In Search of Greener Pastures

Contents

Synopsis

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

About the Author

Synopsis

Brown is a renowned philanthropist who runs an illicit drug and human trafficking organization with his notorious team of top security personnel, all of whom work within the government at various levels, both state and federal.

Every wrong road leads to a wrong destination. Lucas was among those who Brown lured to Russia for a better life, and Lucas has made a promise to a woman in Nigeria with whom he has a child. His dream is to get a good education and live large when he returns home, but his older brothers, who are sponsoring his education, abandon him. Lucas becomes one of the stranded Africans in Russia. Thrown out in the streets of Moscow by his newfound love and the mother of his other child a baby girl, Lucas joins his classmates, who after graduating, turned into peddlers. Six years later he is caught by the cops and jailed. Will he survive?

Soon, the truth about Brown’s phony overseas scholarships and job opportunities for the village youth is revealed. The government starts the elimination of the enemies of rural development; neither guilty nor innocent are safe.

In Search of Greener Pastures is an exhilarating tale that reveals some unfortunate realities of our time and unmasks both the deadly activities of illicit drug peddlers in Russia and the general attitude of Russians towards immigrants. This is a well-told story that can serve as a tool for anti-drug and anti-human trafficking campaigns, which aim to educate the youth in Africa, especially those of school age. It is a story of greed, adventure, retribution, mystery, destiny, and regrets. This work is a tool for campaigning against drug trafficking, where millions of people find death and destruction.

C. J. Louis is an international research expert on illicit drugs and human trafficking. He is a creative writer who has spent years campaigning against drug business in the world through many workshops and seminars hosted over the years.

Prologue

It was a beautiful Monday morning; the sun shone with grandeur, littering the streets with shadows of men and women and objects. The streets were busy as usual with hustling and bustling. In Lagos, the day’s struggle usually started before daybreak and thickened with sunset. The market was busy every day, including Sundays.

Rosemary had just walked into the house when the wind picked up, gradually becoming strong and grumbling and rumbling as it swept violently across the city. She was about to lock up the door when she heard someone knock. She opened the door and was excited when she saw her uncle.

Hello, Uncle, Rosemary greeted.

How are you, my niece? Tejay asked.

Fine, Uncle. I am just coming back from school, Rosemary explained as she led him into her parents’ sitting room. Dad and Mum have not returned home from work, so I am the only one in the house. Would you wait for them?

Oh yes, I will, Tejay answered.

Rosemary offered him a place to sit down. Uncle, you promised to tell me a story when you next visited our house. Now here you are. Will you still tell me the story?

I have not forgotten; that’s part of the reason I am here today, Tejay said. So, are you ready for the story?

Yes, I am, Rosemary replied happily.

I will tell you a true story, Tejay said.

Rosemary sat quietly and listened attentively as her uncle began.

*   *   *

Outside the house, the car meant to take Brown to his office was ready, and his security men were alert, waiting for him to come out. Suddenly he appeared, walking out from the house with his phone to his ear. Brown was in discussion with someone who must be an important person, judging from the way his end of the conversation sounded and the kind of information he was giving out.

No, no, no! Brown roared and paused. Singer is my very good friend, tested and trusted; his real name is Igor or Petrovich. He is the only Russian one can trust as far as this deal is concerned. So, you have my approval to trade with him. He will not fail you or betray you.

So, you are recommending him to us? the man on the other end asked.

Yes! Brown replied.

You see, the story we heard recently about him and the arrested Congolese who was using two Belarus girls to carry out his drug racketing, scared us. Most peddlers and the drug lords see him now as an agent to the cops.

It has not been confirmed that Singer was involved in that dirty deal, Brown retorted

But what actually happened?

"Well, the truth is that the Congolese drug kingpin was using the two girls to perfect his deals. The girls’ roles were to distribute the stuff directly to junkies. They were equipped with mobile phones and pagers. One of the girls, Tanya, mainly controlled the retail sales with her phones and pagers, while the other one, Louda, specialized in distributing the goods within the city to other hustlers.

Louda was arrested on her trip to Ivanova, a city nearby, when she went to deliver to the buyers. Because of torture and threats from the cops, she gave up all the information about her boss—everything except his address in Moscow, which she didn’t know. She gave his mobile phone number and the description of his cars. Based on Louda’s information, Tanya was arrested too. When Tobongo, the Congolese, heard of what happened, he prepared for the worst, Brown explained.

I was rightly informed that Mr Tobongo kept the two girls in the same apartment, said the man on the phone. An unknown informant leaked information to some cops about what the girls were being used for. From that moment, the cops started monitoring and gathering information on the hawking girl. After gathering all their intelligence and surveillance on the girls’ transactions, they arrested her and the other girl. Was that really how it happened?

