PUNCH
In 1996, following a peacekeeping stint with the United Nations mission in Somalia (UNOSOM II), I undertook a series of fixed-term appointments in the Department of Information (DoI) in New York.
Two years later, I joined the Security Council Affairs Division (SCAD) of the Department of Political Affairs. That was a dream come true as I had always wanted to learn how the council functioned. The department was headed by a United Kingdom diplomat.
Naturally, I wanted to join the secretariat staff, but I would apply to agencies and bodies of the organisation as well. As anyone knows, who has tangled with the UN, in practice, merit is rarely the most important quality required of job applicants.
For instance, in 1998 at SCAD, I trained an intern from the UK. Within weeks of completing his degree programme in the UK, he was curiously on the UN payroll in New York. Within a few more years, he had vaulted into the P5 cadre.
But corruption in the UN is a different file. This one is about my encounter with Nigerians in and around the organisation for two decades and what it says about our country.
As I said last week, my career track meant that I often met older diplomats who knew me. In the case of two such persons, a man and a woman, once we had established a relationship, they requested help with such things as keynote addresses, statements at UN events, strategy papers, and manuscript editing. For years, I never asked for money, and none was ever offered.
My family and some friends knew of these relationships, and how, years down the road, once I needed a favour, they resorted to lying. In the case of one such person (Nigerian I), he had himself made a job promise early in our relationship, but for two years, he never honoured that offer. Even when my mother died, he gave me a stash of books, folders and magazines to pen a speech for him! I did.
Nigerian II was eventually kind enough to confess, as she asked me to edit a second manuscript for her in the fourth year, that she was embarrassed to ask because I had never asked her for anything. We agreed on the professional rate, but she wanted the edit within two weeks. I delivered.
A God-fearing woman, she never paid for it, and has avoided me for the past seven years.
Nigerian III befriended me by email. She would then make long phone calls to praise my advocacy and talk about how such good people as herself and her pastor-husband wanted so much for Nigeria. When she learned that I was looking for work, she requested my resume, pledging that the gentleman who headed one of my organisations of interest was a bosom friend of hers. She has not spoken to me once since then.
Nigerian IV headed the administration wing of a department at which I was new. When I had not been paid after three months and I threatened to walk out, my boss arranged for me to go and see him. I was in his office for two hours, during which he simply wanted to discuss “the trouble with Nigeria.” I simply believed that he had someone resolving my problem.
My boss called him again the following day when I reported that I had still not been paid. The man was aghast, saying that when I had come to see him, I “did not look hungry!”
Nigerian V was leading a department of a UN agency when I answered a job advertisement there. Told of my interest, this gentleman—with whom I had worked harmoniously at DoI—encouraged me. We would see what Allah would “command,” he said.
Over the next year, hundreds of applications were processed for the position. As I scaled each stage, I informed “IV.” When I reached the final interviews, which featured three candidates, I chatted with him about my hopes.
