Coast to Coast

We’ve been traveling domestically all day. Literally: we arrived at Owerri airport at 7:30AM and didn’t leave until 5:30PM. We’ve been home – back east – for the remaining holidays. In Ibo-land, this is the tradition: no matter where you’ve relocated to throughout the nation, when the holidays arrive, you make your way home. For us (Ibos) this refers to the home of your father. Which is the home of his father, etc. Patriarchy, much?

In any case, it’s a great break from the city and always something to look forward to – if for no other reason than the fact that my father’s side of the family is extremely entertaining. Colorful is an understatement. Family members sport nicknames like ‘Sir War’ and ‘The Longest Man,’ and in Ibo my favorite has to be ‘Opo Aja’ (phonetically spelled cause I don’t have a clue how to write in Ibo), which translates to ‘A Ball of Sand.’ Temperament, physical stature and childhood personal hygiene boiled down so simply . . .

Another highlight of being back home: the food is always amazing and readily available from any one of several aunties. But even with all the upsides, there are enough downsides (a COMPLETE lack of electricity, save for 1 hour bursts in the middle of the day and the occasional 15 minute spurt in the evening; a ‘haunted’ feeling to being literally in the middle of the jungle where ancestors no doubt conjured up all sorts of spirits; random distant relations who don’t even know your name but regardless try to milk you for goods because you’re coming from the States) that make going back to Lagos more and more appealing after about 5 days or so.

So on the 8th day, we bid a tearful (it was only me, I felt like such a pansy) farewell to the family and make our way to the nearest airport at Owerri. The flight from Owerri to Lagos takes no more than 45 minutes, but to drive there is an all-day affair (roads are beyond fucked in certain stretches, not to mention the inevitable delay from ‘tolls,’ otherwise known as armed men in uniform who will detain you lest you grease their palm once you’ve been slowed down). Having arrived at the airport with no reservation, we are browbeaten by our misinformed assumption that a flight will be readily available.

We’re told that the 10:50AM flight is full, the 3:45PM the same, and the 4:10PM is well on its way to the same fate. With tickets for the 4:10 in hand, we’re advised that people will most likely drop from the morning flight and that we should hold tight in the reservation office so we’ll be first in line if this should come to pass.

Oooooh, the reservation office. Wow. I’m sure the workers there are grateful for their employment, but Jesus Christ they have to know that it totally blows.

In a space no larger than 15’ by 10’ there is a long desk that takes up the width of the room and has 3 computer stations where on one side 3 stone-faced attendants sit with cell phones in hand, alternately making calls, taking calls, answering to their managers who appear from hidden rooms with unprecedented requests, searching on their screens, calming down disgruntled passengers (like the bloated Eze [i.e. mayor] who lost his ticket and insisted he be attended to immediately – “Who the hell are you to make me wait here like this?!”), and trying their best to breathe in a room crowded with people who have no concept of forming a line or waiting patiently.

And if that weren’t extreme enough, the one attendant in the middle has to stand every two minutes or so and remove the ink cartridge from the only printer in the room. She takes it out and waves it like a 5-pound fan for about 10 seconds. She then replaces it, takes her seat, and re-sends her printing job.

Wow.

So yeah, my father and I are in luck to have 1 seat between us, and we spend the greater part of the morning playing musical chairs and finding appropriate moments to inquire about the possibility of getting on that 10:50 flight.

It doesn’t happen.

BUT! There’s an airport lounge! A VIP airport lounge as a matter of fact. As we settle in for the day ahead at first I’m a bit defeated, but then I realize that in that lounge, with it’s generator-powered television, air-conditioner and running water, I am experiencing the greatest level of comfort that I will be privy to for my entire two and a half month stay. So I find something to read, order some food and soak it up.

Now, you may notice that I said in the beginning of the post that we don’t leave the airport until 5:30PM, even though I’ve mentioned us getting tickets for the 4:10 flight. That’s what my one cousin informed me is called ‘The Nigeria Factor.’ As far as I can translate, it would appear to be the instance(s) where something goes completely un-according to plan with no apparent justification. I’m sure the ‘Factor’ and I get to know each other quite well in the coming weeks . . .

But all’s well that ends well. We board the plane, get some sugary treats, and in about 45 minutes, we’re back to the city of my birth.

Looking out the window at Lagos as we get nearer to the ground, I’m fixated to the point of obsession; All the people, all those places: stacked-the-fuck-on-top-of-each-other like so many fallen domino . . . .