Rich in oil, living in poverty

Recovery in burned-out Niger Delta community a slow process

Oil-producing area suffers in poverty and conflict, but information on payments could help unlock resources for development.

by Chris Hufstader

When Paulinus Okoro first came to Rumuekpe in 2010, he says “only one house had a roof on it.”

Okoro came to help Rumuekpe recover from a devastating conflict.  The community is home to pipeline facilities for four oil companies operating in the area. Through these pipes flows as much as 100,000 barrels of oil per day helping to fuel the 70 percent of Nigeria’s $521 million economy that comes from oil. Young people were fighting for control of the area, and for payments from oil companies. They destroyed nearly everything.

Today, most of the homes lining Rumuekpe’s roads are now merely scorched concrete walls, with gaping holes that used to be windows, roofless. In one village, they have replaced the roof on the three-room school, but there are no windows, floors, chairs, or desks. Students sit on rough boards balanced on bricks and rocks. In another village, the chief shows visitors the site of the school, now completely overgrown by tall grass, and merely a memory for him and his neighbors.

Experts working in the Niger Delta say the conflict at some levels is understandable. “People in communities don’t understand why companies can come and take their land, destroy their crops and fish and kill the environment, and they don’t get anything from their operations,” says Ifeanyi Ajaegbpo, program director at the Community Institute for Enhanced Peace and Development. “They don’t have a political voice or any legislation to protect them.”

Who is responsible for development?

People in Rumuekpe are accustomed to pressuring oil companies to provide support for all sorts of community needs, says Gaius Sunday Ajuro, an elder in the community. He sees the irony of the millions of barrels of crude flowing past his bombed out community – but Ajuro says he and his neighbors could use a little information to help them verify they are getting their fair share of Nigeria’s oil wealth.. “If we know what the companies pay to the government as royalties, we can hold the government accountable,” he says.  He says people are confused about the proper role of the company, and the responsibility of the government.  “The government needs to do its own part by providing security, piped water, and electricity” he says. “That’s their responsibility.”

Experts working with communities across the oil-producing Niger Delta region agree. “We’ve struggled for a long time to resolve conflicts and we’ve been operating in the dark,” says Ishmael Atorudibo, who has worked on resolving community conflicts for the African Center for Corporate Responsibility for 10 years in the Niger Delta. “We don’t know how much companies pay the government to carry out their responsibilities.”

Oxfam and many other organizations are pushing for companies to publicly disclose their payments to governments—it’s actually part of the 2010 Dodd-Frank Wall Street Reform and Consumer Protection Act. But they are still waiting (for five years now) for final rules from the US Securities and Exchange Commission to implement the law. The European Union, Canada, and Norway all have their transparency laws in place, and the world and people in Nigeria are waiting for the United States.

“US companies run the oil and gas sector in Nigeria,” says journalist Obas Esiedesa, in the capital Abuja. “Our laws are outdated so a law in the US will make them mindful of what they do here.”

“Such legislation, if adequately implemented, would go a long way to assist our organizations to tackle conflicts between government, communities, and companies,” says Ishmael Atorudibo. “If the communities could … know how much the companies pay the government, it will help them hold their leaders accountable. I think this is critical.”

“We need development here”

Millions of barrels of oil pass by, but community has “nothing to show for it”

Legislation requiring information about oil revenues would help fragile community rebuild homes and schools.

by Chris Hufstader

He introduces himself as “Honorable Gaius,” a grand name for a rather grand looking man, stout and tall and serious looking despite his colorful white and red outfit. Gaius Sunday Ajuro is a former town councilor; hence the title that precedes his first name.

He lives across the street from State School No. 2, a primary school, where children in faded blue school uniforms file in and out, and approach his home, curious about the visitors there. Across a large field is a much bigger, newer looking school, but it stands empty and unfinished. It’s the only evidence of any sort of government investment in development in Ovelle, Ajuro’s home village, part of the larger community called Rumuekpe.