Yes, this is accurate, replied Brown.

Too bad! said the voice. But how did the Congolese know there was trouble?

When Louda was arrested, her mobile phones and pagers were seized. Her boss, who was always in contact with her through her mobile line, could not reach her again. When he called, a man received the girl’s calls. He noticed this change and took off from where he was staying to a secret apartment in Varonezh. He abandoned his car and his house and started hiding, Brown said.

The man on the other end of the phone call laughed, and Brown continued. So it was Louda who gave the most information about their boss and how he could be trapped. A week after her arrest, the cops were informed of Tobongo’s hideout in one of his girlfriend’s apartments. Their attempt to arrest him failed because he bravely jumped out of five-story building. That gave him an immediate opportunity to run out of Varonezh to Kusku. From his new hideout, he was able to contact Susan to take care of his properties, together with his second girlfriend, Ira, who hid him from the cops.

Oh! That was a better arrangement.

Yes, it was. And through the effective collaboration between Ira and my Susan, his passport was taken to him in his hideout. It was not easy for the cops to nail him because the two arrested girls only knew his first name and couldn’t provide the cops all the details they needed.

How, then, did the cops finally arrest the girls’ boss? asked the man.

Brown laughed. The nigga has not been arrested; as I am talking to you, he is happily relaxing in Columbia with his gangs. You know, drug dealing is all about connections; the networking is like forging chemistry bonds. The person who was arrested is a Congolese student in Moscow.

Are you serious?

Yes, Brown replied.

Please tell me what happened.

You see, when the cops were having difficulties tracing Tobongo, they consulted their black informants for full details. The informants gave them the wrong information, and the cops mistakenly arrested a student who had the same name. That was how an innocent student was beaten up and arrested. The student was confused, and despite their interrogations, he did not understand why he was suspected of a crime, Brown explained.

Didn’t the cops bring the arrested girls in to confirm that the man was their boss?

They did, and the girls told them the truth—that the local chap was not their boss. But the stupid cops refused to let the local go and threatened to make the girls go to jail if they did not support their claim that the student was, in fact, Tobongo. They coerced the girls, telling them their collaboration was the only condition upon which they could go home free, said Brown sorrowfully.

And the girls accepted?

Immediately. There was still lack of evidence against the student, so the cops heartlessly dropped some wrapped drugs in his pocket after his resistance. ‘Whether you are into drugs or not, we do not wish to see you niggas here anymore,’ a cop told the student.

Brown, I never imagined that, in a developed nation like this, the guilty could be allowed to walk the street free and unpunished while innocents are arrested for crimes they never committed.

Oh, that’s nothing. Here, some cops arrange deals with junkies they’ve caught. The junkies stand before the court and testify that innocents have been selling stuff to them. Anything is possible here. It’s the result of the poor judiciary system and some corrupt practices by security officers, Brown said. "The local Congolese was given seven years in jail, despite the fact that he consistently refused to accept that he’d ever possessed the powdered substance the cops had dropped into his pocket.

One sure thing in Russia is that, no matter how innocent you are, once the cops accuse you of and charge you with any crime, you’d better pray to God for the minimum jail term. No lawyer will win a case against the cops because none of the judges ever dispute what the cops say, and they certainly won’t choose to believe you.

The man on the other end of the line paused for a moment. Then he said, The way you’ve presented this information makes me believe that what you’re saying is true. Maybe those bums roaming around the cities and scrapping for news gave me bad information.

I think so, Brown agreed. You see, I successfully run a cartel in this drug game not because of my years of experience but because I make sure to sift through all information I receive, so as to get to the root of every matter. I don’t accept information blindly, no matter who brings it to me.

Thank you, Brown!

Oh, you are most welcome, replied Brown with a laugh that frightened the people around him.

As Brown’s discussion, which had taken nearly an hour and a half, ended, he walked to the parked car. A guard opened the car door, and he got in. A man quickly opened the complex’s gate, and the driver pulled out and headed towards Brown’s office.

But first, Brown needed to see his spiritual master, so he decided to redirect the driver. The driver soon branched off the expressway onto a muddy, narrow, winding road. He drove for a while before finally bringing the car to a halt in front of an old bungalow. Brown climbed out and asked the driver to wait until he came out from the house.

Just then, Brown’s phone rang again. He knew the number that appeared on the caller ID all too well; he would have ignored the call were it anyone else, but he reluctantly picked it up.

Yes, Susan, what’s up? Brown asked.

