but each item was labelled with a price that reflected more than its mere value.

These goods had travelled far, facing costly customs duties, long, bumpy roads, and countless checkpoints, each one demanding its share. By the time they reached the shelves, every bribe and fuel cost was accounted for in those tags. Here, you weren’t just paying for the goods; you were paying for the sourcing, the experience, the comfort, and, of course, the privilege of browsing in this tranquil atmosphere.

I grabbed a shopping trolley that had stopped rolling smoothly many years ago. Either I planned to spend more than I could afford, or I simply wanted to belong to the community of trolley pushers making their way through the aisles, I was not really sure. But the peaceful illusion did not last long; Big Brother was watching me. Cameras in every corner live-streamed my every movement to the boss’s office. These owners do not joke about their goods, making sure you know that nothing is left unpaid.

But that wasn’t enough. At the checkout, there was an additional level of control. Each cashier was paired with a security guard, who watched the transaction unfold as if the fate of the store depended on it. Once I paid, I was handed a receipt - but it wasn’t quite mine yet. The security guard at the cash register took it, laying it on the surface and running a fingernail over it to leave a line or tear a small corner. It wasn’t a simple manipulation; it was a mark, a silent seal of approval that the transaction was legitimate.

With the look in his eyes, I could only imagine waht would happen if he actually found something in my bag

With my receipt now “approved,” I moved toward the shop exit, surprised to find yet another guard waiting, ready to perform another inspection. He meticulously checked the contents of my shopping bags against the list on my receipt, ensuring that each item was accounted for, with a thoroughness that felt more like customs clearance than an exit from a grocery store. With the look in his eyes, I could only imagine what would happen if he actually found something in my bag that wasn’t on the receipt.

But luckily for me, he gave clearance by handing me back my receipt.

I was finally ready to leave the building. But before making it back to the car park, the formerly friendly guards at the entrance awaited me. In a now more serious manner, they made sure to catch my eye while offering a loud “Have a nice evening, ma,” paired with a hopeful question: “Anything for us?” I now understood why the door opened just enough for one person to pass; they wanted to make sure I heard their request.

 All o fthem were part of a system that made me feel very special...but very uncomfortable at the same time

But they weren’t the last ones. After packing my goods into my car and leaving the parking lot, I noticed that the gateman who had silently noted my license plate earlier now stood up from his stool, waving goodbye with exaggerated enthusiasm. He too hoping for a small tip for his diligent work. A smile, a few naira, and a wave goodbye. As I drove away, the realization hit me. The army of staff—guards, bag checkers, video cameras, and cashiers—all of them were part of a system that made me feel very special when shopping for groceries in Nigeria, but also very uncomfortable at the same time.

Maybe next time I would forego the expensive goods from Europe and head to the local market, where price tags were negotiable, and nobody monitored me like a criminal. As I turned left at the first roundabout, I felt something nudging in my pocket. I reached in only to find the number tag I collected earlier. I had forgotten to collect my handbag at the counter… time to go back into the fortress of groceries.

Last but not least

I decided always to end my blog posts with an Igbo proverb or quote and a song (not necessarily Igbo) that speaks to my heart. Feel free to share your favourite proverbs or a song you are currently listening to!

Igbo Quote of the Week: “Ebe onye dara ka chi ya kwaturu ya.” Translation: "Where a person falls is where their god pushed them down."

My song this week:"Away" by Ayra Starr

Disclaimer

This blog is neither scientific research nor a social study; instead, it is written with much appreciation for the Igbo culture, from the subjective perspective of the author, based on personal experience. Generalizations must be read with care, as no truth is true for everyone. And most importantly, this blog is to be read with a smile and a pinch of salt (or pepper in this context).

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