You are immediately disoriented.
“Welcome to Lagos”, the Amharic tinted English crackles from
the planes speakers, jerking away from you the few minutes of sleep that you
finally managed to wrestle from the large man who has been snoring loudly in
the two and a half seats next to you. Meron (by her nametag), the beautiful airhostess,
who spent most of the flight shooting you baleful looks because your elbow kept
bumping into her ass as she pulled her cart past you, gives your another dirty
look.
You feel terrible and want to explain to her that it is
impossible to keep your arm tucked in because half your seat is occupied by a snoring
mass of Nigerian. Unfortunately Meron doesn’t seem to know too much English.
The full extent of her vocabulary, which you got quite familiar with during
your quest for alcohol to drown out the incessant snoring, seems to be “yes”
and “no” and “more”.
You collect your bag from the overhead storage bin while
hoping that somehow it falls on the head of huge Nigerian. It would be painful
for him no doubt, but no less than the five hours of torture he just subjected
you to.
Meron is standing by the aircraft door. The standard issue
airhostess smile plastered across her face slips off when you step up to leave.
Enjoy the rest of your day, you say to her. She says nothing back. You stop
feeling bad and wish her and her ass a good life.
Not much has changed in the six months since you were last
home. There is a man standing next to an open vending machine, vending the
things within. One broken vending machine, one job, and one infinitesimal
increase in employment percentage: progress-progress; fitting for Africa’s
newest-biggest economy.
You drag your suitcase behind you in no rush. In truth
you’ve always held those who run to the immigrations desk in the highest
contempt. We will all still be stuck here, sweating by the carousel two hours
from now, regardless of the rushing. But ahead they rush, running down the
escalator (de-facto stairs). You finally make it to immigrations and you’re
the last one in line; at least you think you are until you feel the potbelly
pushing insistently into the curve of your back.
It’s two and a half chairs from the airplane come once again
to bring hell to you. You decide to ignore him. You shuffle your feet forward
giving him a good amount of space. Yet almost immediately you feel his potbelly
pressing tenaciously into your back: simultaneously a metaphor for impatience
and a bad fuck(in truth, these are the same thing). You stand there seething, hating every inch of his midsection.
You imagine yourself sprouting claws at the elbows and ripping into him,
freeing him from the burden of the cursed child that must surely reside within.
You shuffle your feet forward, but this time the pressure
doesn’t even leave your back. You now have a pot-back. Fucking beautiful. It
can’t get any worse you think, but then two chairs decides to join in the
conversation three rows over, about how much worse the Nigerian airport is than
“insert name of western country short, balding, random just flew in from”. It’s
the same text as the last time, just a different group.
“THIS AIRPORT IS SO DISORGANIZED… ”
OUR LEADERS ARE SO CORRUPT…”
“IF ONLY THEY WOULD DO IT THE WAY THEY DO IT IN X”
X = {AMERICA! BRITAIN!
CANADA! WHAT-WHAT! ILU-OYINBO!}
They shout at each other their precious civilization,
legitimized by having been abroad, retreating with each shout. Behavior they
would never dare exhibit in the “better” countries they just flew in from.
Two-chairs shouts the loudest. His potbelly is jiggling now. You must admit, it
feels good to have that back support after nearly forty hours of airline
economy seating.
But enough is enough, you turn and stand perpendicular to
him, arms akimbo, thinking that maybe with your elbow in his gut he will take
the hint and back off. He does not. He presses into your elbow. It must be that
you offended one of your ancestors when your arm brushed against Meron’s ass,
or two chairs has decided that this is a game that he must win by any means
necessary.
He leans even further forward to get closer to the
conversation, chest pressed against your shoulder. You turn and face him.
Sir, with all of the respect I have left for you, have you
heard of this wonderful idea called personal space? You may not know it, since
you have been abroad so long and may have forgotten but in Nigeria the line
does not move any faster even if you try to stand inside me.
Two-chairs doesn’t seem to move away, but somehow the belly
retreats. The pressure is gone, you are healed, praise Jesus!
“Young man, you don’t talk to your elders that way.” He
retorts after your back has been turned for the duration of five
“STEP-FORWARD!”s.
Sorry, you mumble. Better to say sorry than to face the
drama that could ensue should he decide to start shouting. Eventually it is
your turn and you step up to the counter.
“Where are you coming from”?
Durham, North Carolina.
“Is that America?”
Yes.
“What did you bring for us? Leave it here”
Nothing O, sir. I’m a poor student on scholarship. My parents
don’t have much.
“I know you’re lying but oya go, can’t you see there are
people behind you?”
Yes sir, sorry sir.
You head over to the carousel, which has not even started
rotating. And promptly begin sweating.You decide that you will learn the words
“I’m terribly sorry about what happened, it really was the situation I found
myself in,” in Amharic. That way, the next time you see Meron; you can properly
apologize to her. Maybe that way the universe will forgive your sins, sanctify
your elbows and be gentle the rest of the six weeks you’re home.