I’m cool, and you? she replied.

Then Brown smiled. It seems you have abandoned me.

But I didn’t! I left Moscow two days ago to head to Ukraine, all to make sure that our gang doesn’t run into trouble. And what’s keeping you back in Lagos, by the way? That wasn’t our arrangement. I’m quite sure you are doing nothing there, said Susan.

All right! I’ve heard you, and I’ll meet you soon, Brown replied.

Please do! said Susan. By tomorrow, I hope to be in Belarus—

So, any news? Brown cut in.

Nothing really serious, said the woman, just an experience.

An experience? What kind?

My friend who travelled to Columbia for a business trip last week was drugged by some mafia types. The guys promised to give him a good link on where he could get some good stuff with assured security. They offered him a drugged lemonade so that they could steal his bag, which they assumed contained a lot of money. They guessed wrongly, because the nigga wore his money like cloth.

Did he take the drink?

Of course he did, without knowing the contents of course. But fortunately for him, before the drug had begun to take effect, he’d entered his hotel room, and he kept his belongings intact.

God really saved him from those dragons.

"Chucho lost his senses for hours once he started reacting to the drug. But emergency medical help came to his rescue in time. Now he is well and back in Russia," said Susan.

So when do you hope to be back?

Next week. But that will be after my trip to Estonia, she added.

All right. I’ll also be on my way by then.

"That’s nice to hear! But while you’re still away, please don’t do anything you wouldn’t want me to do in your absence."

Brown laughed without responding.

So where are you now? Susan asked.

On my way to the house of my prophet, he told her. I was almost there when your call came in.

Which one?

The one you know too well here in Lagos.

Oh the Baba? He is good and has been so helpful to us—though so many of our people have been killed or jailed. But that’s the game.

Well, I want to travel to the village shortly, and I want him to watch over my mission to the village. And what’s this new idea of yours all about? Why do you want to add more to our plate by bringing out these boys and girls—these desperadoes from downtown? For how much and for what purpose?

She exclaimed, Thousands of youths are eager to make it to Europe for a better life, and with this opportunity, I can sell invitation letters to them at maximum profit and prepare them for embassy interviews.

And what will they come to Russia to do?

Susan replied, They’ll do whatever they see when they get there. Street gangs, prostitution, and mafia connections are there for the taking. That shouldn’t bother you for now. Good luck, dear, and don’t give yourself to other women in my absence.

I won’t! That’s a promise! Brown replied. Good-bye! he added. And he closed the phone and continued his walk to the house next to him.

Chapter One

It was a Monday, and Lucas was visiting his friend, Brown, who had just returned from Russia for the holidays. As far as Lucas knew, Brown was a resident student and had been Lucas’s friend long before he left for Russia to study.

The doorbell rang.

Mr Loko, the Oldest Security, as he was fondly called, swaggered to the door and welcomed Lucas in, leading him to the visitors’ living room downstairs.

Eventually, Brown walked down through his private staircase that linked the first living room to his upper lobby.

Hi, Brown, it’s great to have you back; thank God for your safe trip, Lucas said.

Thank you, Brown responded.

Did you get my goodies? Lucas asked.

Not a problem. I believe something will drop from my bags if I turn them upside down.

Oh, that’s wonderful of you, my good friend, Lucas said with a smile.

And how are your parents and friends? Brown asked.

Everybody’s doing partially well, Lucas said.

Yeah, you’re right; no life is fully in good shape. And what are your thoughts about the coming election? Brown asked.

Election or selection? Lucas returned.

Brown laughed. What do you mean, Lucas? We’ve never had it right in this country. That’s our big worry here—

Last time I called your landline in Moscow, a lady told me that you had travelled to Yakutia.

Yes, she told me on my way back, though she couldn’t recollect your name when she gave me the message.

It was the first time I’d heard of the place. Where is it? Lucas asked.

It’s a city in Russia.

What’s it like? It sounds interesting, Lucas said, looking at his friend with interest.

Yakutia is a sweet place with a lot to enjoy. It’s in the northern part of Russia and is one of the coldest cities there. The city experiences an all-year winter period, with temperatures as low as negative forty degrees Celsius. It’s a cool place for our kind of guys; we took advantage of the economic situation there and made it big. The girls were at our beck and call. They saw us as kings because they figured that, for us to have flown over to their country, we must have lots of money.

Does that mean they don’t travel? Lucas asked.

No, they don’t travel much due to the grip of communism. On a daily basis, beautiful Russian girls approach thousands of our guys, both in clubs and busy places like McDonald’s. Some conveniently drop their contact information into your pocket. Some do it while trying to dance with you in the club or on the elevator of a subway. Nothing trips a Russian woman like a man who dances well, Brown explained.