Ajuro says it was a struggle to get the school built while he served on a community development council from 2011 to 2014. “I made sure they put a roof on it,” he says, implying it might have been an optional feature. He reports there are no other state-sponsored projects underway anywhere in Rumuekpe, despite the fact that 100,000 barrels of oil passes through the area every day, and the communities here suffer from oil spills and other problems. “All the oil from Bayelsea comes to Rumuekpe before going to Bonny Island,” he says, referring to a neighboring state and the major seaport for the region.  “But we have nothing to show for it.”

Schools in poor condition

Violence in Rumuekpe damaged nearly all the homes and schools. Even before this period of conflict, which people here refer to as “the crisis,” the schools were in poor condition. “We have to carry our own chairs to school,” says Divine Ekem, now 17, describing the primary schools in Rumuekpe.

“There are no qualified teachers, no lockers, no security.” A quick visit to the Mgbuoda State School in Omegwa village shows Ekem is not exaggerating: While the villagers have replaced the roof, there are no desks or chairs, only rough boards balanced on rocks. The blackboard is on an easel in the front of the room, and trash litters the dirt floor.

Ekem now attends a secondary school in another community; there isn’t one anywhere in Rumuekpe. “We need development here, if we had more money we could improve the schools,” she says.
Communities here are accustomed to demanding help from oil companies, but companies mostly refer citizens to the local and federal government. Ajuro says it’s hard to get the government to take action. “We have asked several times, they have not come to our assistance. They say it is because of the crisis, but there’s no crisis now.”
Visitors to his home on this day tell Ajuro about legislation in the US and other countries requiring oil companies to disclose payments to government, and they ask him what he would do with the information: “The federal government is supposed to give us 13 percent of oil revenues to host communities, but we don’t see it. If we can know how much oil companies pay the government, we can hold government accountable.”

For farmers, “it’s all about money”

Jobs and farming the key to recovery from oil conflict

Agricultural expert says finance for farmers would drive development

by Chris Hufstader

Nearly six years of conflict has left the village of Imogu in ruins. Most of the buildings were destroyed, and everyone fled as men battled for political and military control of the area, and the power to manage money coming from oil companies operating in this part of the Niger Delta.

There are few jobs, so Florence Abua, an elderly mother of seven and grandmother of 10, says most everyone is farming for food to eat. She says she grows maize, vegetables, and yams. “We have nothing else to meet our needs,” she says.

With few options for jobs, and little money to rebuild their homes, farming is not just the only option, it is essential to feed a hungry family, explains Patience Nfarinwo, an unemployed agricultural extension worker with short hair and a broad smile. She used to work for the Ministry of Agriculture before the fighting drove her and her family away. She has not been able to work since 2007, and since returning has been growing maize and vegetables with her husband, hoping the government will hire her again.

Nfarinwo shows us her reconstructed home, behind a deep blue metal gate, where she has a motorbike she used to ride when she visited farmers in their fields to help them learn the latest farming techniques and opportunities to access markets. She also has a cassava mill, but ironically, no fuel to run it; it sits gathering dust next to her door.

Despite millions of barrels of oil passing by Imogu and the larger Rumuekpe community in pipelines destined for export, Nfarinwo says there is now virtually no investment in agriculture here. Funding to irrigate crops, support extension workers like Nfarinwo or help build strong markets and create jobs, has been scarce.  She thinks it’s essential for the government to start supporting farmers again.

“People will be employed in agriculture, so they can earn a living, but if not, people have no skill,” she says. “We need to develop the youth, so they have some skills, and agriculture can revive this area.”

“When we produce food, it helps our community,” she says.

Farmers need finance

Nfarinwo sees one way for the government to support farmers: an affordable form of finance. “Farmers here need capital,” she says. “Without money we can’t do anything. They can’t access land, hire people to help them clear brush…they can’t even start. It’s all about money.”

Nfarinwo says information about how much the oil companies in Rumuekpe are paying the Nigerian federal government might help farmers get some more support. “Knowing how much money they get from oil companies, we can then ask them to develop our agricultural land so we can earn a living, employ farmers, and have food to eat,” she says. “And people can start their lives again.”