Border Practice

In addition to inaugurating a time of political and economic uncertainty and turbulence — a time of scrambled hopes, unsettled sovereignty, increasing privation — the decades after the Cold War (1990 – 2010) in West Africa produced proliferating cultures of duplicity and identity fraud (Apter 1999, 2005; Hibou 1999; Smith 2007). Nigerian 419 — the now (in) famous system of internet fraud whereby an overseas client is duped by the promise of sharing vast oil (or other) profits in return for sheltering money in a personal bank account, a transaction that demands that the client pay processing fees and transfer an account number which, needless to say, is quickly emptied (Apter 1999, 2005; Smith 2001, 2007) — is but one example of the sort of confidence trick that has become ever more common in the current conjuncture. The Cameroonian feyman (Malaquais 2001a, 2001b; Nyamnjoh 2006; Ndjio 2006, 2008), a con artist peddling counterfeit money and shady business deals, is another. But focusing on these more spectacular examples of dissimulation and identity manipulation obscures the pervasive, quotidian nature of similar practices throughout the subregion (Smith 2007).

In Togo today, counterfeits and copies are so common in the stores and on the streets of Lomé, a city in which the hustle economy is a way of life, that one can never be sure whether an object one has purchased is "real" or not: a real or a fake Nokia phone, a real or an imitation piece of designer clothing, a new or a used car part. When buying gasoline, you had better make sure the meter on the pump has been reset to zero. Otherwise the vendor will charge the full amount and skim the difference. When taking your car or motorcycle to a mechanic for servicing, you never know whether an oil change means new or old oil, whether new break shoes mean old ones at a "new" price, what other parts might have been traded out while the mechanic was working on your car or moto, whether a part removed this time will be sold back to you the next. Asking for a receipt, you imagine, might provide some sort of verification — until you realize that all receipts are easily falsified. "When I need work done on my car," a Togolese academic told me, "I never leave the vehicle unattended, even if it means waiting all day at the shop. And I always accompany the mechanic to the parts store, making sure to pay for everything myself."

In a nuanced analysis of Lomé's famous cloth market, Nina Sylvanus (2016) describes the bewildering array of "upstart brands, knockoffs, counterfeits, and copies" (22), and copies of copies of copies, that flood the market. There are imitations (many of them Chinese) of high-end Dutch Wax prints that are labelled "real Dutch," "genuine Dutch," and "Made In Holland" (144). Some are considered "authentic copies," valued because they conceal their true character when worn, whereas others are fake copies (those that do not). "The question of what is real," Sylvanus insists, "is not one we should be asking" (18). While inhabiting a world of "semiotic uncertainty" (144), consumers nevertheless adapt quickly to the new categories and learn to navigate their ambiguities.

Hoping to avoid the risks of purchasing a "Chinese" (pirated) phone on the street, I decided to get one at the Nokia store instead. When a friend heard this, she scoffed at my willingness to trust the brand, commenting simply that "you never know whether a Nokia is a Nokia or not." "Even at the Nokia store?" I asked. "Especially at that store," she shot back.

This same person purchased ten bags of cement for a masonry job at a boutique she owned, only to discover, when told by the mason that she needed to buy more, that he had appropriated four for himself. Another acquaintance, a carpenter I have known since childhood and someone otherwise honest to a fault, told me that he and his co-workers routinely plunder every worksite. "At the end of the day, we take materials home with us — a piece of lumber, some cement, maybe a tool. We get paid almost nothing, so this is how we make it worthwhile." At Togo's two universities, passing grades reflect monetary gifts (or sexual favors) to teachers as much as performance in the classroom, and medical treatment at Lomé's clinics and hospitals often depends on whether nurses and doctors have been "thanked" along the way. In an instance of skimming of a different stripe, the sons of a penniless man I know agreed to foot his medical bills but insisted that they accompany him to the pharmacy for fear that if he went alone he would skimp on the meds and pocket the money. "Imagine," one of the sons remarked, "that he would try to turn his sickness into a market, and, even worse, that he would seek profit from the money of his children."

One of these same sons helped his mother buy a female sheep from a man who lived in her neighborhood. They thought the offer a good deal because the ewe was pregnant and the man's asking price was only slightly above the cost of a single sheep. A week after the purchase, the animal died and, in cutting it open, they found its belly full of plastic bags — bags, they surmised, that the man had fed it to create an appearance that would inflate the price.

In a widely publicized moment in fall 2010, one that deserves a place on any "can-you-top-this" list, a soccer team claiming to be the Togolese national team played an international match in Bahrain, a match won by the host country 3 – 0. Authorities back home learned of the match when Bahrain complained that the Togolese team had not put up a strong effort and seemed winded by halftime. After an investigation, the chairman of Togo's soccer federation declared that the players were "completely fake. We have not sent any team of footballers to Bahrain. The players are not known to us." Upon further inquiry, it was discovered that a former coach saw an opportunity to profit from an oil-rich country eager to promote its soccer team (and willing to foot the bill for the match) and recruited players off the street, outfitting them with jerseys from the national team. Upon hearing of this episode, Kodjo commented wryly, "I think we have taken 419 [the art of the scam] to a new level — to one that even Nigerians and Ghanaians would be proud of."

But wait, there is recent breaking news from Ghana: A "fake" US embassy has been discovered by authorities in Accra — an "embassy" that has been issuing real US (and Schengen, Indian, and South African) visas for ten years. According to the published story, the sham embassy, a run-down two-story building with an American flag out front and a portrait of Barack Obama inside, was staffed by English-speaking Turkish citizens (presumably because they could "pass" as US consular officials more easily than Ghanaians). The embassy advertised its services in neighboring countries, including Togo, and put up non-nationals in nearby hotels. Their visas sold for $6,000 apiece. How they got away with it...