Nigeria reporters face criminal charges for story

LAGOS, Nigeria (AP) — Prosecutors filed criminal charges Tuesday against two journalists at a Nigerian newspaper over a story they published on alleged plans by the nation's presidency to disrupt opposition parties. The charges are a sign of growing government pressure on the media.

Tony Amokeodo and Chibuzo Ukaibe face 10 counts of forgery after the daily Abuja-based newspaper Leadership reported on a memo it claimed came from officials working for President Goodluck Jonathan. Amokeodo and Ukaibe appeared briefly in court Tuesday before being released on bail, said Azubuike Ishiekwene, the group managing director of the newspaper.

Though the presidency later denied the authenticity of the memo, It is unclear why authorities are charging the two journalists criminally as libel is handled typically as a civil matter in Nigerian courts. Federal police spokesman Frank Mba did not respond to requests for comment Tuesday.

In the story, the newspaper said the memo called for officials to disrupt the business interest of opposition party leaders. The newspaper said the memo also included a mention of influencing the country's Independent National Electoral Commission, as well as potentially raising the price of the oil-rich nation's subsidized gasoline — an issue that sparked a nationwide strike last year.

Officials with Nigeria's presidency later described the purported memo as a forgery and "cheap blackmail." Yet, police officials earlier detained four journalists from the newspaper over it, including Amokeodo and Ukaibe. Those two journalists were released after their colleagues only on condition they reported regularly to police investigators. Officers arrested the two when they reported to police headquarters in Abuja, Nigeria's capital, on Monday.

"We'll have to wait to see how it goes," Ishiekwene told The Associated Press. "It's better for us for the matter to be charged to court and them to be held indefinitely."

Journalists in Nigeria, Africa's most populous nation of more than 160 million people, routinely are targeted by security agencies for the stories they write. In December, two journalists from a Hausa-language newspaper were detained for days without charges after their publication printed stories on alleged abuses by the country's military in its fight against a radical Islamist sect. Journalists also face beatings and worse at the hands of thugs. At least 19 journalists have been killed in Nigeria since 1992, according to the Committee to Protect Journalists.

The crackdown against the newspaper has drawn criticism across other newspapers and in social media, with some comparing to the crackdowns made by military rulers before Nigeria became a democracy in 1999. Presidential spokesman Reuben Abati went as far as to describe the newspaper in a recent statement as an influence that could "threaten our democracy and undermine law and order."

Abati later said: "This government is proud of its record on press freedom."

The Committee to Protect Journalists earlier called on the Nigerian government to stop its "harassment" of the newspaper.

"Nigerian police efforts to intimidate journalists of Leadership newspaper into revealing the source of a document, which the government has dismissed as fake, is a heavy-handed abuse of power unacceptable in a democracy," the committee's Africa coordinator Mohamed Keita said in a statement.

Still, the press in Nigeria at times resembles the age of newspaper barons and yellow journalism in the U.S. Oligarch families and politicians own many of the major newspapers that circulate in the country, while military rulers previously handed out television broadcast licenses to trusted friends. Journalists themselves remain woefully underpaid, sometimes seeing their salaries arrive months late. That forces some to expect money from interview subjects or collect so-called "brown envelope" bribes from politicians to support themselves.

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Jon Gambrell can be reached at www.twitter.com/jongambrellAP .

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Venezuela in the Chavez era: a reporter's view

CARACAS, Venezuela (AP) — Pushing our infant son in a stroller, my wife and I stepped out of the terminal at Simon Bolivar International Airport and were approached by several taxi drivers offering to take us to Caracas. One of them, a soft-spoken young man in his 20s, offered the lowest fare by far, and I handed him one of our bags.

The small white car crawled up the hill in the darkness, then slowed and stopped. Doors opened. Two men burst into the car, one in the front passenger seat and the other in the back seat, pressing against my wife.

"Be calm," the young man in the back said, holding up a revolver so that we could see it, a frightened look in his eyes.

"Don't worry, nothing's going to happen to you," the man in the front said, turning another gun on me. "Don't look!"

That ordeal eight years ago introduced me to life in Venezuela, a country where events often collide in unpredictable and dramatic ways and where a wide gap frequently separates the reality on the street from the socialist-inspired dreams that President Hugo Chavez has instilled in his followers.

During more than eight years covering Venezuela, I have gained more street smarts, become a tougher, more resourceful reporter and developed a deep affection for this country where I've met many warm, free-thinking people.

Venezuela's many long-term challenges, such as crime, corruption, a troubled economy and bitter political divisions, can seem as vast as the sea of crude oil that Venezuela sits atop. And with Chavez battling cancer, the country could be headed for big political shifts and possible turmoil.

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A couple of years after the robbery, I found myself sitting in the passenger seat of a Toyota 4Runner while Chavez drove through the lush, green plains of Apure state.