I’d like to pay a visit to Russia to have some fun.

If you’re serious, I’ll help you out. I know all about your dream. You want to get a good education so you can live well when you return home, Brown said.

Exactly! his friend agreed.

Then I’ll help you.

Help me? How?

"Get you an admission letter to any of the universities in Yakutia or in any other gorad in Russia."

What’s a gorad?

Oh, sorry. Gorad simply means city.

I’m interested, Lucas said.

You’ll have to get me fifteen hundred dollars so that I can get you all the papers you need to have. You should go; Russia has lots of beautiful gorad, Brown added.

Lucas thought for a while and remembered that his elder brothers in the United States had recently sent money to his parents. He stood up, contemplating his options, and then decided to leave for home.

Where are you going? Brown asked.

Straight to my house to get you the money. I hope it’ll work out as you have said, Lucas said as he left.

*   *   *

Lucas didn’t waste much time, and he soon returned to meet Brown for a beer.

Were you successful? Brown asked.

Yes! replied Lucas, handing over the money.

Brown smiled and pocketed the money. Consider yourself a student in one of Russia’s highly respected universities. And I’m going to be of so much help to you as a friend, brother.

Lucas was excited as Brown continued his tales about life in Moscow and Yakutia.

One time in St. Petersburg—also known as Leningrad, named after the late Russian communist leader Lenin—we were in a club mostly attended by blacks when a junky girl called Natasha came to the club searching for drugs to buy. As usual, most of them don’t come with money, so they—

You mean they sleep with the men? Lucas asked.

Yes, but we don’t call them men. We say niggas or street gangsters, Brown replied. "The girl successfully traded herself in for some grams of drugs by letting the guys have what she had between her legs. After the sexcapades, the three niggas ecstatically entered the hip hop hall.

Tallest, another nigga, popped out of the club to get some fresh air and look around. While he was outside, the junky girl’s boyfriend found out about the transaction and angrily rushed into the club with a loaded gun and a silencer. He immediately sighted and blasted Tallest, the first nigga he met.

Did Tallest die? asked Lucas.

The Russian blasted his sex organ, and Tallest fell over, blood pumping out from his waist. He died on the spot, and a wrapped package full of stuff gushed out of his mouth when he fell.

What stuff? I’m not following you.

You see, coded words are often used for drugs anywhere—it’s operational. That way, people who aren’t in the business don’t understand when issues are discussed. Coded words include market, powder, sugar, smoke, weed, white, or brown. Sometimes the drugs are given names of the countries of origin, like Brazil, or abbreviated forms like Paki, and Colu. Sometimes the code can be someone’s name, like Pele, Brown explained.

Lucas nodded his understanding, and Brown continued.

Most peddlers use their mouths as storage tanks for the wrapped-up goods. It’s easy to swallow the wraps if there’s a sudden attack or arrest. You see, this kind of incident is common in many places.

These are sad stories, Brown, Lucas said. Never will I get myself into such business if I get to Russia.

Yes, you’re very smart, replied Brown. "Many immigrants in Russia have been gruesomely slaughtered by hooligans who bought some bad pharmaceuticals from niggas or who are racist. At this point, the hooligans do not spare any black met on the street. I’m telling you this so you know the kind of friends to have and where to go when you get to Russia to study. Unimaginable and unbelievable things have happened there, though it’s not much different from other drug zones around the world.

Thank you for the information, Brown, said Lucas.

In Russia, blacks are killed on a daily basis while trading hard drugs, but some luckily escape. Deals are done in forests; on street corners; and in clubs, metros, and houses. In fact, on most days, forest drug transactions are like a war zone, where the cops and the hooligans launch their attacks on niggas. Some Africans who can’t withstand the action resign themselves to drinking and turn into homeless drunks, palling with white drunks and living together in brotherhood. If you go to Russia to study, you’ll have it good, but once you follow a wrong road, you’ll find yourself in trouble, because every wrong road in life leads to a wrong destination.

Lucas laughed. But how could people become homeless in Europe? he asked.

Many drunks and addicts and even men who were thrown out of their apartments by their wives live under the bridges, in caravans, or in train stations. They’ll even live in messy or abandoned blocks and houses. Brown finished the cup of beer in front of him. "One Nigerian guy took his last breath at a party in a hostel. He got soaked with whisky and took his junky Kenyan girlfriend out of the party hall to a balcony. An argument erupted between them. When the argument was hot, the Kenyan girl stabbed the boy to death, leaving his