In our interview, he talked about his years as an army officer plotting against the government and how growing up in the rural plains had shaped his radical ideas.

"What hurts me most is poverty, and that's what made me a rebel," Chavez said.

When he slowed and lowered the tinted window, passers-by gawked and then broke into a run, screaming, "Presidente!"

One woman ran to the window with tears in her eyes and cried out "I love you!"

Chavez clasped hands and planted kisses, while they asked him for help replacing shacks with houses or treating sick relatives. Chavez promised to rescue them all.

It was a role I saw him play many times: the larger-than-life leader supporters expected to solve their many problems. At rallies, I watched as people pressed letters into the hands of Chavez's aides, asking for money to help their poor neighborhoods or fledgling cooperatives.

It was a remarkable up-close look at a populist leader in the mold of the classic Latin American caudillo, who often seemed to want to use his power and charisma for good.

But there was a downside. He could use the same force to sideline opponents and rule Venezuela with few checks.

He dominated power to such a degree that he once said on television that Judge Maria Lourdes Afiuni should go to jail for 30 years for freeing a banker while he awaited trial. Today, she is still under house arrest.

Some Chavistas told me at political rallies that a leader like Chavez comes along once in a century, and that may be one point Venezuelans can agree on, whether they love or hate him.

At a news conference in late 2011, I asked him point-blank what type of cancer he was diagnosed with, whether sarcoma as some have speculated, or another type. He had managed for months not to reveal many details about his illness.

Chavez chuckled at the question at first, then said: "You know more than I do."

He explained that a baseball-sized tumor had been removed from his pelvic region and asked: "You want me to tell you more? What for? What for? ... Isn't there some morbidity in that?"

More than a year later, after saying tests showed he was free of cancer, Chavez won re-election. Eventually, he announced the cancer was back, but he still has not said what type.

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One morning in January, I noticed dozens of young men had blocked an avenue by dumping trash in the road and setting it ablaze. Police in riot gear lined up and pushed the embers off the pavement, while the protesters milled around on the sidewalk.

They explained that they'd been demanding jobs at a construction site where the government was building public housing, but the company in charge wouldn't hire them.

"The only thing we want is to work," said one of the protesters, John Jairo Bello. "We're hungry to work because we have children. We have to eat."

The nervous, uncertain look in their eyes reminded me of the young men who had stolen my family's belongings and left us on the highway back in 2005.

With the guns pointed at me, I had wondered about the robbers: Who are they? Off-duty police officers trying to supplement their income? Or simply a gang of young toughs who prey on foreign tourists? What desperation drove them to this?

I remember putting my head down and laying my hands on the back of the front seat as the robbers demanded money and jewelry. I slowly pulled my wedding ring off my hand and reached for my wallet.

Our son, just shy of 1-year-old, began to cry in his baby seat. My wife hummed a lullaby, and that quiet, noble song had brought me enough clarity to think how we might escape.

As we passed through a tunnel, I told the guy in the front seat: "You've got everything now. You can leave us anywhere."

On a stretch of freeway flanked by slums, they finally pulled over. The car sped away carrying our suitcases. Alone, we embraced nervously, and then walked on pushing our son in his stroller through the darkness.

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As I prepare to leave, I know I'll miss the macaws flying past my window and the spectacular views of El Avila, the forested mountain that towers above Caracas.

I also will remember the rivers, polluted and majestic.

The Guaire River runs through Caracas filled with sewage and flanked by the encampments of drug addicts under freeway overpasses. Back in 2005, Chavez had pledged a full cleanup, saying on television, "I invite you all to go swimming in the Guaire soon."

Recently, as I drove across the river, I noted it still smelled of sewage and detergent, and it seemed a fitting metaphor for Venezuela's many unresolved problems. They existed before Chavez burst onto the scene, and they're likely to remain long after he's gone.

A few years ago, I swam a race at the meeting of the Orinoco and Caroni rivers, a grueling endurance test of 3.1 kilometers (1.9 miles) that's an annual tradition.

With hundreds of others, I stepped into the mud-brown waters, and we stroked out into the middle of the Orinoco. The challenge was staying on course amid the strong currents, which knocked some swimmers off track. I was proud to make it to the other shore with the majority.

Now this, too, seems like a fitting way to think of the challenges that lie ahead for Venezuelans.

While some people call the situation here hopeless or insist that one political camp or the other holds the answers, I take the view that the country's problems can be solved. The challenges are many, but Venezuela has plentiful oil earnings, creative entrepreneurs, and a strong sense of national identity that transcends the pro- and anti-Chavez political divide.

They must now make it across a turbulent stretch, aiming for the shores of a better future as a united nation.

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Ian James has been the AP's bureau chief in Venezuela since 2004. He finished his assignment in the country this week.

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